For p. 4248. Another reason why I like μονοφαγία [eating alone] is that I avoid having around my table (as is necessary if I eat in company), assisting at my meal, “importuns laquais, épiant nos discours, critiquant tout bas nos maintiens, comptant nos morceaux d’un oeil avide, s’amusant à nous faire attendre à boire, et murmurant d’un trop long diner” [“importunate lackeys, spying on our conversation, whispering criticisms of our bearing, counting up our morsels with a greedy eye, amusing themselves by making us wait for something to drink, and complaining about the meal going on too long”]. (Rousseau, Émile.)1 Unfortunately, I have never managed to find pleasure in the presence of people who are, to my certain knowledge, disparaging, derisive, and bored; I have never been able to understand how other people tolerate, or indeed find pleasure in the company of such witnesses whose occupation and thoughts at that time are precisely, as everyone knows, those described above. The ancients were also served at table, but by slaves, in other words by those whom they considered to be less than human, or certainly, less human than they. Therefore perhaps they had good reason not to be concerned, and not to fear their railleries [banter] and disapproval. But our servants are our equals. And it is most strange that we, who are so sensitive to every tiny ridicule, every tiny word or thought from another person which we know or suspect to be in our disfavor, have no concern at all about those of servants at that moment, which we do not merely suspect, but well know to be about us. Strange too that while we are unable to remain still and impassive without feeling annoyed, when we are sitting with someone who we know at that moment to be engaged in speaking ill of us and in deriding us, yet we can then, having many of this sort around us, fully and peacefully enjoy the pleasures of the table without any disturbance. The opinion that the ancients had about their slaves also justifies them in another respect, namely that they had no concern for the discomfort, boredom, anger that their servants must necessarily, and rightly, have felt while witnessing their pleasures; and which each of us would feel if we found ourselves in the [4276] place of our servants when they wait upon us at our tables. Indeed our humanity and cordiality can be rather criticized, when they allow us, as a matter of course, to enjoy ourselves in the presence of people for whom our pleasure brings suffering, and which suffering is perfectly apparent; and nevertheless to enjoy ourselves without the slightest difficulty. There is a lack of humanity in enjoying a conversation while your coachman is out in the rain: but in the end you do not see him. There is a lack of humanity in turning your eyes away from the suffering of others so as not to be upset or disturbed, so that such a concern does not upset your enjoyment. But how human is it to enjoy yourself, in tranquillity and ease, so far as the body and the mind allow, when, not far away, but present, not in thought, but in sight, there are people just like us, who clearly (and with good reason) suffer, and for no other cause than because of our pleasure? I confess that I have never been able to feel pleasure in something which perhaps I do not see, do not know, but yet I suspect that it is upsetting or troubling someone: because I have never managed in that moment to banish such a thought from my mind. And this happens even when there is no reason for that person to take offense. Therefore I prefer not to eat in company, so as not to have servants around me, because I want to enjoy my meal. And eating alone, I want no one to wait on me. This is all the more so because my needs are such, with good reason, that I prefer to eat in comfort, and to take plenty of time (and it does not seem to me that the time is badly spent in this, as many people appear to believe, who hurry to gobble everything down, and leave the table, almost as if this was the best moment of the meal); and such length of time would, with equally good reason, be extremely irritating and intolerable for the person serving me. (7 April 1827.)
To pant English—panteler French.
