In short, the Italian language did not yet have sufficient antiquity to have enough of that elegance which we mean to speak of here, and did not yet have a properly poetic language suitably distinct from that of prose. Speroni’s words serve to demonstrate this truth, which in turn proves my theories to which this current observation refers. The result of this is that wherever there is not sufficient antiquity in the cultured language there cannot be either the elegance of style and language referred to, or a distinct, proper, etc., poetic language. (11 Sept. 1823.) I have already said elsewhere [→Z 701–702] [3417] that until the last century and the present one Italian poetic language (and hence also style) was not fully formed or mature (I mean the language and style of poetry, not the poetry itself) and has drawn close to the language and style of Virgil, which is the true, perfect, and sovereign model of that style which is properly, totally, and most distinctly poetic. It has lost all trace of the familiar, and within very clear limits and at a very clear, far from insignificant, distance has separated itself from the language of prose. Or perhaps we should say, rather, that the language of prose has separated from that of poetry. This is not strictly speaking true. But it has separated from the ancient, and it always happens this way—that the language of prose, along with the ordinary use of the spoken language, which it cannot help but resemble, increasingly changes and takes its distance from antiquity. Poets (except in France)—see p. 3428—retain the ancient for as long as they can, since it is of use to them for the purpose of lending elegance, or dignity, etc.; in fact they need antiquity in language. Hence, contrary to what [3418] might appear to be the case at first sight, the writers who employ the greatest license, that is, the poets, are the ones who preserve the purity and antiquity of the language for longest and most faithfully, and the ones who most hold it in place, always aiming for and perpetuating the language of those who first instituted poetry, etc. From which antiquity prose, obliged as it is to draw close to current usage, moves ever further away. Hence it is truly the language of prose which distances itself from the language of poetry (rather than vice versa), not insofar as it is poetic, but insofar as it follows what is ancient, and stays fixed (as far as is possible) in the ancient, from which the language of prose moves further away. Moreover, the language and style of the poetry of Parini, Alfieri, Monti, and Foscolo are much more properly and perfectly poetic, and distinct from prose, than those of any other of our poets, including specifically the most classical and accomplished of our poets of old. This means that through them and others like them, and through the usage of poets in this and the last century, Italy today has a separate poetic language, which is entirely distinct from that of prose, in effect two languages, one prosaic, the other [3419] poetic, no different from what Greece had, and more so than the Romans. And it has also been noted (by Perticari, at the end of his treatise Degli scrittori del Trecento e dei loro imitatori),1 that in the universal corruption of the language and style of our prose and familiar discourse which took place in the last half of the last century and which continues to this day, the language of the poets stayed almost pure and uncorrupted, not only the best ones and whoever sought to pursue good style, but also the worst poets and the false, bloated, overly ornate, redundant, bizarre, or imbecilic style of the Arcadians, the Frugonians, the Bettinellians, etc. The same as happened with the barbarous poets of the seventeenth century. The reason for this is easy to gather from my observations here, which are fully confirmed by these facts. Where it is also quite certain that in prose, style is never corrupt without the language also being corrupt, or vice versa, nor is there any writer with a corrupt prose style and uncorrupt language: on which, see pp. 3397–99. (12 Sept. 1823.)
