Savoir s’il est permis d’écrire et de lire l’histoire, singuliérement celle de son temps

From the concluding sections of the Duc de Saint-Simon’s introductory essay, Savoir s’il est permis d’écrire et de lire l’histoire, singuliérement celle de son temps.  Which, very oddly to me, has not made it into either of the English translations.  But I am lazy so it will remain untranslated today.

Écrire l’histoire de son pays et de son temps, c’est repasser dans son esprit avec beaucoup de réflexion tout ce qu’on a vu, manié, ou su d’original, sans reproche, qui s’est passé sur le théâtre du monde, et les diverses machines, souvent les riens apparents, qui ont mû les ressorts des événements qui ont eu le plus de suite et qui en ont enfanté d’autres; c’est se montrer à soi-même pied à pied le néant du monde, de ses craintes, de ses désirs, de ses espérances, de ses disgrâces, de ses fortunes, de ses travaux; c’est se convaincre du rien de tout par la courte et rapide durée de toutes ces choses et de la vie des hommes; c’est se rappeler un vif souvenir que nul des heureux du monde ne l’a été, et que la félicité, ni même la tranquillité, ne peut se trouver ici-bas; c’est mettre en évidence que, s’il était possible que cette multitude de gens de qui on fait une nécessaire mention avait pu lire dans l’avenir le succès de leurs peines, de leurs sueurs, de leurs soins, de leurs intrigues, tous, à une douzaine près tout au plus, se seraient arrêtés tout court dès l’entrée de leur vie, et auraient abandonné leurs vues et leurs plus chères prétentions; et que de cette douzaine encore, leur mort, qui termine le bonheur qu’ils s’étaient proposé, n’a fait qu’augmenter leurs regrets par le redoublement de leurs attaches, et rend pour eux comme non avenu tout ce à quoi ils étaient parvenus. Si les livres de piété représentent cette morale, si capable de faire mépriser tout ce qui se passe ici-bas, d’une manière plus expresse et plus argumentée, il faut convenir que cette théorie, pour belle qu’elle puisse être, ne fait pas les mêmes impressions que les faits et les réflexions qui naissent de leur lecture. Ce fruit que l’auteur en tire le premier, se recueille aussi, par ses lecteurs; ils y joignent de plus l’instruction de l’histoire qu’ils ignoraient. Cette instruction forme ceux qui ont à vivre dans le commerce du monde, et plus encore s’ils sont portés en celui des affaires. Les exemples dont ils se sont remplis les conduisent et les préservent d’autant plus aisément, qu’ils vivent dans les mêmes lieux où ces choses se sont passées, et dans un temps encore trop proche pour que ce ne soient pas les mêmes moeurs, et le même genre de vie, de commerce et d’affaires. Ce sont des avis et des conseils qu’ils reçoivent de chaque coup de pinceau à l’égard des personnages, et de chaque événement par le récit des occasions et des mouvements qui l’ont produit; mais des avis et des conseils pris de la chose et des gens par eux-mêmes qui les lisent, et qu’ils reçoivent avec d’autant plus de facilité qu’ils sont tous nus, et n’ont ni la sécheresse, ni l’autorité, ni le dégoût, qui rebutent et qui font échouer si ordinairement les conseils et les avis de ceux qui se mêlent d’en vouloir donner. Je ne vois donc rien de plus utile que cette double et si agréable manière de s’instruire par la lecture de l’histoire de son temps et de son pays, ni conséquemment de plus permis que de l’écrire.

So long as they are not of this whiffling century

From Charles Lamb’s Readers Against the Grain

Every new publication that is likely to make a noise, must be had at any rate. By some they are devoured with avidity. These would have been readers in the old time I speak of. The only loss is, that for the good old reading of Addison or Fielding’s days is substituted that never-ending flow of thin novelties which are kept up like a ball, leaving no possible time for better things, and threatening in the issue to bury or sweep away from the earth the memory of their nobler predecessors. We read to say that we have read. No reading can keep pace with the writing of this age, but we pant and toil after it as fast as we can. … If I hate one day before another, it is the accursed first day of the month, when a load of periodicals is ushered in and distributed to feed the reluctant monster. How it gapes and takes in its prescribed diet, as little savoury as that which Daniel ministered to that Apocryphal dragon, and not more wholesome! Is there no stopping the eternal wheels of the Press for a half century or two, till the nation recover its senses? Must we magazine it and review at this sickening rate for ever? Shall we never again read to be amused? but to judge, to criticise, to talk about it and about it? Farewell, old honest delight taken in books not quite contemporary, before this plague-token of modern endless novelties broke out upon us—farewell to reading for its own sake!