[4277] Agreement among men is claimed in favor of the immortality of the soul. I think that it is possible to claim this same agreement for the opposite, and with much more reason, since the feeling that I am about to describe is an effect of nature alone, and not of opinions and reasoning or traditions; or shall we say, it is simply a feeling and not an opinion. If man is immortal, why do we grieve for the dead? Everyone is driven by nature to grieve for the death of their loved ones, and in grieving for them they do not think about themselves, but about death. No grief has less place for egoism than this. For those who suffer some great harm from the death of someone, if they have no other cause than this to be distressed about that death, they do not grieve. If they grieve, they do not think, they do not recall this harm, so long as their grief remains. We are truly upset about those who die. We naturally feel—without reasoning, before reasoning, in spite of our reasoning—that they are unhappy, we believe that they are to be pitied, we are sad for them, and think of their death as misfortune. So too, the ancients thought it quite inhuman to speak badly of the dead, and to offend their memory, and wise men ordained that the dead and those suffering misfortune should not be harmed, comparing misery and death as similar. People of today do the same. So do all people; so it was and so it will always be. But why feel compassion for the dead? Why think of them as unhappy, if souls are immortal? One who grieves is not moved by the thought that the deceased is in a place or state of punishment: in that case he would not grieve for him: he would hate him, because he would think of him as wicked. That sorrow, at least, would be mixed with horror and aversion, and everyone knows by experience that the sorrow felt for the dead is neither mixed with horror or aversion, nor does it derive from such a cause, nor from anything of such a kind. What, therefore, produces the compassion that we have for the dead if it is not the belief, resulting from an intimate feeling, and without any reasoning, that they have lost their life [4278] and their existence, such things being held naturally by us, without even thinking, and in spite of reason, as a good, and their loss as an ill? We do not therefore believe naturally in the immortality of the soul. Indeed, we believe that the dead are truly dead and not alive, and he who is dead no longer exists.1
But if we believe this, why do we grieve? What compassion can fall upon someone who no longer exists? —We grieve for the dead, not because they are dead, but because they have lived. We grieve for that person who was alive, who was dear to us alive, because he has stopped living, because now he is not alive and does not exist. We are distressed, not because he now suffers in any way, but because he has suffered this ultimate and irreparable misfortune (in our view) of being deprived of life and being. This misfortune which has befallen him is the cause and the object of our compassion and our grief. As for the present, we grieve for his memory, not for him.
In truth, if we wish to examine precisely what we feel, what passes through our mind, upon the death of our dear one, we will find that we are moved principally by this thought: “he was,” “he no longer is,” “I will no longer see him.” And here we recollect the things, the deeds, the habitual dealings which passed between the deceased and us, and to say to ourselves “these things are gone,” “they will never happen again” makes us grieve. This grief and these thoughts bring about, in no small way, a return to ourselves, and a feeling of our frailty (though not selfish), which gently saddens and moves us. This feeling produces something which I have described elsewhere [→Z 644–46]. Our heart aches—even in relation to things or people to which we feel indifferent—on each occasion that we think: “this is the last time,” “this will never happen again,” “I will never see him again,” or “this has gone forever.” See p. 4282. So that in the sorrow that we feel for the dead, the dominant and principal thought, as well as remembrance, on which it is based, is the thought about human frailty.2 This thought, in truth, is not at all similar, nor analogous, nor concordant with that of our immortality. [4279] Which we are so far from thinking about on such occasions that if we said to ourselves at that moment “but I shall see this person after my death, I am not sure that everything is ended between us, and that I shall never see him again,” and if we
could not use that “never again” and hold firm to it in our grief, we would never weep for the dead. But if there is anyone who is able to tell me sincerely that he has ever, even only once, felt consoled by such a thought and by the expectation of seeing his dear deceased once again, please step forward. This should quite reasonably be the first thought to pass into our minds in such cases, given the opinions that we have about the immortality of man, and of his state after death. But in fact, as is apparent from what I have said so far, and whatever our beliefs might be, nature and feeling lead us at such times, willingly or unwillingly, to believe and take for granted that that person is dead and gone, completely and forever.
I conclude by saying that, despite the infinite diversity and absurdity of views, prejudices, beliefs, conjectures, dogmas, dreams that men have about death, we may find, especially if we question pure and simple nature, that in substance, and at the bottom of their heart, everybody tends to agree in believing in the total extinction of man, rather than the immortality of the soul, though I do not claim, bearing in mind such diversity and absurdity, that such agreement is of any great weight. (Recanati, 9 April, Monday in Holy Week, 1827.)1
Embrasé for ardente [fiery]. “Ses regards embrasés” [his fiery looks]. Barthélemy, Voyage d’Anacharsis, where he describes Homer.2 Raffiné often just the same as fin.
