Laudator Temporis Acti

Heinrich Heine (1797-1856), Almansor, lines 1291-1296 (tr. Hal Draper):

                                        I am so tired,
And sick, and sicker even than that; for ah,
The worst of sicknesses is life itself;
And only death can cure it. This is sure
The medicine that is bitterest, but the last,
And everywhere available, and cheap.

                                        Ich bin recht müd'
Und krank, und kranker noch als krank, denn ach!
Die allerschlimmste Krankheit ist das Leben;
Und heilen kann sie nur der Tod. Das ist
Die bitterste Arznei, doch auch die letzte,
Und ist zu haben überall, und wohlfeil.

Related post: Panacea.

Clive James (1939-2019), "Gianfranco Contini," Cultural Amnesia (2007; rpt. London: Picador, 2012), pp. 133-144 (at 137):

Though it can be overdone, there is nothing like a trading of quotations for bringing cultivated people together, or for making you feel uncultivated if you have nothing to trade. Nowadays very few people can quote from the Greek or would think to impress anyone if they could, and even quoting from the Latin — still a universal recognition system in the learned world when I was young — is now discouraged.

Heinrich Heine (1797-1856), Almansor, lines 243-244 (tr. Hal Draper):

                     Where men burn books,
They will burn people also in the end.

                                                     [W]o man Bücher
Verbrennt, verbrennt man auch am Ende Menschen.

Cf. Ulrich von Hutten (1488-1523), Letters of Obscure Men XXIV (tr. Francis Griffin Stokes):

You may read it, an you will, because I am sending it to you herewith. It seemeth to me that the author and the book ought to be burned together, for it is a monstrous scandal that anybody should compile such a volume.

Vos potestis eum legere si vultis, quia mitto hic eum vobis. Mihi videtur quod autor ille cum suo libro debet comburi, quia est maxime scandalosum quod aliquis debet talem librum compilare.

Related posts:

• A Pungent Smell of Smoke
• Burning Books Written by Epicurus
• An Official Book Burning
• Burn Me!
• A Curse

Arthur Schopenhauer (1788-1860), Parerga and Paralipomena, Vol. II, Chapter 22, § 260 (tr. E.F.J. Payne):

Reading is a mere makeshift for original thinking. When we read, we allow another to guide our thoughts in leading strings. Moreover, many books merely serve to show how many false paths there are and how seriously we could go astray if we allowed ourselves to be guided by them. But whoever is guided by genius, in other words thinks for himself; thinks freely and of his own accord and thinks correctly; he has the compass for finding the right way. We should, therefore, read only when the source of our own ideas dries up, which will be the case often enough even with the best minds. On the other hand, to scare away our own original and powerful ideas in order to take up a book, is a sin against the Holy Ghost. We then resemble the man who runs away from free nature in order to look at a herbarium, or to contemplate a beautiful landscape in a copper engraving.

Lesen ist ein bloßes Surrogat des eigenen Denkens. Man läßt dabei seine Gedanken von einem Andern am Gängelbande führen. Zudem taugen viele Bücher bloß, zu zeigen, wie viel Irrwege es giebt und wie arg man sich verlaufen könnte, wenn man von ihnen sich leiten ließe. Den aber der Genius leitet, d. h. der selbst denkt, freiwillig denkt, richtig denkt, der hat die Boussole, den rechten Weg zu finden. Lesen soll man also nur dann, wann die Quelle der eigenen Gedanken stockt; was auch beim besten Kopfe oft genug der Fall seyn wird. Hingegen die eigenen, urkräftigen Gedanken verscheuchen, um ein Buch zur Hand zu nehmen, ist Sünde wider den heiligen Geist. Man gleicht alsdann Dem, der aus der freien Natur flieht, um ein Herbarium zu besehn, oder um schöne Gegenden im Kupferstiche zu betrachten.

Id.:

The truth that has been merely learnt sticks to us like an artificial limb, a false tooth, a nose of wax, or at best like a rhinoplastic nose formed from someone else's flesh. On the other hand, the truth acquired through our own thinking is like the natural limb; it alone really belongs to us. On this rests the distinction between the thinker and the mere scholar. The intellectual gain of the man who thinks for himself is, therefore, like a beautiful painting that vividly stands out with correct light and shade, sustained tone, and perfect harmony of colours. The intellectual acquisition of the mere scholar, on the other hand, is like a large palette full of bright colours, systematically arranged perhaps, but without harmony, sequence, and significance.

Die bloß erlernte Wahrheit klebt uns nur an, wie ein angesetztes Glied, ein falscher Zahn, eine wächserne Nase, oder höchstens wie eine rhinoplastische aus fremdem Fleische; die durch eigenes Denken erworbene aber gleicht dem natürlichen Gliede: sie allein gehört uns wirklich an. Darauf beruht der Unterschied zwischen dem Denker und dem bloßen Gelehrten. Daher sieht der geistige Erwerb des Selbstdenkers aus, wie ein schönes Gemälde, das lebendig hervortritt, mit richtigem Lichte und Schatten, gehaltenem Ton, vollkommener Harmonie der Farben. Hingegen gleicht der geistige Erwerb des bloßen Gelehrten einer großen Palette, voll bunter Farben, allenfalls systematisch geordnet, aber ohne Harmonie, Zusammenhang und Bedeutung.