Rather than follow in the train of this insatiable monster of modern reading, I would forswear my spectacles, play at put, mend pens, kill fleas, stand on one leg, shell peas, or do whatsoever ignoble diversion you shall put me to. Alas! I am hurried on in the vortex. I die of new books, or the everlasting talk about them. I faint of Longman’s. I sicken of the Constables. Blackwood and Cadell have me by the throat.

I will go and relieve myself with a page of honest John Bunyan, or Tom Brown. Tom anybody will do, so long as they are not of this whiffling century.

Do not stir the fire with a sword

From Erasmus’ Adagia (2.6).  My own hasty rendering.

IGNEM NE GLADIO FODITO

‘Do not stir the fire with a sword’, that is to say, do not provoke someone already stirred to anger.  It is far better to yield and calm his enraged spirit with kind words.  This is the opinion of Saint Jerome and of Demetrius of Byzantium, cited by Athenaeus.
Diogenes Laertius explains that the choleric temperament of violent and wrathful men ought not to be stirred up with reproaches, because the more a flame is stirred up, the stronger it grows.
Plutarch does not judge any differently.
Plato, however, in Book 6 of The Laws, has used this saying of men who strive in vain for what can be in no way accomplished, showing this to have been a type of game – that they would cut up a fire with a sword.
Saint Basil mentions a nearly identical sense in his letter to his nephews – how they wish to cut fire with a sword and draw water with a sieve.
And it is surely to that definition that Lucian refers in book 2 of his True History.  He tells that that at his departure from the Isles of the Blessed, Rhadamanthus ordered him to follow three rules when he came back to our earth: not to stir the fire with a sword, not to eat beans, and not to bed a boy more than 18 years old.  If he kept these in mind, he would one day return to the isle.
It seems that Horace, by this saying, points out cruelty mixed with madness.  For love is in itself mad and if it breaks forth into fighting and murder, the fire is pierced by a sword.  Satire 2.3: “Add bloodshed to these and stire the fire with a sword.”


Πῦρ σιδήρῳ μὴ σκαλεύειν, id est• Ignem gladio ne fodito, hoc est ira percitum ne
lacessas. Quin magis concedere conuenit et blandis verbis tumidum animum
placare. Ita diuus Hieronymus et apud Athenaeum Demetrius Byzantius.
Diogenes Laertius exponit potentium et ferocium iracundiam non esse
conuitiis exagitandam, propterea quod flamma quo magis exagitatur, hoc
magis atque magis inualescit. Neque dissentit ab hoc interpretamento Plutarchus.
Quanquam Plato libro De legibus sexto sic vsurpauit, vt de iis dici
solitum videatur, qui frustra moliuntur quod effici nullo pacto queat, osten-
dens id lusus genus quoddam fuisse, vt ignem gladio dissecarent. Ad eundem
ferme sensum retulit diuus Basilius in Epistola ad nepotes, vt idem sibi velint
ignem gladio dissecare et cribro haurire aquam. Huc nimirum allusit Lucianus
in secundo Verarum narrationum libro, cum ex insulis fortunatis dimitteretur,
fingens se a Rhadamantho admonitum, vt si quando rediret in hunc nostrum
orbem, tria quaedam obseruaret, Μὴ πῦρ μαχαίρᾳ σκαλεύειν, μήτε θερμούς
ἐσθίειν, μήτε παιδὶ ὑπὲρ τὰ ὀκτωκαίδεκα• ἔτη πλησιάζειν, id est Ne gladio ignem
diuerberaret, ne lupinis vesceretur, ne se puero decimumoctauum annum egresso adiunge-
ret. Si quidem horum meminisset, futurum vt aliquando ad eam insulam
reuerteretur. Horatius hoc dicto videtur indicare crudelitatem cum insania
coniunctam. Amor enim per se furor est, qui si erumpat in pugnas ac caedes,
ignis gladio perfoditur. Libro Sermonum secundo, satyra iii.: His adde cruorem
/ atque ignem gladio scrutare.