῎Αβαξ–ἀβάκιον, abbaco [abacus]. See Forcellini, etc.
Conjectures about a future civilization of animals, and especially of certain species, such as monkeys. This task to be carried out by men over a long period, in the same way as civilized humans have civilized many barbarous or savage nations which are certainly no less ferocious and perhaps less intelligent than monkeys, especially particular species. Civilization, in short, naturally tends to expand, [4280] and make further new advances, and cannot remain still, nor be contained within any limits, especially so far as extension is concerned, and so long as there are creatures which can be civilized and associated with the great body of civilization, with the great alliance of intelligent beings against nature and against anything devoid of intelligence. This may be of use for the “Letter to a young man of the 20th century.”1
Seeing themselves in a mirror, and imagining there is another creature similar to oneself, excites extreme fury, agitation, pain in animals. Pougens describes this in relation to a monkey in his story entitled “Joco,” Nuovo Ricoglitore of Milan, March 1827, pp. 215–16. This also occurs in our children. See Roberti, “Lettera di un bambino di 16 mesi.” What great love nature has given us toward those who are like us!!2 (Recanati, 13 April, Good Friday, 1827.) See p. 4419.
Badare–badigliare, sbadigliare [to yawn], etc.; badaluccare, badalucco, etc. See Nuovo Ricoglitore, loc. cit. above, pp. 162–63. Rosecchiare, rosicchiare [to gnaw].
In the colonies belonging to the Spanish, who, it is said, are those who treat slaves best, the Blacks on the island of Cuba have a legal right to force their owners to sell them to others when they have been ill-treated. See the Nuovo Ricoglitore, loc. cit. above, p. 175.3 Likewise, slaves had the right τοῦ πρᾶσιν αἰτεῖν [to ask to be sold] in Athens, where they were better treated than in any other part of Greece. See Casaubon on Athenaeus, bk. 6, ch. 19, beginning.4 (Recanati, 15 April, Easter Sunday, 1827.)
I have written elsewhere [→Z 2869–75] that modern French pronunciation often destroys and eliminates the imitative quality possessed by the word in Latin, and which was often the only reason for that word. The same must be said about other words which the French language has taken from languages other than Latin, or which originally belonged to it. Miauler, miaulement, words which express the sound of a cat, are a most perfect imitation in their written (and therefore primitive) form, but what remains in the pronunciation? Anyone who has heard the sound of a cat only once, knows that it is mià and not miò; and they will say that the Italian miagolare is imitative (whether this originated from the French, or vice versa, or whether [4281] both originated independently from nature), and that the French miauler, miaulement is in fact corrupt (we say miao or gnao, and also gnaulare, but not gnolare). The Spanish say maullar or mahullar, maullido, maullamiento, mau. (16 April, Easter Monday, 1827.)
Miauler French; maullar or mahullar Spanish—mia-g-olare.