[3420] Opinion of the Greeks, including philosophers and leading ones at that, on right and wrong, believed to be one thing for Greeks and another for barbarians, not by accident but by nature, the supposed natural inferiority of the latter to the former, the Greeks’ supposedly natural right to rule over all other nations, as though these were by nature incapable of governing themselves, or incapable of acquiring the capabilities to do so, the supposed servility of the barbarians (that is, non-Greeks), not by circumstance but by nature, a servility believed to be so universal among them that the fact that many of them were slaves in their own nation was believed to be absurd, because no one in their nation was thought to have the right to govern them as the entire nation was composed only of slaves by nature. See Aristotle, Republic, ed. Vettori, Florence, Giunti, 1576, book 1, pp. 7, 31–32; book 3, p. 258, and Vettori’s notes, loc. cit. Cf. also Plutarch, tome 2, p. 329b, etc.1 (12 September 1823.) Opinion revived among the Spanish, etc., with respect to the native Americans, the negroes, etc. etc.2
For p. 3404. What I said about Florus’s style in the thought referred to, may be, and indeed is, better applied to Plato’s, which in point of style and conceits as much as of diction (see p. 3429) is adjudged to be [3421] virtually a poem (see Fabricius, Bibliotheca Graeca, under “Plato,” § 2, old ed., vol. 2, p. 5),1 but also no less a supreme and perfect example of beautiful prose, extremely elegant and sweet (and dignified: “suavitate et gravitate princeps Plato” [“Plato is preeminent both for sweetness and dignity”], Cicero, Orator),2 very pleasing, etc., but still very genuine prose, so much so that even the least poetic modern French prose (and I confine myself here to speaking only of prose that is acknowledged as being good) is still far more poetic than Plato’s, which is the most poetic of all classical Greek prose. Equally, the many sacred and profane prose writings of the later Sophists and Greek fathers, etc., are also more poetic than Plato’s prose, and of those writings there are perhaps, or certainly, a greater number than there are ancient classical writings remaining. But in truth they are not prose, any more than modern French prose writing is prose. Both are sophistry, the former in respect of all things, the latter in respect of style. (12 Sept. 1823.)
That the miracle of music, the force which it naturally exerts on our affections, the pleasure which it [3422] naturally gives us, its power to arouse enthusiasm and imagination, etc., consists in, and is chiefly proper to, sound and voice, insofar as it is a sound or voice which is pleasing, and is proper to the harmony of sounds and voices, insofar as it is a combination of sounds and voices which is naturally pleasing to the ear; that it is not proper to melody; and that consequently the main point of music and the consideration of its effects, do not strictly speaking belong to the theory of the beautiful, any more than consideration of smells, tastes, primary colors, etc., does, for the delight of music, insofar as its main and most essential part is concerned, is not produced by its propriety—all this may be seen from the fact that there is no melody so poor that, if executed perfectly by a pleasing instrument or voice, it is not able to give immense pleasure. Nor, conversely, is there any melody so beautiful that, if performed, e.g., with sticks on a piece of wood, or on more than one piece of wood corresponding to the various tones,1 or by any other extremely or absolutely unattractive instrument or voice, it is able to provide any delight whatsoever, even if executed perfectly with respect to [3423] itself. In recent times men have had occasion to notice the truths set forth above, when according to reports, Catalani’s astonishing voice has almost re-created the miraculous effects of ancient music in her listeners.1 Such effects certainly did not derive mostly, essentially, or even in part from the melodies. Which, apart from the fact that they could have been sung by a thousand others, are well known to be of the most trivial and insipid variety. All the delight thus originated from the voice of the singer, that is, from those of the voice’s qualities that are naturally pleasing to the human ear, all of which are independent of considerations of propriety: extraordinary sweetness, flexibility, speed, range, etc., a singing voice that is resonant, clear, pure, penetrating, oscillating, tinkling, like strings or some other manufactured musical instrument, etc. etc.
