So the style, which is so closely linked to language, is the same in Spanish and Italian. I mean that style which in both nations is recognized as being classical. The French too, in that same sixteenth century, had a style which corresponded or almost corresponded to the Spanish and Italian ones, but this is no longer recognized as being classical by that nation, nor was it recognized as such in that century when French literature developed its shape and character and was perfected, the golden age, in short, which, generally speaking, dictates law [3400] and norm for the French language and literature of any subsequent century. And while that style is at times or was recognized as being classical by the French (as in Amyot), it is nonetheless a kind of classical which they are not to follow or imitate, one which is different from what is classical for them today in the writings of this century, a kind of classical which in these writings would be considered as a vice, not tolerated, indeed, not understood without difficulty; basically, a language and style which despite being beautiful and classical, according to what they themselves profess, is no longer their own.
Spanish style and literature definitely (with respect to their temperament) form a single family with Greek, Latin, and Italian styles and literatures. French style and literature, on the other hand, belong to a quite distinct family from this. French literature, along with those it has produced, that is English literature of the Queen Anne period, Swedish, Russian (and even Dutch, I believe), properly speaking form in Europe a third, distinct family, a third kind of literature and style: meaning by second family of European literatures [3401] those which are northern in character, such as English literature in the times of Ossian and of Shakespeare, and the modern which is a continuation of these, German, old Scandinavian, Illyrian, and ones like them. (Despite the fact that the Scandinavian and Illyrian character, both of nations and literatures, is distinct from the Teutonic, etc. But there is no Scandinavian or Illyrian literature, except for what is ancient and ill-known, for current Swedish, Danish, Russian, etc., literature is merely French. Staël at the start of De l’Allemagne.)1 The things I have said elsewhere regarding the French language (see p. 2989), also apply to French literature and style. They are halfway between the southern and northern, between classical and romantic. They form a category of their own, no less different or distinct from the category of Greek, classical Italian, and classical Spanish literatures and styles, and the temperament and spirit that goes with them, than it is from modern English and German literatures and those which are close or otherwise akin to them.
That character of nobility, dignity, daring, simplicity, naturalness, etc. etc., which distinguishes [3402] Greek and Latin idioms and styles, cannot be expressed better, more spontaneously or more naturally in any other language of the world, ancient or modern, than in Italian and Spanish, and in the styles respectively recognized as classical in these two nations; nor, absolutely speaking, could they be expressed better than these two languages and styles are able to do. I say, than they are able to, because Spanish has possibly not yet accomplished this perfectly, despite the fact that its temperament both implies and requires it. I mean the same character of nobility, etc., which distinguishes Greek and Latin language and style. The same qualities generally, such as nobility generally, etc., may also be proper to French and German and every other cultured language, but the French, English styles, etc., not only do not require or love this individual and identical character of nobility, etc., which distinguishes the Greek and Latin styles mentioned above, they in no way imply it. They can be noble, but in a different way; simple, but in a very different [3403] way; natural, but with a wholly different naturalness, for they have a wholly different nature, and their respective nations have a wholly different character, and what is natural for them is wholly different; daring, but the French language can only be daring compared to itself, for compared to others and absolutely speaking it is quite timid, unlike Greek and Latin, and Spanish and Italian too; the remaining languages and styles may be daring, more daring even than Greek and Latin, more than Spanish and Italian, but in an entirely different way.
To give an example. Where the Spanish and Italian languages and styles incline naturally and almost spontaneously toward decorum, like Greek and Latin (which in any genre and on any subject always have something dignified and elevated about them), French style does not incline this way at all, but always gravitates toward the familiar and plain. Despite this, however, it always manages to separate itself from the familiar and the people, to somehow bear itself, raise itself up. But how? Through extensive use of poetic imagery, thoughts, and expressions. [3404] And poetic not moderately, confusedly, or only in part, but expressed strongly and totally. Without this it never attains dignity and loftiness, always aims low, and approaches ordinary speech, the spoken style, conversational style, etc. But this is quite different from, and in one sense even contrary to, the way in which the Greeks and Latins lent dignity and loftiness to their style, the way in which our own and the Spanish classics did the same, despite not always being as perfect in their kind of style as they might or should be, and as this kind of style, and indeed the very temperament of their language, etc., naturally requires. See pp. 3413ff. and pp. 3561ff., etc. See what I say elsewhere [→Z 526–27] regarding the poetics of Florus’s style (see p. 3420), and what I said on the matter, that while the French language is always prosaic in verse, nowadays it is more poetic than ever in prose, and other similar thoughts [→Z 373–75, 1812–15, 2484, 2666–68].