Come this evening even, if it is more convenient for you

Probably the only light moment in Victor Hugo’s The Last Day of a Condemned Man (Le Dernier Jour d’un Condamné):

[The guard] lowered his voice, and assumed an air of mystery, which was not in keeping with his stupid face.

“Yes, criminal, happy and lucky. You can make me all this. Listen. I am a poor gendarme. My duties are heavy, my pay is small; my horse is my own, and is the ruin of me. But to offset this I take shares in the lottery. One must have some business. Until now I have needed nothing in order to win except lucky numbers. I look everywhere for sure ones; but I always fall to one side. I place 76; it draws 77. In vain have I kept them; they do not come. A little patience, please; I am almost through. But here is a lucky chance for me. It seems—pardon me, criminal—that you are to die to-day. It is a well-known fact that these who die in this way see the lottery in advance. Promise me to come to-morrow evening,—what difference will it make to you?—and give me three numbers, three good ones. Hey? I am not afraid of ghosts, you may be sure. This is my address: Caserne Popincourt, staircase A, number 26, at the end of the corridor. You will recognize me, won’t you? Come this evening even, if it is more convenient for you.”


Il a baissé la voix et pris un air mystérieux, ce qui n’allait pas à sa figure idiote.

— Oui, criminel, oui bonheur, oui fortune. Tout cela me sera venu de vous. Voici. Je suis un pauvre gendarme. Le service est lourd, la paye est légère ; mon cheval est à moi et me ruine. Or, je mets à la loterie pour contre-balancer. Il faut bien avoir une industrie. Jusqu’ici il ne m’a manqué pour gagner que d’avoir de bons numéros. J’en cherche partout de sûrs ; je tombe toujours à côté. Je mets le 76 ; il sort le 77. J’ai beau les nourrir, ils ne viennent pas…

— Un peu de patience, s’il vous plaît ; je suis à la fin.

— Or, voici une belle occasion pour moi. Il paraît, pardon, criminel, que vous passez aujourd’hui. Il est certain que les morts qu’on fait périr comme cela voient la loterie d’avance. Promettez-moi de venir demain soir, qu’est-ce que cela vous fait ? me donner trois numéros, trois bons. Hein ? — Je n’ai pas peur des revenants, soyez tranquille. — Voici mon adresse : Caserne Popincourt, escalier A, n°26, au fond du corridor. Vous me reconnaîtrez bien, n’est-ce pas ? — Venez même ce soir, si cela vous est plus commode.

Suppose you had heard the beast himself?

From Pliny’s Letters (2.3)

Nothing brings you to Rome, myself included, but do come to hear [Isaeus the orator]… You may say that you have authors as eloquent whose works can be read at home; but the fact is that you can read them any time, and rarely have the opportunity to hear the real thing. Besides, we are always being told that the spoken word is much more effective; however well a piece of writing makes its point, anything which is driven into the mind by the delivery and expression, the appearance and gestures of a speaker remains deeply implanted there, unless there is no truth in the tale of Aeschines when he was at Rhodes, who countered the general applause he won for his reading of one of Demosthenes’ speeches with the words: “Suppose you had heard the beast himself?”