In view of these observations, it will come as no surprise that even barbarians and animals are so deli
ghted by our music, despite their not being accustomed to our melodies, and therefore not being capable of recognizing or feeling what we would describe as beauty in music. It is not the melodies in themselves or their novelty that produce this delight [3424] in them. It is the instruments, the voices, which are so refined and perfected among us, the latter by means of practice, art, etc., the former with so many inventions and such refinements, etc. When the perfect quality of these organs is combined with the art of using them perfectly, that is, deriving the most pleasing sounds from them, etc., such as the person with no art whatsoever could not do, when this too is combined with the art of harmonizing these organs together in the way that is naturally most pleasing to the ear (like the art of blending and modulating flavors), it results in a sweetness, etc., which is entirely new to the barbarians, and for this reason produces in them a form of supreme pleasure and marvelous effects. Such pleasure and effects have nothing whatsoever to do with beauty, for they have nothing to do with propriety, save insofar as this relates to the natural disposition of the ear, which itself has as much to do with beauty as does the pleasing combination of flavors: a propriety of exactly the same nature as that of musical harmony. In view of these observations it will be possible to explain effectively, and better than in any other way, many [3425] of the miracles of ancient music, especially those told about nations in the most unsophisticated times, such as Saul and David, etc. These miracles did not spring from the qualities of the melodies, as is commonly believed, but from the natural or artificial qualities of the instruments or voices, and the method of playing or using them, for such qualities gave rise to sounds, or harmonies of sounds, that were extraordinarily pleasing to the ear in their own right—extraordinarily, I mean, for those nations and times. The fact of not having been used to hearing music for such a long period of time also caused many wonderful effects, and still does. These are attributed to the melodies but in fact chiefly derive from the sensation of the pleasing sounds, etc., themselves, which starts again to be effective as a result of such lack of familiarity. If Alexander, after being engaged in military matters all day, when he sat down to dinner in the evening was so wonderfully affected and dominated by the music of Timotheus1 (if I am not mistaken), this is for the reason mentioned above, as well as the wine, which [3426] naturally exalts the mind particularly in a body that is tired, and disposes us to experience the most vivid sensations for the slightest of reasons.
It should be observed that vocal music generally has a much greater effect on man than instrumental music does, the voice of a woman on a man more than that of a man, and vice versa on a woman; a bass voice possibly has a greater effect on a woman than a tenor or contralto, while the opposite is true for a man, etc. The same may be said of the various instruments: one generally produces a greater effect, gives greater pleasure, etc., another one, less so. All this in similar circumstances, and, e.g., with the same melody, etc. Now, such differences have nothing to do with considerations of propriety, nothing to do with the beautiful properly speaking, they are independent of the qualities of the melodies, which alone in music are connected with the issue of beauty. They belong solely to the qualities of the sounds, etc., and are in the same category as differences of smells, tastes, etc., which no one ever presumed to describe as beautiful or ugly, but as more or less pleasing or displeasing. [3427] And this for no other reason than that any discussion about propriety, etc., as in our case, has no place in them. (12 Sept. 1823.)
Delicacy considered by the civilized nations to be absolutely part of beauty. Greek human statues. Apollo, Mercury (also Antinous), Meleager, etc. —In all these, the forms have something feminine about them. —This is the character of the Greek statues as far as the human form is concerned, and of the sculptures and schools that came from there, ancient and modern. —With Roman statues, you notice a Greek feature immediately in the feminine aspect of their forms. —This is what Canova says.1 —The beauty of human forms therefore consists in their inclining toward and participating in the feminine. —Can we really believe that the most perfect human forms according to nature were or are of this kind? That human beauty as conceived by primitive savages, etc., is like this? Rather than the opposite? That nature’s intention regarding man is such, that in being perfect (which means as he should be), he should have something feminine about him, rather than be as far removed as possible from such a thing? Who ever thought, among civilized peoples, to take Hercules as a model of male beauty? But would it not truly be like him [3428] in nature? Though is the idea and statue of Hercules not the precise opposite of the idea and statue of Apollo? Indeed it is, insofar as the male, mature form, etc., is concerned. (12 Sept. 1823.)
