Zibaldone

by Leopardi, Giacomo

  I have said elsewhere [→Z 108] that weakness itself is something appealing, when it is not offensive to the nature of the subject in whom it is found, or rather to the way in which we are accustomed to see and consider the respective species of subjects, or when, in so offending, it does not thereby destroy the substance of this nature, and is not unduly offensive [3554]—in other words, when it is proper to the subject, according to the idea we form of its perfection, and agrees with the other qualities of this subject, according to the same idea (as in children and women), or when, despite not being proper, or not agreeing, it does not thereby destroy the appearance of propriety of our idea, but remains within the limits of that lack of fit which is called grace (according to my theory of grace), as may be the case in men, or in women where it exceeds the ordinary proportion, etc. Now the fact that weakness is naturally appealing in its own right if nothing outside it prevents it from being so, is an exquisite gift of nature, which has placed self-love above all other dispositions in each creature, and as hatred of other creatures is a proper and necessary consequence of self-love in every creature, as I have shown elsewhere [→Z 872ff.], it would follow that weak creatures were too often the victims of strong ones. But weakness being itself naturally appealing and delightful to others, means that others are attracted to the subject in which weakness is found, and are attracted out of self-love, that is, because they receive delight from it. Weakness in beauty is normally pleasing, appealing, and beautiful. Nonetheless, it may also be pleasing, appealing, and beautiful in ugliness, not so much because it is ugly, as because it is weakness (and sometimes it is), provided it is not itself entirely or partly the cause of the ugliness.1 Without this, children, [3555] especially where there were no social laws curbing the natural egoism of individuals, would be continuously écrasés [crushed] by adults, women by men, and so on and so forth. Whereas even the savage experiences some kind of pleasure, and hence some kind of love, in looking at a child. And similarly, a civilized man has no need of laws to restrain himself from hitting a child, despite the fact that children are demanding and awkward, that because they are (just as naturally) quite openly egoistic they offend adults’ egoism more than other adults do, and that for this reason they are naturally quite odious (both to their peers and to others). But the child himself is protected by the appearance of his weakness, which gives a kind of pleasure when contemplated, and hence generally speaking naturally inspires a kind of love for him, because the self-love of others finds pleasure in him. And this notwithstanding the fact that his very weakness, in making him much needier than others, is itself the cause of trouble and pain in others who have to provide for his needs in some way, and that by nature this makes him very demanding, etc. Similar things may be said [3556] of women, in whom irrespective of their other qualities, weakness itself is appealing because it gives pleasure, etc. So too certain small or larger animals (like sheep, puppies, lambs, birds, etc. etc.), in which the appearance of their weakness compared to us, instead of inviting us to destroy them, leads us to spare them, to care for them, love them, because this proves to be pleasing to us, etc. And it may be observed that it proves to be so too with other animals of different species, which spare them for this reason and sometimes show they take pleasure in them and love them, etc. So too the young of animals which are not weak when fully grown, are spared, etc., by the mature animals of the same species (even though their parents are not), and also of other species (unless they have some natural enmity, or if they are not led by nature to eat them as food, etc.), and in these animals there appears to be a certain affection for or pleasure toward these young ones. Similarly for men toward the young of animals which are not weak when grown. And the reason for this pleasure is not merely their smallness in itself (which is a source of grace, as I have said elsewhere [→Z 200, 1880–81]),1 nor only the agility which habitually appears in these young ones (so too also in small species of animals) and which causes pleasure because of the vitality which it manifests and the vivacity, etc., in accordance with what I have said elsewhere [→Z 221, 1716–17, 1999, 2336–37] on the love of life, from which the love for the living, etc., derives, but weakness too [3557] has its part in it. (29–30 Sept. 1823.) See p. 3765.

  Untare, untar (in Spanish) [to grease] from ungo–unctus [to smear]. Unctito [to besmear] from the same. Urtare, heurter (in French) [to knock against] from urtus, participle of urgeo [to press], or from ursus changed into urtus, like falsus into faltus, etc., see p. 3488 and references. (30 Sept. 1823.)