G.K. Chesterton (1874-1936), "The Poet and the Cheese," A Shilling for My Thoughts, 2nd ed. (London: Methuen & Co. Ltd., 1917), pp. 161-164 (at 162-164):

After a few sentences exchanged at long intervals in the manner of rustic courtesy, I inquired casually what was the name of the town. The old lady answered that its name was Stilton, and composedly continued her needlework. But I had paused with my mug in air, and was gazing at her with a suddenly arrested concern. 'I suppose,' I said 'that it has nothing to do with the cheese of that name.' 'Oh, yes,' she answered, with a staggering indifference, 'they used to make it here.'

I put down my mug with a gravity far greater than her own. 'But this place is a Shrine!' I said. 'Pilgrims should be pouring into it from wherever the English legend has endured alive. There ought to be a colossal statue in the market-place of the man who invented Stilton cheese. There ought to be another colossal statue of the first cow who provided the foundations of it. There should be a burnished tablet let into the ground on the spot where some courageous man first ate Stilton cheese, and survived. On the top of a neighbouring hill (if there are any neighbouring hills) there should be a huge model of a Stilton cheese, made of some rich green marble and engraven with some haughty motto: I suggest something like "Ver non semper viret; sed Stiltonia semper virescit."' The old lady said, 'Yes, sir,' and continued her domestic occupations.

After a strained and emotional silence, I said, 'If I take a meal here tonight can you give me any Stilton?'

'No, sir; I'm afraid we haven't got any Stilton,' said the immovable one, speaking as if it were something thousands of miles away.

'This is awful,' I said: for it seemed to me a strange allegory of England as she is now; this little town that had lost its glory; and forgotten, so to speak, the meaning of its own name. And I thought it yet more symbolic because from all that old and full and virile life, the great cheese was gone; and only the beer remained. And even that will be stolen by the Liberals or adulterated by the Conservatives. Politely disengaging myself, I made my way as quickly as possible to the nearest large, noisy, and nasty town in that neighbourhood, where I sought out the nearest vulgar, tawdry, and avaricious restaurant.

There (after trifling with beef, mutton, puddings, pies, and so on) I got a Stilton cheese. I was so much moved by my memories that I wrote a sonnet to the cheese. Some critical friends have hinted to me that my sonnet is not strictly new; that it contains 'echoes' (as they express it) of some other poem that they have read somewhere. Here, at least, are the lines I wrote:

Stilton, thou shouldst be living at this hour
And so thou art. Nor losest grace thereby;
England has need of thee, and so have I—
She is a Fen. Far as the eye can scour,
League after grassy league from Lincoln tower
To Stilton in the fields, she is a Fen.
Yet this high cheese, by choice of fenland men,
Like a tall green volcano rose in power.

Plain living and long drinking are no more,
And pure religion reading Household Words,
And sturdy manhood sitting still all day
Shrink, like this cheese that crumbles to its core;
While my digestion, like the House of Lords,
The heaviest burdens on herself doth lay.

As for the "echoes," see William Wordsworth (1770-1850), "London, 1802":

Milton! thou shouldst be living at this hour:
England hath need of thee: she is a fen
Of stagnant waters: altar, sword, and pen,
Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower,
Have forfeited their ancient English dower
Of inward happiness. We are selfish men;
Oh! raise us up, return to us again;
And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power.
Thy soul was like a Star, and dwelt apart:
Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea:
Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free,
So didst thou travel on life's common way,
In cheerful godliness; and yet thy heart
The lowliest duties on herself did lay.

The Very Rev Toby Wright, Dean of Wells, in anticipation of the cider and cheese festival to be held at the Somerset cathedral (photograph by Russell Sach): Hat tip: Eric Thomson.

Related post: What a Food We Have in Cheeses.

Plautus, Amphitruo 648-653 (Alcumena speaking, or rather singing; tr. Paul Nixon):

Courage is the very best gift of all; courage stands before everything, it does, it does! It is what maintains and preserves our liberty, safety, life, and our homes and parents, our country and children. Courage comprises all things: a man with courage has every blessing.

virtus praemium est optumum;
virtus omnibus rebus anteit profecto:
libertas salus vita res et parentes,        650
patria et prognati
tutantur, servantur:
virtus omnia in sese habet, omnia assunt
bona quem penest virtus.

David M. Christenson ad loc. (click to enlarge):

P. Cair. Masp. I 67097 v F, tr. Leslie S. B. MacCoull:

I want always to dance, I want always to play the lyre. I strike up my lyre to praise the solemn festival with my words. The Bacchae have cast a spell on me. . . . When I drink wine, my cares go to sleep. What do I care for pains and groans, what do I care for troubles? I love a young soldier, a Herakles with longing eyes, a lion tamer; ever one to save our cities.

ἀεὶ θέλω χορεύειν,
ἀεὶ θέλω λυρίζμιν.
γεραρὴν λόγοις ἑορτήν
ἀνα[βάϊλλομαι λυρίζειν.