Proinde si non ob alia nosque ipsos, at certe ut hunc audias veni… Dices: “Habeo hic quos legam non minus disertos.” Etiam; sed legendi semper occasio est, audiendi non semper. Praeterea multo magis, ut vulgo dicitur, viva vox adficit. Nam licet acriora sint quae legas, altius tamen in animo sedent, quae pronuntiatio vultus habitus gestus etiam dicentis adfigit; nisi vero falsum putamus illud Aeschinis, qui cum legisset Rhodiis orationem Demosthenis admirantibus cunctis, adiecisse fertur: τί δέ, εἰ αὐτοῦ τοῦ θηρίου ἠκοὺσατε

 

A moment white—then melts for ever

From Robert Burns’ Tam O’Shanter

But pleasures are like poppies spread,
You seize the flow’r, its bloom is shed;
Or like the snow falls in the river,
A moment white—then melts for ever;
Or like the Borealis race,
That flit ere you can point their place;
Or like the Rainbow’s lovely form
Evanishing amid the storm.—
Nae man can tether Time nor Tide,
The hour approaches Tam maun ride;

It is better to have no work to do than to work at nothing

From Pliny’s Letters (1.9) in the Loeb text and translation.

To Minicius Fundanus

It is extraordinary how, if one takes a single day spent in Rome, one can give a more or less accurate account of it, but scarcely any account at all of days put together. If you ask anyone what he did that day, the answer would be: “I was present at a coming-of-age ceremony, a betrothal, or a wedding. I was called on to witness a will, to support someone in court or to act as assessor.” All this seems important on the actual day, but quite pointless if you consider that you have done the same sort of thing every day, and much more pointless if you think about it when you are out of town. It is then that you realize how many days you have wasted in trivialities.

I always realize this when I am at Laurentum, reading and writing and finding time to take the exercise which keeps my mind fit for work. There is nothing there for me to say or hear said which I would afterwards regret, no one disturbs me with malicious gossip, and I have no one to blame—but myself—when writing doesn’t come easily. Hopes and fears do not worry me, and I am not bothered by idle talk; I share my thoughts with myself and my books. It is a good life and a genuine one, a seclusion which is happy and honourable, more rewarding than almost any “business” can be. The sea and shore are truly my private Helicon, an endless source of inspiration. You should take the first opportunity yourself to leave the din, the futile bustle and useless occupations of the city and devote yourself to literature or to leisure. For it was wise as well as witty of our friend Atilius to say that it is better to have no work to do than to work at nothing.


C. Plinius Minicio Fundano Suo S.

Mirum est quam singulis diebus in urbe ratio aut constet aut constare videatur, pluribus iunctisque non constet. Nam si quem interroges “Hodie quid egisti?,” respondeat: “Officio togae virilis interfui, sponsalia aut nuptias frequentavi, ille me ad signandum testamentum, ille in advocationem, ille in consilium rogavit.” Haec quo die feceris, necessaria, eadem, si cotidie fecisse te reputes, inania videntur, multo magis cum secesseris. Tunc enim subit recordatio: “Quot dies quam frigidis rebus absumpsi!” Quod evenit mihi, postquam in Laurentino meo aut lego aliquid aut scribo aut etiam corpori vaco, cuius fulturis animus sustinetur. Nihil audio quod audisse, nihil dico quod dixisse paeniteat; nemo apud me quemquam sinistris sermonibus carpit, neminem ipse reprehendo, nisi tamen me cum parum commode scribo; nulla spe nullo timore sollicitor, nullis rumoribus inquietor: mecum tantum et cum libellis loquor. O rectam sinceramque vitam! O dulce otium honestumque ac paene omni negotio pulchrius! O mare, o litus, verum secretumque μουσεῖον, quam multa invenitis, quam multa dictatis! Proinde tu quoque strepitum istum inanemque discursum et multum ineptos labores, ut primum fuerit occasio, relinque teque studiis vel otio trade. Satius est enim, ut Atilius noster eruditissime simul et facetissime dixit, otiosum esse quam nihil agere. Vale.

One should sow with the hand, not with the whole sack

From Plutarch’s De Gloria Atheniensium (4.347F):

 “Corinna warned Pindar, who was still young and prided himself on his eloquence, that he was unpoetic for not telling myths, which are the proper business of poetry, but that he supported his works with unusual words, strange usages, paraphrases, songs, and rhythms, which are just embellishments of the subject matter. So Pindar, taking her words to heart, composed that famous poem, ‘Shall it be Ismenus . . . ?’ When he showed it to her, she laughed and said that one should sow with the hand, not with the whole sack.”