  For p. 2984. Vieto [trite] in Italian too is the positive vetus [old]. And the dual French ending vieil vieux [old] may simply come from the fact that these were originally two different nouns, one positive, the other diminutive. To the Latin diminutives used positively, even in the flower of Latinity, add oculus [eye], and see what I said earlier on this subject regarding the Russian word oco [eye], quoting Hager [→Z 980–81]. (30 Sept. 1823.) We still say veglio, vegliardo [venerable old man, ancient], etc., in Italian, old words which are now poetic, either from vieil, and therefore of Provençal, etc., origin, or directly from veculus, as periglio comes from periculum [danger], on which see p. 3515, end and margin.

  For p. 3341, beginning. To say, e.g., livre deux [book two], chapitre dix [chapter ten], and similar, truly seems to be more of a colloquial than a literary custom on the part of the French. I find this form written in full in books which are recent, but of no authority. In books which are rather more ancient but more authoritative, I find, e.g., chapitre dixième [tenth chapter], etc. (30 Sept. 1823.) See p. 3560.

  [3558] For p. 3003, middle. Su-spicio [to look up or upward], which materially it is not possible to say if it is formed from sub or sursum [from below, upward] (if this second type of formation were admissible), but certainly has the meaning of to look up at from below, because it is not possible to look up at something in any other way than from below. Now the same may be said regarding other such alleged compounds of sursum. Among which the grammarians certainly still include this one, because sursum means up, upward. Now, let them observe its derivatives suspicor [to mistrust], suspicio onis [mistrust], etc., even suspicere and suspectare when they mean to suspect, and let them tell me how these can possibly be compounds of sursum. And let them try to deny to me that they are compounds of the preposition sub, any more or less than the corresponding Greek term ὑποπτεύω [to be suspicious], etc., from ὀπτεύω [to observe] (unattested), meaning specio [to look at], inspicio [to look into], inspecto [to look at], etc., ὑπόπτομαι suspicor. (30 Sept. 1823.) These words express the idea of looking sott’occhio [furtively], etc., which is what the suspicious person does, looking with diffidence, etc., and all the force and appropriateness of the metaphor, and is the reason why spicio in these compounds means to suspect, and the propriety of such words, etc., lies in the preposition sub. (30 Sept. 1823.)

  From what has been said elsewhere (at the start of the [3559] theory of continuatives [→Z 1105–106]) regarding the verb aspettare [to wait for], one may infer that in all probability aspecto as [to look at attentively, with respect or desire] had the same meaning in Vulgar Latin that it does today in Italian, as expecto [to look out for] did in Latin; especially considering the corresponding Greek term προσ‒δοκάω [to expect], which literally would mean precisely ad-spectare, and the Spanish a-guardar [to wait for], etc. Attendere attendre [to wait for] for aspettare, is a metaphor made in precisely the same way, that is, through a shift in meaning from to observe to to wait for (and note again the preposition ad in attendere, by way of confirmation of the above hypothesis); in the same way as an example from Tacitus in Forcellini may be seen in this connection, where aspectare is taken for attendo is (which may also to some extent confirm the same hypothesis). Which data may also lead us to speculate that attendere in the meaning of aspettare which it has in the two daughter languages, Italian and French, has its origins in Vulgar Latin, etc. See if the Glossary has anything under aspectare, attendere, etc.
(30 Sept. 1823.)

  For p. 3401. The French language forms a single family with the Greek, Latin, Italian, and Spanish languages as to their origins (not so as to character, on which see p. 2989 and elsewhere), [3560] but French literature belongs to a different family, and the four literatures referred to above form a family of their own (plus Portuguese, which is comprised and included by me along with Spanish). And this is no contradiction, as based on our principles it would be, if the French language belonged to the other four as to its character as well. Instead, as to its character, even the language of modern French speakers belongs to a different family (which we might say it forms on its own1 were it not for the fact that, like its literature, it has corrupted and is corrupting several other languages, and literatures, and has impressed or is impressing its character, more or less permanently, etc., on some which as yet do not have a character of their own, such as Russian, Swedish, Dutch, etc.), and the other four mentioned above form a family of their own. (30 Sept. 1823.)