θέλγουσίν με αἷ Βά<κ>χαι
α...υ[
[

ὅταν πίννω τὸν οἶνον,
εὕδουσιν αἵ μέριμναι·
τί μοι πόνων, τί μοι γόων,
τί μοι μέλει μεριμνῶν;

στρατηγὸν νέον ἔραμαι,
ποθοβλήτην Ἡρακλέα,
δαμάζοντα τοὺς λέοντας·
ἀεὶ τὰς πόλεις σαῶσαι.

I owe my knowledge of this poem to James J. O'Donnell, The Ruin of the Roman Empire (London: Profile Books, 2009), p. 23.

Related post: Let Us Be Merry.

Rudyard Kipling (1865-1936), "A Song to Mithras," Puck of Pook's Hill (New York: Charles Scribner's Sons, 1916), pp. 193-194:

Mithras, God of the Morning, our trumpets waken the Wall!
'Rome is above the Nations, but Thou art over all!'
Now as the names are answered, and the guards are marched away,
Mithras, also a soldier, give us strength for the day!

Mithras, God of the Noontide, the heather swims in the heat,
Our helmets scorch our foreheads; our sandals burn our feet.
Now in the ungirt hour; now ere we blink and drowse,
Mithras, also a soldier, keep us true to our vows!

Mithras, God of the Sunset, low on the Western main,
Thou descending immortal, immortal to rise again!
Now when the watch is ended, now when the wine is drawn,
Mithras, also a soldier, keep us pure till the dawn!

Mithras, God of the Midnight, here where the great bull dies,
Look on Thy children in darkness. Oh take our sacrifice!
Many roads Thou hast fashioned: all of them lead to the Light,
Mithras, also a soldier, teach us to die aright!

Joshua T. Katz, "Fit as a philologist," New Criterion (September 8, 2026):

A true philologist is what friends will call a careful reader and enemies a pedant: someone who uses deep and broad knowledge and minimal prejudice to try to understand, down to the nuts and bolts, the commas and the words in italics, what a document is trying to tell us.

A Doonesbury cartoon (December 19, 1981): A copy of this (with HERBERT changed to MIKE) used to hang in my corporate cubicle — in addition to degrees in Latin and Classics, I have a degree in Computer Science.

Cicero, On Friendship 7.23 (tr. William Armistead Falconer):

Wherefore friends, though absent, are at hand; though in need, yet abound; though weak, are strong; and—harder saying still—though dead, are yet alive; so great is the esteem on the part of their friends, the tender recollection and the deep longing that still attends them.

quocirca et absentes adsunt et egentes abundant et imbecilli valent et, quod difficilius dictu est, mortui vivunt; tantus eos honos, memoria, desiderium prosequitur amicorum.

James S. Reid ad loc.:

Xenophon, Anabasis, with an English Translation by Carleton L. Brownson (1922; rpt. Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1992 = Loeb Classical Library, 90), pp. 38-39 (1.4.6):

ἐντεῦθεν ἐξελαύνει διὰ Συρίας σταθμὸν ἕνα παρασάγγας πέντε εἰς Μυρίανδον, πόλιν οἰκουμένην ὑπὸ Φοινίκων ἐπὶ τῇ θαλάττῃ...

Thence Cyrus marched one stage, five parasangs, to Myriandus, a city on the sea coast, inhabited by Phoenicians...

Brownson didn't translate διὰ Συρίας. Neither did Robin Waterfield:

The next leg was a one-day march of five parasangs that brought him to Myriandus, a coastal city inhabited by Phoenicians.

Wayne Ambler's translation is correct:

From here Cyrus marched through Syria one stage, five parasangs, to Myriandus, a city inhabited by Phoenicians and on the sea.

I don't see any relevant variants in Wilhelm Gemoll's editio maior.

Labels: typographical and other errors

"Arthur Gibson, philosopher who rose from poverty to become the cleverest man in Britain," The Telegraph (18 Sept. 2026):

Professor Arthur Gibson, who has died aged 83, was a polymath widely recognised as one of the last century’s greatest minds and, measured by IQ, the cleverest man in Britain, despite growing up in poverty in Bradford and dropping out of school aged 14.

....

It was in this climate that Gibson stubbornly developed intellectual passions: for maths — despite his father stubbing out cigarettes on his hand when he got answers wrong — and for books, although he once received a Bible to the head after being caught reading it by his anti-literate father.

The dyslexic Gibson read everything he could — Bradford Library became a refuge — but he could not translate his instinctive passions into formal academic success. He left school at 14, with no O-levels and unable to recite the alphabet beyond the letter L.

....

His friend and fellow Cambridge mathematician Imre Leader recalled that: "If you quoted a passage from the Bible, Gibson could tell you exactly where it was from, and also which other verses shared the same words."

Hat tip: Eric Thomson, who also quotes Cesare Lombroso (1835-1909), The Man of Genius (London: Walter Scott, 1891), p. 8:

Cranium and Brain.—Lesions of the head and brain are very frequent among men of genius. The celebrated Australian novelist, Marcus Clarke, when a child, received a blow from a horse’s hoof which crushed his skull. The same is told of Vico, Gratry, Clement VI., Malebranche, and Cornelius, hence called a Lapide. The last three are said to have acquired their genius as a result of the accident, having been unintelligent before..