In conclusion, then, I would reiterate that from a language that corresponds so closely to our own, as I have shown Spanish to do in every way, and for so many natural, accidental, intrinsic, and extrinsic, etc., reasons; from a sister language, which is what Spanish is to Italian; from a language, etc. etc., much beautiful and useful novelty may be derived by modern Italian writers, as it was by our ancient and classic writers. But by this do I mean that I want borrowings from Spanish to be introduced into the Italian language? I mean this as much as, in advocating [3405] drawing on Latin, I wish to counsel introducing Latinisms to Italian. Much less would I wish to advocate that the Italian language or writer should model himself on the Spanish language, which is far inferior to our own in terms of perfection, despite being similar in terms of character. In addition to the fact that a language which is already perfect need not be modeled on, indeed should avoid modeling itself on any other, however perfect the other might be. And the same thing also applies in due proportion to literature, etc.1 There are many words in Latin, some in Spanish, and a great many idioms and ways of saying things (and many meanings of words and idioms that have already become Italian) in Greek, Latin, and Spanish that are not yet Italian, for the sole reason that no one has yet introduced them to our language. Once used in Italian, they would be so well understood, they would fit so well and so easily, appear so spontaneous and so natural, would be so far removed from all appearance of affectation, that no one would notice that they were either Greek or Latin or Spanish rather than, or more than, they were Italian. Moreover, they would not even perceive that such words were new to our language, or note this in any way other than by specifically looking them up in the dictionary. Or if they did detect novelty, they would detect precisely the right amount, and no more, to provide grace, elegance, strength, nobility, and beauty to the style and language, and to divide both one and the other from the people, which is not merely granted to but indeed required of the noble writer in any genre. Once these [3406] words, phrases, forms, albeit Latin, Greek, or Spanish in origin, albeit never before having been used or heard in Italian, had been introduced to the language, they would no longer be borrowings from Latin or Greek or Spanish, for no Latinism, Grecism, etc., would be detected, or if it were detected, it would not be felt, which is more important. Nor would it be detected save for reasons that are extrinsic and specific to the reader, that is, the knowledge he might have of those languages, Italian writers, etc., not for intrinsic reasons, that is, which are speci
fic to the writing, style, etc., itself, because of the quality of those words, phrases, etc., compared with the Italian language or with this or that genre or another or style. There are also many other words, phrases, forms, and meanings in these languages which could with great profit be introduced to the Italian language, but only in certain places, contexts, with certain preparation, etc., not without due forewarning, art, discretion, and judgment as to whether or not they are opportune, etc. If such conditions are met, words like these, which are much greater in number than the ones mentioned above, would not appear to be borrowings from Latin, Greek, etc., either, and for the same reasons. [3407] Wherever one feels Latinness, Greekness, etc., or a flavor of something not of the nation, irrespective of the reader’s knowledge, etc., and because of the quality of the word or phrase in itself or the way in which it is used, here one has a borrowing from Latin or Greek, etc., a barbarism, and here always a vice. And as in the opposite cases described above there is no vice but only merit, despite the genuine novelty, so, in this case, there would never be merit, but always vice, even if the novelty were not genuine, that is, even if a classical national author and many others too had already provided the example for such a word, etc.; whether it fitted equally poorly in all instances, or rather, fitting well in the latter, it fitted poorly in the given instance, because it was unintelligible or hard to understand, because it was used wrongly or without due regard, on an inopportune occasion or under inopportune circumstances, etc. Similar things are true, and similar things should be said, of archaic words. Novelty, or rarity, etc., in a language, in a word the unfamiliar, regardless of where it comes from (foreign sources or ancient national classics, etc.), must always appear to be a [3408] plant, one that may be new to the country concerned or rare, but native nonetheless to the terrain of the national language itself, and not merely the national language, but the language of that century, the language that is proper to that genre, that style, that place of writing. For as long as it appears to be foreign (and taken from elsewhere) for whatever reason, and in any of these senses, it is bad. Under the opposite circumstances it is always good.