  For p. 3557, end. Moreover, the use of the ordinal names of numbers as opposed to the cardinal ones is also in part common to Italians, both in colloquial discourse (as in phrases such as l’anno mille [the year one thousand], il reggimento quattro [regiment number four], etc. etc.) and in writing, even elegant writing. See, among others, Speroni in his Discourse or letter “del tempo del partorire delle donne” [“regarding the time at which women give birth”], which occupies the third place among his Dialoghi, Venice 1596, p. 49, line 16, compared with the lines above it, p. 50, lines 23, 24; p. 51, line 24; p. 52, lines 1, 7, 9, 10, 18, 22; p. 56, line 3 and elsewhere. (30 Sept. 1823.)

  Gallicism and Italianism (possibly also Hispanism) [3561] of the genitive plural being used instead of the accusative form of the same number, in Aristotle, Politics, bk. 3, Florence, Giunti, 1576, p. 209, middle,1 and see also the comment by Pier Vettori. (30 Sept. 1823.) We Italians and the French also use the genitive plural instead of the nominative plural. Even in the third case, etc., a di molti [to many], con di molti [with many], à des femmes [to some women], etc.

  For p. 3413. Indeed, Speroni’s writing is spread throughout, and at times almost interwoven, not just with words, or metaphorical uses of words, etc., which are all proper to Dante and Petrarch, but entire phrases or hemistiches from these poets, covertly appropriated by the author and converted to use in his prose. Nor do such words, phrases, etc., appear in the least poetic in him, but very suitably prosaic. Many other authors from the sixteenth century do more or less the same thing, especially the most elegant ones, but Speroni in particular. Now, try and tell me that not just the Greek prose writers could do the same thing with Homer or any other of their poets, but also the Latin ones with Virgil, etc., even though Latin has no distinct poetic language. What can this mean then, save that the language of Dante and Petrarch was barely or not at all distinct from prose? That is why the prose writers could use it to their advantage, even in abundance, without sounding poetic.2 The most poetic and elegant words, phrases, and meanings in Petrarch, Dante, etc., occupy a kind of middle ground between the prosaic and poetic, and so they sound perfectly natural in lofty prose of the kind written by Speroni. E.g., talento [desire] in the meaning it has in “Che la ragion sommettono al talento” [“who subordinate their reason to desire”].3 One could not say if this is more appropriate to verse or to prose. See it used excellently by Speroni in Dialoghi, Venice 1596, p. 69, end. Other prose writers from the 16th century and in no small number, like Boccaccio in the 14th century, drew on those parts of the poetic that were unfitting [3562] in prose, using the words, meanings, metaphors, phrases, ornaments, use of epithets, etc., from both Dante and Petrarch and the poets of the 16th century itself in abundance and indiscriminately. And this for the same reason that the same poets used the phrases and words, etc., of prose, as on p. 3414ff. This was because the boundaries between the languages of poetry and prose had not yet been firmly established in our language. Thus, as we did not have a properly poetic language, fully established and determined, by this stage (pp. 3414, 3416), so we did not have a prose language. In the same way (but to a much lesser degree) as the French have virtually only poetic prose, precisely because they do not have a properly poetic language, which is distinct, determined, and assigned unequivocally to poetry (see pp. 3404–405, 3420–21, 3429 and the following thought). No good author from the 17th, 18th, or 19th centuries sounds poetic in the same way that many good and classical writers of the 16th century do (despite the great plague of style in the 17th century which derived precisely from the search for the florid, sublime, metaphorical, marvelous way of speaking and expressing whatever, the fantastic, imaginative, ingenious, and a plague consisting of these qualities, etc., [3563] which was not yet dominant in the 16th century, though the florid and poetic was so much more dominant in prose than it ever was in the good and classical prose writings of the 17th century: a sign that this vice in the 16th century came from a different cause, which was the one that has been mentioned). No one today (and even in the last two centuries), however little judgment or even merely experience they may have in fine letters, would be capable, in writing prose, of erring in terms of the poetic nature of their style and language, as much as those excellent minds did in their classical prose writings in the excellent, golden 16th century (whereas ours is iron), in terms of both their language and the style which the former entails (p. 3429, end). And as I said on pp. 3417–19, that this properly poetic language was not fully determined in Italy, established and distinct and separate from that of prose until after the 16th century, especially in this century and at the end of the last, so too we must say the same thing about the language of prose, insofar as regards its being determined so precisely that it could never be confused with the language of poetry, or sound poetic without giving grounds for censure, etc. Which could not be perfectly be the case, until the terms of these two languages have been firmly set, and clearly, precisely, [3564] and incontrovertibly marked, drawn, and described. Hence the language which is perfectly proper and peculiar to prose, and that which is perfectly proper and peculiar to poetry, must have come into being at the same time, and not one before the other (or not before one and the other being perfect, etc. etc., and growing equally with respect to their prosaic and poetic qualities); for each of the two is respective to the other, etc. etc. (30 Sept. 1823.)