Related posts:

• Bible Thumpers
• Samuel Johnson as Bible Thumper
• Gagged with the Gospel
• Books as Weapons

Arthur Schopenhauer (1788-1860), Parerga and Paralipomena, Vol. II, Chapter 22, § 258 (tr. Adrian Del Caro and Christopher Janaway):

The difference between the effect that thinking for oneself has on the mind, versus that of reading is incredibly large, which is why it constantly magnifies the original difference between minds, by virtue of which we are driven to one or the other. Reading, that is, forces thoughts on the mind that are as foreign and heterogeneous to its momentary direction and mood as is the seal to the wax on which it presses its imprint. The mind here experiences a total external compulsion to think this or that at random, for which it simply has no inclinationb or mood. — On the other hand, with thinking for oneself it follows its own peculiar drive, as this for the moment was more specifically determined by either the external environment or some recollection. For the intuitive environment does not force one specific thought on the mind, like reading; instead, it provides the mind with material and occasion to think what is in accordance with its nature and present mood. — Now this is why much reading deprives the mind of all elasticity, like a continually pressing weight bearing down on a spring; and the surest way to have no thoughts of one's own is to immediately grab a book in every free moment. This practice is the reason why erudition makes most people even more stupid and simple than they already are by nature, and also deprives their writing of all success.

Die Verschiedenheit zwischen der Wirkung, welche das Selbstdenken, und der, welche das Lesen auf den Geist hat, ist unglaublich groß; daher sie die ursprüngliche Verschiedenheit der Köpfe, vermöge welcher man zum Einen, oder zum Andern getrieben wird, noch immerfort vergrößert. Das Lesen nämlich zwingt dem Geiste Gedanken auf, die der Richtung und Stimmung, welche er für den Augenblick hat, so fremd und heterogen sind, wie das Petschaft dem Lack, welchem es sein Siegel aufdrückt. Der Geist erleidet dabei totalen Zwang von außen, jetzt Dies, oder Jenes zu denken, wozu er so eben gar keinen Trieb, noch Stimmung hat. — Hingegen beim Selbstdenken folgt er seinem selbsteigenen Triebe, wie diesen für den Augenblick entweder die äußere Umgebung, oder irgend eine Erinnerung näher bestimmt hat. Die anschauliche Umgebung nämlich dringt dem Geiste nicht einen bestimmten Gedanken auf, wie das Lesen; sondern giebt ihm bloß Stoff und Anlaß zu denken was seiner Natur und gegenwärtigen Stimmung gemäß ist. Daher nun nimmt das viele Lesen dem Geiste alle Elasticität wie ein fortdauernd drückendes Gewicht sie einer Springfeder nimmt; und ist, um keine eigenen Gedanken zu haben, daß sicherste Mittel, daß man in jeder freien Minute sogleich ein Buch zur Hand nehme. Diese Praxis ist der Grund, warum die Gelehrsamkeit die meisten Menschen noch geistloser und einfältiger macht, als sie schon von Natur sind, und auch ihrer Schriftstellerei allen Erfolg benimmt.

Arrian, Discourses of Epictetus 1.27.9 (tr. W.A. Oldfather):

And where can I go to escape death? Show me the country, show me the people to whom I may go, upon whom death does not come; show me a magic charm against it. If I have none, what do you wish me to do? I cannot avoid death.

καὶ ποῦ φύγω τὸν θάνατον; μηνύσατέ μοι τὴν χώραν, μηνύσατε ἀνθρώπους, εἰς οὓς ἀπέλθω, εἰς οὓς οὐ παραβάλλει, μηνύσατε ἐπαοιδήν· εἰ μὴ ἔχω, τί με θέλετε ποιεῖν; οὐ δύναμαι τὸν θάνατον ἀποφυγεῖν.

Holbrook Jackson (1874-1948), "Introduction" to Robert Burton (1577-1640), Anatomy of Melancholy (vol. 1, pp. xiv-xv of the Everyman edition):

The appreciation of Burton is a test of bookishness, and although he has never lacked readers, even during the dark age, 1677-1799, when no edition of the Anatomy appeared, there have not been lacking those who have belittled and misrepresented him. I am not concerned at the moment with his defence, even if it were necessary, which it is not, for there is no reason why any one should read him unless he wishes to do so. Burton is for the Burtonian. But it is necessary to refer to the misrepresenters, both ancient and modern, because many of them have sinned ignorantly. Critics and commentators have not always taken the trouble to read, still less understand the book, hence much popular nonsense, of which Hallam's description of the Anatomy as "a sweeping of the miscellaneous literature from the Bodleian Library," and Lowell's

A mire ankle-deep of deliberate confusion,
Made up of old jumbles of classic allusion.

are typical specimens.

