For p. 4240. The benefit of patience, described above, is not limited just to pain, but extends also to a thousand other situations, such as when you have to wait, or you have to carry out a long, monotonous, and troublesome operation, or you have to endure tiresome company when you have other things to do, or you have to listen to a long discussion about something of no importance, or a poet or writer who recites his composition to you,1 and so forth: where impatience, haste, anxiety to finish, restlessness, doubles your annoyance. In short, it extends to all occasions and states which might produce what we describe as patience and impatience; to all displeasures, whether these be troubles or pain. (Recanati, 31 March 1827.)
Those foreigners who most honor Italy with their respect, that is, those who regard it as a classical land, do not consider the Italy of today, in other words we, modern, living Italians, other than as custodians of a museum, of a cabinet of curiosities, or such like; and they have the sort of respect for us which is generally given to that kind of people; the sort of respect that we in Rome have toward the usufructuaries, so to speak, of the various antiquities, places, ruins, museums, etc. (31 March 1827.)
“The ancients (to say the least of them) had as much genius as we;… they constantly applied themselves not only to that art, but to that single branch of an art, to which their talent was most powerfully bent; and it was the business of their lives to correct and finish their works for posterity. If we can pretend to have used the same industry, let us expect the same immortality: Though, if we took the same care, we should still lie under a farther misfortune: They writ in languages that became universal and everlasting, while ours are extremely limited both in extent and in duration. A mighty foundation for our pride! when the utmost we can hope, is but to be read in one island, and to be thrown aside at the end of an age.”2 Pope, General Preface [4268] to the Collection of his early Works (Collection published in 1717) dated 10 November 1716. Pope was born in 1688.
“The muses are amicae omnium horarum [friends of all hours]; and, like our gay acquaintance, the best company in the world, as long as one expects no real service from them.”1 Ibid.
“We spend our youth in pursuit of riches or fame, in hopes to enjoy them when we are old; and when we are old, we find it is too late to enjoy anything.”2 Ibid. (31 March 1827.)
φλύω–φλύζω [to bubble up].
Vespa–gUêpe, in ancient times gUespe [wasp].
Serpyllum [wild thyme], serpillo, serpollo–sermollino, serpolet. Tubo, tube–tuyau [pipe]. Benda, bande–bandeau [bandage].
Ancient nations had a remarkable and particular way of describing the opposite of the gentleman, in other words the wicked man. To the ancients, Δειλὸς (timid, cowardly) also means wicked (Casaubon on Athenaeus, bk. 15, just after halfway through ch. 15).3 On the other hand, κακὸς, bad, is used continually and properly to mean coward, or good-for-nothing; ignavus. Thus ἀγαθὸς [good] and ἐσθλὸς [good] and similar, for valorous, useful, brave, strenuus [vigorous]. The same with bonus and malus for the Latins. Φαῦλος [cheap, simple, mean] good-for-nothing, worthless, is often the same as sorry, bad (like vaurien in French), as much for men as for things. Χρηστὸς is useful and good (similarly χρηστότης [goodness]); ἄχρηστος, useless and bad.
It has long been observed that as true virtues diminish in republics and states, so then do vaunted ones and flattery increase; and likewise, the more literature and serious study decline, the more awards, titles, honors are given to scientists and men of letters, or to those who are so esteemed at such times. The same appears to be true with regard to the way in which books are published. As style worsens, and becomes more vile, more uncultured, more εὐτελὴς [cheap], more worthless, so then do editions increase their elegance, distinctness, splendor, magnificence, cost, and true fineness and value. Look at French publications today, even those simple brochures and pamphlets, leaflets and ephemera. You would say that it was not possible to produce a thing more perfect [4269] of its kind, if the English press, even those very short-lived pamphlets, had not demonstrated an even greater perfection. Then look at the style of these works, printed in this way. At first sight they would seem to be something of great value, great refinement, produced with great skill and diligence. Unfortunately skill and diligence are now ignored by those who write books. Style is no longer a matter of any concern. Now compare modern printing and styles with the printing of past centuries, and the styles of those books so modestly, so humbly, and often (vilely, abjectly) poorly printed. The result of such a comparison will be that old styles and modern printing seem to be done for posterity and eternity; modern styles and old printing seem to be done for the moment, and almost out of necessity.
(Today’s Italian printing as well, although it does not bear comparison with the French and English, has nothing to fear from the others, indeed it is sure to emerge victorious; and much Italian printing of today, which appears to be no more than ordinary, would have appeared splendid a century ago, and magnificent and princely in previous centuries.)