ἡ δὲ Κόριννα τὸν Πίνδαρον, ὄντα νέον ἔτι καὶ τῇ λογιότητι σοβαρῶς χρώμενον, ἐνουθέτησεν ὡς ἄμουσον ὄντα καὶ μὴ ποιοῦντα μύθους, ὃ τῆς ποιητικῆς ἔργον εἶναι συμβέβηκε, γλώττας δὲ καὶ καταχρήσεις καὶ μεταφράσεις καὶ μέλη καὶ ῥυθμοὺς ἡδύσματα τοῖς πράγμασιν ὑποτιθέντα. σφόδρ᾿ οὖν ὁ Πίνδαρος ἐπιστήσας τοῖς λεγομένοις ἐποίησεν ἐκεῖνο τὸ μέλος. δειξαμένου δὲ τῇ Κορίννῃ γελάσασα ἐκείνη τῇ χειρὶ δεῖν ἔφη σπείρειν, ἀλλὰ μὴ ὅλῳ τῷ θυλάκῳ

The line reference is preserved in Psuedo-Lucian’s In Praise of Demosthenes (or the Pindar Loeb v.2 pg. 232)

Shall it be Ismenus, or Melia of the golden spindle,
or Cadmus, or the holy race of the Spartoi,
or Thebe of the dark-blue fillet,
or the all-daring strength of Heracles,
or the wondrous honor of Dionysus,
or the marriage of white-armed Harmonia
that we shall hymn?


Ἰσμηνὸν ἢ χρυσαλάκατον Μελίαν
ἢ Κάδμον ἢ Σπαρτῶν ἱερὸν γένος ἀνδρῶν
ἢ τὰν κυανάμπυκα Θήβαν
ἢ τὸ πάντολμον σθένος Ἡρακλέος
5ἢ τὰν Διωνύσου πολυγαθέα τιμὰν
ἢ γάμον λευκωλένου Ἁρμονίας
ὑμνήσομεν;

Alas, my scraps of leather! Alas, my old shoes! Alackaday, my rotten sandals!

From Lucian’s The Downward Journey, or the Tyrant (ΚΑΤΑΠΛΟΥΣ Η ΤΥΡΑΝΝΟΣ) in vol. 2 of the Loeb edition.  Cyniscus the philosopher and Micyllus the cobbler bring different attitudes to the transition to the afterlife than their companions.

Charon
Pull an oar; that will be enough to exact of you.

Cyniscus
Shall I strike up a song, too?

Charon
Yes, by all means, if you know any of the sailors’ chanties.

Cyniscus
I know plenty of them, Charon; but as you see, these people are competing with our music by crying, so that we shall be put out of tune in our song.

The Dead
(one) Alas, my wealth! (another) Alas, my farms! (another) Alackaday, what a house I left behind me! (another) To think of all the thousands my heir will come into and squander! (another) Ah, my new-born babes! (another) Who will get the vintage of the vines I set out last year?

Hermes
Micyllus, you are not lamenting at all, are you? Nobody may cross without a tear.

Micyllus
Get out with you! I have no reason to lament while the wind is fair.

Hermes
Do cry, however, even if only a little, for custom’s sake.

Micyllus
Well, I’ll lament, then, since you wish it, Hermes.—Alas, my scraps of leather! Alas, my old shoes! Alackaday, my rotten sandals! Unlucky man that I am, never again will I go hungry from morning to night or wander about in winter barefooted and half-naked, with my teeth chattering for cold! Who is to get my knife and my awl?


ΧΑΡΩΝ
Ἔρεττε· καὶ τουτὶ γὰρ ἱκανὸν παρὰ σοῦ λαβεῖν.

ΚΥΝΙΣΚΟΣ
Ἦ καὶ ὑποκελεῦσαι δεήσει;

ΧΑΡΩΝ
Νὴ Δία, ἤνπερ εἰδῇς κέλευσμά τι τῶν ναυτικῶν.