Burton has been oftener damned with faint praise than scoffed at by the ignorantly learned. I know of only one downright depreciator, the Manx poet, T. E. Brown. In a vigorous and humourless essay, contributed to the New Review in 1895, this minor poet and major schoolmaster can find no good word for our good Burton. His learning is but a "parade," the "product of omnivorous folio-bolting and quarto-gulping, urged on and sustained by inordinate vanity"; his method naught but a "pseudo-method," a mere "affectation of method and order." Brown concedes, however, that Burton has "slanging power . . . a wondrous hurly-burly of invective"; and his conclusion reveals a sneaking, if slightly priggish regard. Like Charles Lamb, he is opposed to reprints of the Anatomy. "I do not know a more heartless sight than the reprint of the Anatomy of Melancholy," says Lamb. "What need was there of unearthing the bones of that fantastic old great man, to expose them in a winding-sheet of the newest fashion to modern censure? What hapless stationer could dream of Burton ever becoming popular?" Brown is not so generous or so romantic. An old Burton has a charm, he admits, but only "in an old library; old dust embalms it, old memories haunt it. It is worth seeking there": and he thinks it ought to be read there in situ. "Neglect, decay," he admonishes, "must be the fate of all such ponderous eccentricities. And to smarten them up, and turn them out spick-and-span, radiant and raw, into the form of literature, is a doubtful sort of proceeding. They belong to the cave, and scholars are their natural friends and custodians. Leave them to the scholars."

Cicero, On Old Age 19.71 (tr. William Armistead Falconer):

Therefore, when the young die I am reminded of a strong flame extinguished by a torrent; but when old men die it is as if a fire had gone out without the use of force and of its own accord, after the fuel had been consumed; and, just as apples when they are green are with difficulty plucked from the tree, but when ripe and mellow fall of themselves, so, with the young, death comes as a result of force, while with the old it is the result of ripeness.

itaque adulescentes mihi mori sic videntur, ut cum aquae multitudine flammae vis opprimitur, senes autem sic, ut cum sua sponte, nulla adhibita vi, consumptus ignis exstinguitur, et quasi poma ex arboribus, cruda si sunt, vix evelluntur, si matura et cocta, decidunt, sic vitam adulescentibus vis aufert, senibus maturitas.

J.G.F. Powell ad loc.: Aristotle, On Youth and Old Age 5 (tr. W.S. Hett):

Now we can see two ways in which fire is destroyed—by dying out and by extinction. By dying out we mean a decay arising from itself, and by extinction a decay caused by opposites: one is death by old age and the other by violence.

ἀλλὰ μὴν πυρός γε δύο ὁρῶμεν φθοράς, μάρανσίν τε καὶ σβέσιν. καλοῦμεν δὲ τὴν μὲν ὑφ᾿ αὑτοῦ μάρανσιν, τὴν δ᾿ ὑπὸ τῶν ἐναντίων σβέσιν, τὴν μὲν γήρᾳ, τὴν δὲ βίαιον.

Midrash Rabbah: Ecclesiastes, tr. A. Cohen (London: Soncino Press, 1939). p. 151 (5.11.2):

What is the difference between the death of the young and the death of the old? R. Judah and R. Nehemiah give answers. R. Judah says: When a lamp is extinguished of its own accord, it is good for the lamp and for the wick; but when it is not extinguished of its own accord, it is bad for the lamp and for the wick.² R. Nehemiah says: When the fig is gathered in its due season it is good for the fig and for the tree; but when it is not gathered in its due season, it is bad for the fig and for the tree.

² So it is good for a person to die in the fulness of years, and not to be cut off in youth like a lamp blown out by a gust of wind.

Leonardo Sciascia (1921-1989), The Day of the Owl, tr. Archibald Coloquhoun and Arthur Oliver (New York: New York Review Books, 2003), p. 16:

Sposito had a baby face, but the brothers Colasberna and their associates were in holy terror of his presence, the terror of a merciless inquisition, of the black seed of the written word. 'White soil, black seed. Beware the man who sows it. He never forgets,' says the proverb.

Aveva una faccia infantile, il carabiniere Sposito: ma i fratelli Colasberna e i loro soci dalla sua presenza ebbero mortale inquietudine, il terrore della spietata inquisizione, della nera semenza della scrittura. Bianca campagna, nera semenza: l'uomo che la fa, sempre la pensa dice l'indovinello della scrittura.

Thanks to Eric Thomson for a link to the riddle (l'indovinello).

---

More from Eric Thomson:

Raimondo Moncada (Agrigento b.1967) writes (original in Italian):

You carry Sicily within you. Always. Even when you’re no longer breathing its air. Its soul, its culture, its language, its ancient wisdom, and its idioms remain within you. In the book Sicily as Metaphor (an interview by Marcelle Padovani, published by Mondadori), Leonardo Sciascia speaks at length about his homeland, his works, his mentors, and his connections. There’s a passage in which Leonardo Sciascia discusses writing, mentioning the old saying “Bianca campagna, niura simenza, l’omu chi la fa sempri la penza” (White field, black seed, the man who does it is always thinking about it).

“I love to recall a riddle that goes: ‘Bianca campagna, nera semenza, l'uomo che la fa sempre la pensa’. The ‘white field’ is the sheet of paper, the ‘black seed’ is the writing, and ‘the man who does it’ is the writer, who must always be on his guard, thinking about what he’s writing and what he’s written.

This is a riddle from my region, and its true message is actually this: writing is important for those who know how to do it, and even more so for those who don’t know how to do it, don’t know how to see it, and don’t know how to read it.”