Upupa Latin and Italian—bubbola [hoopoe]. Hamus–hameau [hook–hamlet]
For p. 4255, beginning. *“A man noble in race and fame,” writes Reimar, Preface to Dio, § 6, of Johannes Leunclavius, the famous 16th-century German scholar, “whom Marquard Freher rightly admires in his dedicatory letter to the Jus Graeco-Romanum of Leunclavius because the latter, while active, in the midst of various travels, in the courts, legations and missions of princes, produced with the greatest diligence as many and as great works as someone free from other cares and occupied only in this task would with difficulty have brought forth.”*1 The observations by Chesterfield quoted above [→Z 4254–55] describe this phenomenon, which is to be found repeatedly, and noted with the same surprise by many writers on many other occasions, and is certainly not rare. These explain the similar and greater phenomenon of Cicero in ancient times, of Frederick of Prussia in modern times, and of many other such people, showing that it is perhaps more difficult to find a writer who is otherwise idle and unemployed and has written much with great care, than to find a writer who, though employed elsewhere, has produced many thoughtful works. Certainly, the latter are not difficult to find, and this confirms Chesterfield’s observations, according to which, the said employments of such men must serve to explain the quantity and thoughtfulness of their works, and to lessen the surprise, demonstrating that they have been occasioned by a work habit produced or supported by these employments, and that the more pressing, the busier, and the more assiduous these employments, the greater and more lively and intensive the activities. (Recanati, 17 April, Easter Tuesday, 1827.) I, for example, [4282] am idle for much of the time, and inclined to indolence, either by nature or by habit; yet in the midst of this deep inactivity, on a day when I have occasion to set to work, and have much to do, not only do I manage to finish everything, but I have time to spare, and in that spare time I find (and it has happened to me several times) a true need, a restlessness, to do something, a horror of doing nothing, which seems unbearable, as if I were unaccustomed to passing hours and, so to speak, months in my room with my arms crossed. (Recanati, 17 April, Easter Tuesday, 1827.)
Man, face, demeanor, style (etc.), sostenuto [dignified]. Popular Italian. Hence sostenutezza, used by Salvini,1 and recorded by the Crusca.
Consummatus [consummate] for summus [highest]. See Forcellini.
The French also use autre for aucun in familiar language, or redundantly. Thus sans autre examen without other examination, for sans aucun examen [without any examination], in certain verses by the very modern Andrieux, in Noël and Delaplace, Leçons de littérature et de morale, 4th ed., Paris 1810, tome 2, p. 58. So too autrement for guère, or redundantly, also in familiar style. See Alberti, and Richelet, Dictionaries. (Recanati, 18 April 1827.)
Homme, esprit, dissipé [dissipated man, spirit]. Disapplicato [unapplied].
᾿Εν τούτῳ (i.e., in questa, in questo, in questo mezzo) [meanwhile, at the same time]. Dio Cassius, ed. Reimar, p. 65, l. 98; p. 192, l. 5. (Recanati, 20 April 1827.)
Nae-v-us—Ne-o [mole, wart]. See French, Spanish, etc.
Amouracher, s’amouracher [to fall head over heels in love]. Flamboyer [to blaze].
Culter, cultrum–cultellus, coltello, couteau, etc. etc. [knife]. See Forcellini, the Spanish, etc.
For p. 4278. Such grief is also experienced when leaving a state of suffering, the end of which we have most ardently desired, and which we still most dearly cherish. The prisoner, when he is set free, will cry at the prison gate at just the thought that his state has ended. Philoctetes, when leaving for the siege of Troy, bade a sorrowful farewell to the uninhabited island and the cave of his sufferings.2
Summertime, in addition
to freeing us from our sufferings, produces in us the desire for pleasure,3 [4283] and gives us a confidence in ourselves, and a courage, which stem from the ease and freedom which we feel by reason of the mildness of the air. From such self-confidence and assurance is born, as always, generosity of spirit, an inclination to offer sympathy, assistance, support; whereas the mistrust produced by the cold weather brings selfishness, indifference toward others, etc.
For p. 4245. Add to these things the gratification (well known and described among the ancients) of crying, moaning, shrieking, wailing in times of grief, of which we are deprived. (Recanati, Low Sunday, 22 April 1827.)
The primary requisite in sacrificing yourself and working for others is self-esteem and understanding your own worth, just as the primary requisite for concerning yourself about others is having high expectations for yourself. (Florence, 1 July 1827.)1
AntiCIPARE [to anticipate], postiCIPARE [to receive afterwards], partiCIPARE [to give a share of], etc., from capere [to contain].
Summittere or submittere for sursum mittere or de subtus mittere [to send from below]. Likewise, subiectare.
Bucherare [to fill with holes]. Spicciolato [small change].
Fra giorno, in other words di giorno, nel giorno, dentro giorno, during the course of the day.
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