ΚΥΝΙΣΚΟΣ
Οἶδα καὶ πολλά, ὦ Χάρων. ἀλλ᾿, ὁρᾷς, ἀντεπηχοῦσιν οὗτοι δακρύοντες· ὥστε ἡμῖν τὸ ᾆσμα ἐπιταραχθήσεται.

ΝΕΚΡΟΙ
Οἴμοι τῶν κτημάτων.—Οἴμοι τῶν ἀγρῶν.—Ὀττοτοῖ, τὴν οἰκίαν οἵαν ἀπέλιπον.—Ὅσα τάλαντα ὁ κληρονόμος σπαθήσει παραλαβών.—Αἰαῖ τῶν νεογνῶν μοι παιδίων.—Τίς ἄρα τὰς ἀμπέλους τρυγήσει, ἃς πέρυσιν ἐφυτευσάμην;

ΕΡΜΗΣ
Μίκυλλε, σὺ δ᾿ οὐδὲν οἰμώζεις; καὶ μὴν οὐ θέμις ἀδακρυτὶ διαπλεῦσαί τινα.

ΜΙΚΥΛΛΟΣ
Ἄπαγε· οὐδέν ἐστιν ἐφ᾿ ὅτῳ ἂν οἰμώξαιμι1 εὐπλοῶν.

ΕΡΜΗΣ
Ὅμως κἂν μικρόν τι ἐς τὸ ἔθος ἐπιστέναξον.

ΜΙΚΥΛΛΟΣ
Οἰμώξομαι τοίνυν, ἐπειδή, ὦ Ἑρμῆ, σοὶ δοκεῖ. οἴμοι τῶν καττυμάτων· οἴμοι τῶν κρηπίδων τῶν παλαιῶν· ὀττοτοῖ τῶν σαθρῶν ὑποδημάτων. οὐκέτι ὁ κακοδαίμων ἕωθεν εἰς ἑσπέραν ἄσιτος διαμενῶ, οὐδὲ τοῦ χειμῶνος ἀνυπόδητός τε καὶ ἡμίγυμνος περινοστήσω τοὺς ὀδόντας ὑπὸ τοῦ κρύους συγκροτῶν. τίς ἄρα μου τὴν σμίλην ἕξει καὶ τὸ κεντητήριον;

Call it rather a sort of beggarly day-dreaming

A masterly footnote from ch 3 of Coleridge’s Biographia Literaria

To anonymous critics in reviews, magazines, and news-journals of various name and rank, and to satirists with or without a name in verse or prose, or in verse-text aided by prose-comment, I do seriously believe and profess, that I owe full two-thirds of whatever reputation and publicity I happen to possess. For when the name of an individual has occurred so frequently, in so many works, for so great a length of time, the readers of these works—(which with a shelf or two of beauties, elegant Extracts and Anas, form nine-tenths of the reading of the reading Public*)—cannot but be familiar with the name, without distinctly remembering whether it was introduced for eulogy or for censure.

*For as to the devotees of the circulating libraries, I dare not compliment their pass-time, or rather kill-time, with the name of reading. Call it rather a sort of beggarly day-dreaming, during which the mind of the dreamer furnishes for itself nothing but laziness, and a little mawkish sensibility; while the whole materiel and imagery of the doze is supplied ab extra by a sort of mental camera obscura manufactured at the printing office, which pro tempore fixes, reflects, and transmits the moving phantasms of one mans delirium, so as to people the barrenness of a hundred other brains afflicted with the same trance or suspension of all common sense and all definite purpose. We should therefore transfer this species of amusement—(if indeed those can be said to retire a musis, who were never in their company, or relaxation be attributable to those, whose bows are never bent)—from the genus, reading, to that comprehensive class characterized by the power of reconciling the two contrary yet coexisting propensities of human nature, namely, indulgence of sloth, and hatred of vacancy. In addition to novels and tales of chivalry to prose or rhyme, (by which last I mean neither rhythm nor metre) this genus comprises as its species, gaming, swinging, or swaying on a chair or gate; spitting over a bridge; smoking; snuff-taking; tete-a-tete quarrels after dinner between husband and wife; conning word by word all the advertisements of a daily newspaper in a public house on a rainy day, etc. etc. etc.