Moncada states that the old saying ("antico detto”), which Sciascia calls a riddle (“indovinello”) is from his region (Agrigento) and quotes the original Sicilian dialect version, which appears to be, if not a conflation or intellectualized deformation, at least a variation, of the following “indovinelli", recorded in Giuseppe Pitré (1841-1916), Biblioteca delle tradizioni popolari siciliane vol. XX (Turin and Palermo: Carlo Clausen, 1897), pp 226-227:

a) Bianca maisa e nivura semenza,
L’omu chi simina sedi e penza.

[Bianco maggese e nera sementa
l’uomo che semina, siede e pensa]

White fallow land and black seed
the man who sows, sits and thinks.

b) Bianca muntagna e nìgrura simenza,
Miatu l’omo chi si la penza!

[Bianca montagna e nera semenza,
Beato l'uomo che la pensa!]

White mountain and black seed
Blessed is the man who thinks of it [i.e. writing]

In Sciascia, ‘sempre la pensa’ allows what was originally a riddle to be elevated into an apophthegm throwing light on the writer’s craft, glossed ‘on his guard, thinking about what he’s writing and what he’s written’. In the context of the The Day of the Owl, it has the force of a threat (‘He never forgets’). ‘Si la penza’ in riddle b) I take to mean simply ‘solves the riddle’ and in a) ‘sedi (e penza)’ contrasts the sedentary nature of writing compared with (upright) sowing. On the analogy of secondary epic, ‘sempri la penza’ sounds like secondary riddling.

Related post: The Quill Is My Plough.

Robert Burton (1577-1640), Anatomy of Melancholy ("Democritus Junior to the Reader," vol. 1, pp. 69-70 of the Everyman edition):

Every man thinks with himself, Egomet videor mihi sanus [I regard myself as sane], I am well, I am wise, and laughs at others. And 'tis a general fault amongst them all, that which our forefathers have approved, diet, apparel, opinions, humours, customs, manners, we deride and reject in our time as absurd. Old men account juniors all fools, when they are mere dizzards; and as to sailors terræque urbesque recedunt they move, the land stands still, the world hath much more wit, they dote themselves. Turks deride us, we them; Italians, Frenchmen, accounting them light-headed fellows; the French scoff again at Italians, and at their several customs; Greeks have condemned all the world but themselves of barbarism, the world as much vilifies them now; we account Germans heavy, dull fellows, explode many of their fashions; they as contemptibly think of us; Spaniards laugh at all, and all again at them.

Id. (pp. 70-71):

The Chinese say, that we Europeans have one eye, they themselves two, all the world else is blind (though Scaliger accounts them brutes too, merum pecus [mere cattle]); so thou and thy sectaries are only wise, others indifferent, the rest beside themselves, mere idiots and asses. Thus not acknowledging our own errors and imperfections, we securely deride others, as if we alone were free, and spectators of the rest, accounting it an excellent thing, as indeed it is, Aliena optimum frui insania, to make ourselves merry with other men's obliquities, when as he himself is more faulty than the rest, mutato nomine, de te fabula narratur [change but the name, the tale applies to you], he may take himself by the nose for a fool; and which one calls maximum stultitiæ specimen [a gross exhibition of folly], to be ridiculous to others, and not to perceive or take notice of it, as Marsyas was when he contended with Apollo, non intelligens se deridiculo haberi [not perceiving that he was being made a laughing-stock], saith Apuleius; 'tis his own cause, he is a convicted madman, as Austin well infers, "in the eyes of wise men and angels he seems like one, that to our thinking walks with his heels upwards." So thou laughest at me, and I at thee, both at a third; and he returns that of the poet upon us again, Hei mihi, insanire me aiunt, quum ipsi ultro insaniant. We accuse others of madness, of folly, and are the veriest dizzards ourselves.

Arrian, Discourses of Epictetus 1.20.8-9 (tr. W.A. Oldfather):

You all see in the matter of coinage, in which it is felt that we have some interest, how we have even invented an art, and how many means the tester employs to test the coinage—sight, touch, smell, finally hearing; he throws the denarius down and then listens to the sound, and is not satisfied with the sound it makes on a single test, but, as a result of his constant attention to the matter, he catches the tune, like a musician.

ὁρᾶτε ἐπὶ τοῦ νομίσματος, ὅπου δοκεῖ τι εἶναι πρὸς ἡμᾶς, πῶς καὶ τέχνην ἐξευρήκαμεν καὶ ὅσοις ὁ ἀργυρογνώμων προσχρῆται πρὸς δοκιμασίαν τοῦ νομίσματος, τῇ ὄψει, τῇ ἁφῇ, τῇ ὀσφρασίᾳ, τὰ τελευταῖα τῇ ἀκοῇ· ῥίψας τὸ δηνάριον τῷ ψόφῳ προσέχει καὶ οὐχ ἅπαξ ἀρκεῖται ψοφήσαντος, ἀλλ' ὑπὸ τῆς πολλῆς προσοχῆς μουσικὸς γίνεται.

At Father John Zuhlsdorf's blog, I saw the following quotation from Bishop Fulton Sheen:

He [Satan] will set up a counter-Church which will be the ape of the Church because he, the devil, is the ape of God.

On the history of the expression "Diabolus simia Dei," see Anthony Ossa-Richardson, The Devil's Tabernacle: The Pagan Oracles in Early Modern Thought (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2013), pp. 65-71.