For p. 3417. As prose follows the use of everyday language more in France than it does elsewhere, and corresponds to it more closely there, so too the poets have not felt themselves able to depart significantly from such use or from prose, nor to cease following one or the other very closely in the continual changes which they naturally and inevitably suffer. For the poets as for the prose writers, this situation is born of the nature of that nation and society. French poets thus have nothing ancient in language to use. Everything always gradually becomes modern in French. And everything is still national, for heaven forbid that their language might be enriched by some word being taken from Latin, despite the fact that it might be wholly analogous and kin to other French words. Their language is therefore entirely and continually deprived, and incapable of being either ancient or [3429] even strange (save for that which, when introduced to a language or used by a writer is considered to be a liberty or a barbarism, rather than elegant or noble, etc.). It follows that French is not capable of elegance, etc. (I believe I have written about this elsewhere [→Z 1813, 2014]), and that France does not and cannot have a language which is appropriate to poetry. And in not having it, and the confines between it and the language of prose being far from clear-cut, or rather, there being no such confines, for the field of both one and the other is in fact but one single, indivisible field, France does not even have a proper language expressly for prose, and in the least poetic language in the world, which is what French is, there is virtually no prose that does not have something poetic about it with respect to its style, to a greater or lesser degree, but certainly more so than all classical prose written in the most poetic languages such as Greek and Latin. On which, see pp. 3420–21. Moreover, it is quite natural that where there is no distinction in terms of language (between poetry and prose), there can be no true distinction in terms of style either. According to what I said on pp. 3397–99 and 2906. (13 Sept. 1823.)
[3430] Altronde [on the other hand, however] instead of altrove [elsewhere], and indi [there] perhaps too is almost ivi [therein] or colà [over there], which I have written on elsewhere [→Z 511–12, 2865]. See Petrarch, Sonnet “Io sentia dentr’al cor già venir meno.”1 (15 Sept. 1823.)
Nature teaches us to care for and honor the dead bodies of those who were dear to us or known to us while still alive, whether through blood or by circumstances, etc., and to honor those of the people who were honored in life, etc.a2 But it does not teach us to bury them or burn them or remove them in some other way from before our eyes. Indeed, this is repugnant to nature, for to be permanently separated from the corpses of our loved ones is, naturally speaking, more painful than death itself, which is not something we ourselves bring about, but the former is voluntary and all our own work, and the latter is virtually imperceptible to those present, and very often occurs gradually; the other is quite manifest, and takes place at a clearly defined moment in time. And to separate oneself from a corpse in nature is virtually the same as separating oneself from the person it was, for only the body of men is visible, which remains even once it is dead, and is naturally taken for the person himself despite his having changed (rather than in place [3431] of the person), and for all that remains of him. But on the other hand, to leave corpses to rot above ground and in their own dwellings because we wish t
o keep them nearby and present is deadly and harmful both to private individuals and the public realm. Poets—in addition to having taught that a part of man, indeed the principal part and the one which constitutes his person, survives death, and that this part goes to a place not accessible to the living reserved especially for it, whence they came to argue that the corpses of dead people were not the same as the dead people themselves, nor indeed the only or even the most important part of them remaining —in addition to this, I repeat, they also taught that the souls of those who were not buried were in a state of suffering, none of them being able, for as long as their bodies were not covered by earth, to pass over to the place reserved for them in the other world.1 They thus came to ensure that burying the dead or their ashes and so removing them from our presence, was held to be an act as useful and due to the dead themselves and indeed desired by them, as it was useful and necessary to the living; that what in its own right would have been an act of disaffection and the work of egoism, appeared rather to be one of love toward the dead; that love, [3432] thus counseled and persuaded, imposed what itself it naturally proscribed; that what was completely unnatural in itself, came to be second nature and prompted by natural love; and that it was inhumanity and cruelty to neglect what would otherwise itself have been held to be inhuman and cruel. Thus the ancients and earliest poets and wise men caused the peoples’ imaginations and their inventions and fables to serve the needs and conveniences of society, making the former conform to the latter, and Horace’s comment in the Poetics is confirmed, that they were the institutors and founders of civic and social life, hence Orpheus and Amphion were held also to be founders of cities.1 So too did the ancients direct religion to the public and temporal good, and shaped it to fit with its needs, and made this the reason and principle and origin of its dogmas,2 contrasting it with nature, where this was opposed to the conventions of social life, and defeating nature, in itself so strong, with opinion, which was even stronger, in particular religious opinion. (15 September 1823.) Anyone who regards burying or burning, etc., corpses as natural law, may perhaps find something in these observations to make them change their minds.
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