We have extremely good reasons for not placing too much emphasis on the style of books, given that, in any event, their life will be short (despite the quality of the printing). If the hope of immortality was ever fanciful, it is for writers of today. Too many books appear each day, whether good or bad or mediocre, which necessarily causes those of the previous day to be forgotten; even if they were excellent. All places for immortality in this respect are already occupied. By this, I mean that the ancient classical writers will keep the place they have acquired, or at least it is likely they will not die so fast. But to acquire a place now, to increase the number of immortals, I think is no longer possible. [4270] The destiny of books today is like that of those insects called ephemerals (éphémères): certain species live a few hours, some one night, others 3 or 4 days; but it is always only a matter of days. In truth, we of today are travelers and pilgrims on the earth: our time is truly short:1 we are here for one day: the morning in flower, the evening faded, or dried up: destined also to outlive our own fame, and living longer than we are remembered. Today it can be said more truly than ever before: “Οἵη περ φύλλων γενεὴ, τοιήδε καὶ ἀνδρῶν” [“even as are the generations of leaves, so also are those of men”] (Iliad 6, l. 146). This is because immortality has become impossible, not only for men of letters but now for all pursuits, among such an endless multitude of facts and human endeavors, ever since civilization, the life of civilized man, and the record of history has embraced the whole world.2 I have no doubt that two hundred years from now the name of Achilles, conqueror of Troy, will be more famous than that of Napoleon, conqueror and lord of the civilized world. Napoleon will be one of the many, he will be lost among the crowd. Achilles will survive, because he was raised to fame much earlier; he will retain his pedestal, the eminence that he has already occupied for many centuries.3
In any case, just as the impossibility of becoming immortal justifies modern-day laxity of style in books, so too does this laxity prevent and make it impossible for books to achieve immortality. The words of Buffon are remarkable and true (Discours de réception à l’Académie française): “Les ouvrages bien écrits seront les seuls qui passeront à la postérité; la quantité des connaissances, la singularité des faits, la nouveauté même des découvertes ne sont pas de sûrs garants de l’immortalité. Si les ouvrages qui les contiennent ne roulent que sur de petits objets, s’ils sont écrits sans goût, sans noblesse et sans génie, ils périront, parce que les connaissances, les faits et les découvertes s’enlèvent aisément, se transportent, et gagnent même à être mis en oeuvre par des mains plus habiles. Ces choses sont hors de l’homme, le style est l’homme même. Le style ne peut donc ni s’enlever, ni [4271] se transporter, ni s’altérer. S’il est élevé, noble, sublime, l’auteur sera également admiré dans tous les temps” [“Only works that are well written will pass down to posterity; the quantity of knowledge, the singula
rity of the facts, even the novelty of the discoveries are not reliable guarantors of immortality. If the works which contain them only turn upon small matters, if they are written without taste, without nobility and intelligence, they will perish, because knowledge, facts, and discoveries are easily taken away and transferred, and even gain by being set to work by cleverer hands. These things are outside of man, style is the man himself. Style, therefore, cannot be taken away, nor transferred, nor altered. If it is elevated, noble, sublime, the author will be equally admired in all times”].1 To which I would add that, when even the hands which take away the thoughts, are no longer clever in terms of style (as it is certainly unlikely that they are today and will be in the future), so too will the book also perish, because no more will be found in the book than in its copies, probably rather less (I refer here to its substance, not its style), and therefore new books will cause the old one to be forgotten and disappear. Precisely because, if for no other reason, they are new and the other is old, as daily experience shows us. (This also includes well-written books, when they deal with truth and science, like Galileo’s, and what scientist reads him today?)
And with this observation of Buffon’s I finish what I have to say, which is not very cheerful, and more melancholy than not. (Recanati, 2 April 1827.)
(Similarly then, on the other hand, universal laxity over style renders individual diligence useless, if anyone should be able and willing to exercise it over the same. Because, in matters of this kind, the rarer such things are, the less they are appreciated. The public, precisely because it has no such care about it, and has become accustomed to ignoring such a study, has neither the taste nor the ability to judge beauty of style, nor to gain pleasure from it. This is because certain pleasures, and they are not few, need a sensibility that is specially formed, and is not innate; they require a capacity to feel them which is acquired. And those who do not have it obtain no pleasure. The highest form of art would not be recognized, the finest style would not be distinguished from the worst. Excellence of style itself would thus no longer be a route to immortality, which, however, can never be obtained from books without it.) (Recanati, 2 April 1827.)
(Many books today, even when well received, last less than the time that was necessary to collect their material, to arrange them, compose them, and write them. If in addition you wanted to look after the perfection of style, the duration of their life would certainly not be even a fraction of the time it takes to produce them. In such a case they would resemble more than ever [4272] the ephemeral creatures that live in the state of larvae and nymphs for the space of a year, some for two years, others for three, always striving to arrive at that state of winged insect, in which they last for no more than two, three, or four days, according to the species; and some no more than a single night, so that they never see the sun; others live no more than one, two, or three hours.) (Encyclopédie, article “éphémères.”)1 (2 April 1827.)
Pavot seems to be no more than a positivized diminutive of papaver, the first two pa syllables having been contracted into one through corrupt and hurried pronunciation.