From amazon.com's web page for John Cassian's Conferences:

When John Cassian wrote his first novel, KILLING MATT COOPER, he didn't realize at the time that the story would grow in the telling. He has since published two sequels, KILLING SAM KNIGHT and KILLING MISS UNDERWOOD. Cassian counts Bret Easton Ellis, Thomas Harris, Jeff Lindsay and Jim Thompson among his strongest influences. He is a big rock 'n' roll fan, and is particularly fond of The Pixies, Radiohead and The Beatles. He lives in California alone, and likes to play guitar and draw pictures in his free time.

Arthur Schopenhauer (1788-1860), Parerga and Paralipomena, Vol. II, Chapter 21, § 255 (tr. Adrian Del Caro and Christopher Janaway):

The abolition of Latin as the universal language of scholars and the balkanization of the national literatures introduced in its stead has been a genuine misfortune for the sciences in Europe. First, because it was only by means of the Latin language that there was a common European scholarly public, to whose entirety every newly published book directly appealed. Now, however, the number of truly thinking minds in all of Europe who are capable of judgement is so small anyway that when their forum is fragmented and torn apart even more by language barriers, their beneficial effect is weakened infinitely. And the translations fabricated by literary journeymen according to the arbitrary selection of publishers are a poor substitute for a universal scholarly language.

Die Abschaffung des Lateinischen als allgemeiner Gelehrtensprache und die dagegen eingeführte Kleinbürgerei der Nationallitteraturen ist für die Wissenschaften in Europa ein wahres Unglück gewesen. Zunächst, weil es nur mittelst der lateinischen Sprache ein allgemeines Europäisches Gelehrtenpublikum gab, an dessen Gesammtheit jedes erscheinende Buch sich direkt wandte. Nun ist aber die Zahl der eigentlich denkenden und urtheilsfähigen Köpfe in ganz Europa ohnehin schon so klein, daß, wenn man ihr Forum noch durch Sprachgränzen zerstückelt und auseinander reißt, man ihre wohlthätige Wirksamkeit unendlich schwächt. Und die, nach beliebiger Auswahl der Verleger, von litterarischen Handwerksburschen fabrizirten Verdollmetschungen sind ein schlechtes Surrogat für eine allgemeine Gelehrtensprache.

Id.:

I must also denounce the especially churlish practice that is now creeping forth daily with greater audacity, namely that in scientific books and in actual scholarly periodicals, even those published by academies, passages from Greek, and indeed (proh pudor) from Latin authors are footnoted in German translation. What in the name of hell! Are you writing for shoemakers and tailors? — I think so: in order to 'sell a lot of copies'. Then allow me to humbly observe that you are churlish louts in every sense of the word. — Have a bit more honour in your person and a bit less money in your pocket, and let those without learning feel their inferiority, instead of bowing before their money belt! — For Greek and Latin authors German translations are the same kind of substitute as chicory for coffee; and moreover we absolutely cannot trust in their accuracy.

Als spezielle Gemeinheit, die jetzt alle Tage dreister hervorkriecht, muß ich noch rügen, daß in wissenschaftlichen Büchern und in ganz eigentlich gelehrten, sogar von Akademien herausgegebenen Zeitschriften Stellen aus griechischen, ja (proh pudor) aus lateinischen Autoren in deutscher Uebersetzung angeführt werden. Pfui Teufel! Schreibt ihr für Schuster und Schneider? Ich glaub's: um nur recht viel abzusetzen. Dann erlaubt mir, gehorsamst zu bemerken, daß ihr in jedem Sinn gemeine Kerle seid. Habt mehr Ehr' im Leib und weniger Geld in der Tasche und laßt den Ungelehrten seine Inferiorität fühlen, statt Bücklinge vor seiner Geldkatze zu machen. — Für griechische und lateinische Autoren sind deutsche Uebersetzungen gerade so ein Surrogat, wie Cichorien für Kaffee, und zudem darf man auf ihre Richtigkeit sich durchaus nicht verlassen.

Del Caro and Janaway translate proh pudor in a note.

George G. Ramsay (1839-1921), Should Women Study the Classics?: Opening Lecture at the Arts Course at Queen Margaret College, Glasgow, November 3rd, 1891 (Glasgow: James MacLehouse & Sons, 1891), p. 6 ("that personage" = the "Practical Man"):

Almost everywhere nowadays—most of all in a commercial city like this—it is impossible even to discuss the question of culture and education without being told authoritatively by that personage 'Now, mind, I respect your theories; I've a great respect for Latin and Greek, and for all your 'ologies, and I want my son to get all the good he can out of College while he is there. But he has to make his way in the world; he must take, if he can, some money out of it; you must not unfit him for becoming a business man; and he must be done with the University before he is twenty. Teach him what you like, only teach him something that will pay.'

The simple culture of the mind for its own sake—the mere perfecting of the man—is, alas! but seldom considered among the 'things that pay'; so in the rush forward to grasp the means of living—often, no doubt, a matter of sheer necessity—the acquisition of that which makes life worth living is too often pushed aside altogether.

Related post: What Shall I Do With Bob My Boy?