  For p. 2911, margin. The Hebrew language is also poetic in prose, because of its extreme poverty, which I have discussed elsewhere [→Z 806–807, 1969, 2005–2007, 2909–13], showing how hundreds of different meanings must and do clash with each other in each word, in the same way as happened at the start in every language, until by changing or inflection, or by derivation, or by composition, or through some other form of modification of the few root words as to their meaning, it came to a point where a great many words were formed from just one, and an infinite number from just a few, so that each of the many meanings previously grouped under the one word—not by being transported to another word, but as though by subdivision or emanation or other kinds of modification of [3565] the same first word—came to have a word of their own, or one that had but minimal and discreet overlap with other meanings.

  Now as Hebrew prose was virtually unable to use a word that was not swarming with different meanings, it was bound to turn out poetic, both because of the multiplicity of ideas to which each word had to give rise (which is most poetic, as I have said elsewhere [→Z 109–10, 1701–706, 2005–2007]) and because the word in question could only represent the prose writer’s idea in nebulous, indeterminate, and general fashion, as it does in poetry. And also because virtually all things, save for very few, had to be expressed with improper and metaphorical words (which is the poetic way), which occurs in all languages, strictly speaking, but the metaphor is unperceived or at least perceived only rarely, because use has transformed it in part or entirely into the proper word. Whereas this could not have occurred in the Hebrew language, for if it removed the literal m
eaning from a word so that the metaphorical meaning took charge and appeared itself to be the literal one, what would be left for the proper word itself amid such poverty? [3566] The metaphorical was therefore always perceived, even in Hebrew prose, because the word, along with the metaphorical meanings, retained its literal sense. This therefore being the language which had to be used in prose, the style of the prose writer too had necessarily to be poetical, just as the primitive Latin, Italian, etc., poets also, for the opposite reason, when they could not find poetical words in the language, were bound to keep to a style that had something of the colloquial about it, as I have said elsewhere [→Z 1808–15, 2836–41, 3014–17].

  Hebrew prose was therefore poetic, by default and through lack, and because the language was short of words. This is not the case with French prose, which is mostly poetic, while the language abounds in words, as I have said elsewhere [→Z 373–75, 2666–68, 2715]. But this prose is poetic, because the French language has very few, and one might say that it lacks, poetic words, that is, words that are truly old and elegant, that is, unusual, etc. And see the previous thought, and the one to which it refers. Hebrew words are all poetic, not deliberately, nor because they are used by poets, nor because they are made to be poetic and destined for use in poetry, nor because they are unusual, or because of age, or because of [3567] metaphor, etc., but due to a material, extrinsic cause, and simply because there are so few of them. And the Hebrew language is materially all poetic, that is, simply because it is poor. And Hebrew style and prose are poetic simply because of the poverty of the language. A quality common to all languages in their beginnings, along with the consequence of such a quality, that is, along with their being poetic. I do not mean by this to exclude the other, nonmaterial reasons which also certainly contributed considerably to making Hebrew language, style, and prose poetic, that is, its orientalism and supreme antiquity, on which see p. 3543. And this second condition also greatly influences and produces the same effect in every other language at the beginning, in each language which preserves its primitive state, in every other ancient language, etc. Moreover, the supreme force and supreme boldness which are admired in the expressions of the Bible, and which are taken as a sign of their divinity (see the page referred to above), for the most part derive only from true impotence and necessity, that is, from extreme poverty, which obliges the author to [3568] extreme boldness in metaphor and any application of meanings, to drawing metaphors from very far away, etc. (1 October, day on which the news of the creation of the new Pope arrived, 1823.)1