The study of Greek, Latin, Spanish applied to that of Italian, should not serve to Latinize, Hellenize, etc., our language (to any appreciable degree) in any way. Rather, it should serve, and does serve, wonderfully so, to help show us in how many ways, none used previously, this same Italian language which we have in our hands could be used and directed, its words, phrases, etc., themselves could be put together or deployed.1 This amounts to the same thing as Latinizing, Hellenizing, etc., Italian, if we wish to describe it thus, but imperceptibly, and indistinguishably from Italianizing it; a Latinizing which is no different from Italianizing, etc. We should go fishing in these languages, not for borrowings from Latin, Greek, etc., but for Italian words and forms and phrases, so to speak, never previously used, in which these languages abound. In studying them (since they are very closely akin to our own language and its temperament), etc., we realize [3409] that Italian can use an expression, form, word, or meaning that it has never used before. It can do so, not because it is Latin, Greek, or Spanish, but because it conforms to the Italian temperament itself, because this language in itself and as it is, is capable of this; because in being used in Italian, it will not appear to be either Latin or Greek or Spanish, but will appear and will be immediately Italian. (That is, it will be understood immediately, fit naturally everywhere or in certain genres and contexts, etc. etc.) Having made this discovery, and realized this truth, of which we would have had no idea if we had not studied these languages, we may introduce such phrases, etc., hitherto unused into Italian, which, if the Latin language, etc., had not shown us, we would never have been able to conceive or imagine or invent by ourselves and through knowledge of our language alone, save by chance. See p. 3738. In this way, these languages provide us with abundant novelties, which are not Latinisms or Grecisms, etc., but Italianisms, new or rare, extremely beautiful and useful, in short quite worthy of being brought into use. In the same way as we describe as Italianisms, [3410] and worthy of coming into use, the infinite number of new words, expressions (meanings), and forms, which the capable, judicious, and expert writer is able to derive, form, compose, etc., inexhaustibly and unceasingly from the roots, the materials, the capital and funds of our language itself which are known in depth and possessed to perfection, by following the true temperament and property of this language at all times and entirely, and conforming to all its qualities, intrinsic or extrinsic, etc. (9–10 Sept. 1823.)
People who live in solitude are particularly inclined to method. Not so much those who are busy in their solitude, or who find themselves in solitude for precisely this reason (for whom, as people who are very busy, it would be quite reasonable to seek method and order in their actions, for order in both place and time always makes for savings in terms of both one and the other, while disorder makes for the opposite), as those who have nothing to do, such as the chronically ill, those in prison or who have retired through frailty caused by age, because of weakness or an inclination to laziness. Such people are inclined to be methodical to a fault. It appears that man is more [3411] particular in ordering his life, the less he has to occupy it, or the less he occupies it. By occupy I mean also entertainments, pastimes, etc. Not being able or not wanting to employ his time, he busies himself with regulating it, dividing it up and separating the parts. Ordering his operations becomes his sole operation and occupation. (11 Sept. 1823.) I once knew such a man, who from morning to night had nothing to do at all, yet he complained time was too short and there were not enough hours in the day for his daily occupations. Hence he was reluctant to permit any distraction out of the ordinary, or any other that might take up even a minimal amount of time.1 (11 Sept. 1823.)
As I have said elsewhere [→Z 545–50, 590–91], monarchy is the most perfect, indeed the only perfect, state of society, because it is the only natural one, the only primordial one, the only one common to animals with some hint of society, the only one present at the beginning of all nations. (On the way in which monarchy is born see the start of Aristotle’s Republic,2 which explains it excellently, for [3412] nations and populations certainly never agreed expressly to obey anyone, nor did they in any way cast votes based on which a monarch would be elected unanimously, in such a way that the right to rule over them would henceforth be based on such an election.) From this principle it follows that every republic or free state, however ancient, or however much it predates that civilization which is linked to corruption, however proper even to times and peoples that were entirely unsophisticated, or even to times and peoples that were heroic and virtuous, magnanimous, etc., and provided it was founded in a society that was already formed and able to bear such a name (whether this was an ancient, modern, civilized, or savage society), is a sure indication of corruption in this society, and is itself a corrupt form of government, for government to begin with was unfailingly monarchic, whether or not this is known from history. So that a free state in a particular society is without doubt a kind of secondary, not primordial, form of government that has replaced the primordial one, and was born of its corruption, or at least of the corruption of its respective society. (11 September 1823.) See p. 3517.