An unarmed man, when faced with an animal of equal body size and force—for example, a large dog—will have difficulty in retaining control, and will probably be overpowered. In order to win, he needs some weapon, which gives him a nonnatural power, and a decisive superiority. The reason is that the dog uses and gives all of itself, making the most of its power, whereas the man always holds a large part of himself back from the encounter, achieving always less than his potential. The dog sees no danger, does not reflect, does not use prudence. The man behaves in the opposite manner, unless he is completely desperate, a state which he reaches only with difficulty, even when he has full reason to despair. He always saves his energies, because he is always hopeful; and by doing so, he fails to achieve what hope promises him, or does not escape from that which he hopes to escape; that which, were it not for his hope, he would achieve or from which he would escape. And evidence that this is the real reason can be seen in a child who, much more than a man, is more easily able to finish equal or superior in a skirmish with an animal of equal power, a skirmish that he himself will sometimes begin deliberately. The child, and more so a baby, uses all of itself, like an animal, or little less. And in this respect I find nothing improbable about the story of Hercules, when he was a baby, strangling the two serpents. And I will believe it more easily than that story of the same Hercules, as an adult, tearing to pieces the Nemean lion with no weapons other than his bare hands, in other words, as he had done with the serpents. (3 April 1827.)
Fouiller [to search] is probably from fodere [to dig], and therefore a close relation of fodicare [to dig].
[4273] Metrodorus the Epicurean in Athenaeus, bk. 12, pp. 546f, “ὁ κατὰ φύσιν βαδίζων λόγος,” “that reason that walks, proceeds, according to nature.” That passage is explained by Casaubon in Addenda Animadversionibus, ch. 12.1
In the Latin version of that passage in Pope’s The Rape of the Lock (Canto 1) which contains the description of the toilette, done by Dr. Parnell (a most bizarre version, and which would seem rather to date from the eighth century than the eighteenth, since it consists of verses in which each half-line rhymes with the other half, for example, “Et nunc dilectum speculum, pro more retectum, / Emicat in mensa, quae splendet pyxide densa” [“And now unveil’d, the toilet stands display’d, / Each silver vase in mystic order laid”], which are the first), I find the following two lines: “Induit arma ergo Veneris pulcherrima virgo: / Pulchrior in praesens tempus de tempore crescens” [“Now awful beauty puts on all its arms; / The Fair each moment rises in her charms”],2 where, as can be seen, ergo is made to rhyme with virgo, and praesens with crescens. What do the Italians have to say about this pronunciation? (Recanati, 5 April 1827.) See p. 4497.
Tricae–tracasserie [fuss], tracasser [to fuss], tracassier, etc. [vexatious].
Aerugo, or rubigo or robigo, ruggine–rouille [rust], with derivatives.
For p. 4266. I myself, even though I have no greater pleasure than reading, indeed I have no others, and in whom the pleasure of reading is so great that since my earliest childhood I have always followed this habit (and habit is what produces the pleasure), when I have sometimes, in a moment of idleness, settled down to read some book simply to pass the time, and for the sole and express purpose of finding pleasure and delight, I have always discovered, not without surprise and regret, that not only did I experience no delight at all, but I felt boredom and distaste from the very beginning. And therefore I went immediately to change books, but without any benefit, until in desperation I stopped reading, fearing that it had become dull and disagreeable to me forever, and that I would no longer find pleasure in it. But the pleasure returned to me as soon as I took it up again as an occupation, and as a way of studying, and in order to learn something, or to generally improve my knowledge, without any particular purpose of enjoyment. Therefore, those books which I have enjoyed least, and which for some time now I no longer have the habit of reading, have always been those which are described, [4274] as if with their proper name, as amusements and pastimes. (6 April 1827.)
Radiatus for radians, etc. [shining]. See Forcellini.
For the “Manual of practical philosophy.”1 I have generally been inclined to conserve each friendship that I have made, even with thoroughly difficult people whom everyone soon dislikes, or who dislike everyone else. And the reason, so far as I can ascertain, is that I never dislike a friend for his shortcomings, or for any action by him that causes me harm or displeasure, except where I see clearly, or can with full reason find in him a spirit and an intention to cause me deliberate displeasure or offense. Such a thing, in truth, is extremely rare. But seeing how other people generally behave, it would seem that people only make friendships in order to have the pleasure of breaking them, and that this is their principal purpose in friendship. They seek so diligently and so eagerly to take advantage of opportunities for
breaking up with their friend, even the most frivolous opportunities, and even those in which they themselves cannot fail deep inside to exculpate their friend, and cannot fail to recognize that that offense or displeasure, at least in all probability, did not come from a deliberate intention to offend them. (7 April 1827.)
In order for the existence of the universe to be proof of the existence of an infinite being, its creator, it would be necessary to prove that the universe were infinite, from which to conclude that only an infinite power could have created it. Nothing can prove such infinity of the universe, nor can it allow us to conjecture such a probability.2 And even if the universe were infinite, the infinity would be in the universe itself, it would no longer be exclusively that of the creator, of that unique and most perfect being. It would then be necessary to prove that the universe is not what the pantheists and the followers of Spinoza believe, namely god himself; or that the universe, being of infinite extension, cannot also be infinite in time, in other words that it is eternal, has always been, and will always be. In this case we would no longer have any need for another infinite being, who would always be unknown and hidden: whereas the universe is visible [4275] and tangible. (7 April, Saturday in Passion Week, 1827, Recanati.) Anyway, who told you that to be infinite is a perfection?
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