[3413] For p. 2841. Sperone Speroni, in his Oration “in morte del Cardinal Bembo,” the fifth of his Orationi printed in Venice 1596, pp. 144–45, slightly before halfway through the Oration in question. “The vernacular poet” (the Italian poet) “uses the same verbs with the same construction” (p. 145) “as the orator; hence he is not far from that error which we often see the Greeks and sometimes also the Latins falling into, that is, that he appears to be speaking in a language which is not that of the orator; so indeed the most praised of the Tuscans hope to speak well in their prose, and it appears almost that they are proud of it when they affect to reason in the way that holds sway among the poets. Anyone who does not believe this should go and read the Decameron of Boccaccio, the third l
uminary of this language, where he will find fully one hundred lines of Dante as he wrote them in his Comedy.” See p. 3561. Would it not appear from these words that Italy did not have a truly [3414] poetic language of its own, or else one only marginally distinct from that of prose? But is it not obvious that Italy does indeed have a poetic language that is more distinct from prose than is the case for possibly any other living language, and certainly much more so than that of the Latins? For clearly, once we have begun to understand Latin prose, we may also understand Latin poetry with but little extra effort (the study required, and the gap between the language of Latin poetry and prose, consists chiefly in the diversity of a large number of the transpositions, that is, in the order and construction of the words, which in part is different). But will a foreigner, merely because he understands our modern Italian prose language well, be able to understand the language of our poetry without extensive and specific study? Indeed so. For in the sixteenth century, Italy did not yet have a formal poetic language, that is, the difference between the language of the poets and the orators was but slight, and poorly or inadequately defined. The prose writers who composed carefully and with aspirations to be stylists, approached the language of Boccaccio and the fourteenth-century writers, which was very similar to the language of poetry, for the poetic language of the fourteenth century was virtually the same as the prose language. Those poets who wished to distance themselves from the language of the fourteenth century in order to [3415] approach the language of their own century, moved toward a familiar style, one which was beautiful certainly, but not much different from the language of prose. Proof of this may be seen in Ariosto’s Orlando furioso and Caro’s Aeneid.1 If you take the rhyme away from the former and the meter from the latter (as well as the imagery and the quality of the conceits, etc.), in what way do they exceed or in what way fall short of what otherwise would be fine, elegant prose? And if we compare Tasso’s poem (written in the language appropriate to his own time) with the elegant prose of that era, there will be little difference between them with respect to the language. What is more, the Italian poets of the sixteenth century (the lyric poets in particular, who were in the majority) were in the habit of modeling themselves on the style of Petrarch and Dante. The character of this style proved to be and is necessarily familiar, as I have said elsewhere [→Z 1808–10, 2639–40, 2836–41]. In pursuing this character, the poets of the sixteenth century either expressed it in the same language as Petrarch and Dante, as very many did, or in the language of the sixteenth century itself as others sought to do. But they had necessarily to give their style a familiar character, which differed little from that of prose. And this is generally what happened. (Della Casa’s language is not familiar, and is much [3416] more distinct from that of prose, as is his style. This is because in his poetry he did not seek to follow the character of Petrarch or Dante, but rather sought one of his own. Thus the more the character of the language and style of his poetry is distinct from that of prose, the more it is different from that of the language and style of Dante and Petrarch, and of the other lyric poets, or poets generally, of his time.) La coltivazione, Le api,1 etc., often consist of fine prose that is measured insofar as both language and style are concerned, despite the fact that both poems are imitations of, and indeed the Api is no less than a translation of, the Georgics, the finest example of a style that is the most poetic and furthest removed from the familiar, from the popular and the prosaic. The same may be said of Caro’s Eneide.
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