Arrian, Discourses of Epictetus 1.16.15-18 (tr. W.A. Oldfather):

Why, if we had sense, ought we to be doing anything else, publicly and privately, than hymning and praising the Deity, and rehearsing His benefits? Ought we not, as we dig and plough and eat, to sing the hymn of praise to God? “Great is God, that He hath furnished us these instruments wherewith we shall till the earth. Great is God, that He hath given us hands, and power to swallow, and a belly, and power to grow unconsciously, and to breathe while asleep.” This is what we ought to sing on every occasion, and above all to sing the greatest and divinest hymn, that God has given us the faculty to comprehend these things and to follow the path of reason.

εἰ γὰρ νοῦν εἴχομεν, ἄλλο τι ἔδει ἡμᾶς ποιεῖν καὶ κοινῇ καὶ ἰδίᾳ ἡ ὑμνεῖν τὸ θεῖον καὶ εὐφημεῖν καὶ ἐπεξέρχεσθαι τὰς χάριτας; οὐκ ἔδει καὶ σκάπτοντας καὶ ἀροῦντας καὶ ἐσθίοντας ἄδειν τὸν ὕμνον τὸν εἰς τὸν θεόν; "μέγας ὁ θεός, ότι ὅτι ἡμῖν παρέσχεν ὄργανα ταῦτα δὲ ὧν τὴν γῆν ἐργασόμεθα· μέγας ὁ θεός, ὅτι χεῖρας δέδωκεν, ὅτι κατάποσιν, ὅτι κοιλίαν, ὅτι αὔξεσθαι λεληθότως, ὅτι καθεύδοντας ἀναπνεῖν·" ταῦτα ἐφ ̓ ἑκάστου ἐφυμνεῖν ἔδει καὶ τὸν μέγιστον καὶ θειότατον ὕμνον ἐφυμνεῖν, ὅτι τὴν δύναμιν ἔδωκεν τὴν παρακολουθητικὴν τούτοις καὶ ὁδῷ χρηστικήν.

Arthur Schopenhauer (1788-1860), Parerga and Paralipomena, Vol. II, Chapter 21, § 254 (tr. Adrian Del Caro and Christopher Janaway):

When we add to this the neglect of ancient languages as happens ever more frequently today, whereby general education in the humanities is declining and is not helped by learning the languages halfway, then we will see scholars who outside their special discipline are veritable oxen. — In general such an exclusive academic specialist is analogous to a factory worker who, his whole life, makes nothing but a specific screw, hook or handle for a specific tool or machine, in which he of course achieves incredible virtuosity. One can also compare the academic specialist to a man who lives in his own house but never comes out. He knows everything in the house, each little stair, each corner and beam, somewhat as Victor Hugo's Quasimodo knows the cathedral of Notre Dame: but outside it everything is foreign and unknown to him. — A true education for humanity, on the other hand, absolutely requires versatility and an overview, hence for a scholar in a higher sense, certainly some polyhistorical capacity. But anyone who wants to become an actual philosopher must bring together in his mind the most remote ends of human knowledge, for where else could they ever come together? — Clearly intellects of the first order will never be academic specialists

Kommt nun noch, wie heut zu Tage immer häufiger wird, die Vernachlässigung der alten Sprachen, welche halb zu lernen nichts hilft, hinzu, wodurch die allgemeine Humanitätsbildung wegfällt; so werden wir Gelehrte sehn, die außerhalb ihres speciellen Faches wahre Ochsen sind. Ueberhaupt ist so ein exklusiver Fachgelehrter dem Fabrikarbeiter analog, der, sein Leben lang, nichts Anderes macht, als eine bestimmte Schraube, oder Haken, oder Handhabe, zu einem bestimmten Werkzeuge, oder Maschine, worin er dann freilich eine unglaubliche Virtuosität erlangt. Auch kann man den Fachgelehrten mit einem Manne vergleichen, der in seinem eigenen Hause wohnt, jedoch nie herauskommt. In dem Hause kennt er Alles genau, jedes Treppchen, jeden Winkel und jeden Balken; etwan wie Viktor Hugo's Quasimodo die Notredame-Kirche kennt: aber außerhalb desselben ist ihm alles fremd und unbekannt. Wahre Bildung zur Humanität hingegen erfordert durchaus Vielseitigkeit und Ueberblick, also, für einen Gelehrten im höhern Sinne, allerdings etwas Polyhistoria. Wer aber vollends ein Philosoph seyn will, muß in seinem Kopfe die entferntesten Enden des menschlichen Wissens zusammenbringen: denn wo anders könnten sie jemals zusammenkommen? —  Geister ersten Ranges nun gar werden niemals Fachgelehrte seyn.

Robert Burton (1577-1640), Anatomy of Melancholy ("Democritus Junior to the Reader," vol. 1, p. 25 of the Everyman edition):

As a Dutch host, if you come to an inn in Germany and dislike your fare, diet, lodging, etc., replies in a surly tone, Aliud tibi quaeras diversorium, if you like not this, get you to another inn: I resolve, if you like not my writing, go read something else.

John Cassian, Conferences 1.10.4 = Corpus Scriptorum Ecclesiasticorum Latinorum, vol. XIII, p. 17 (quoting Abba Moses; tr. Colm Luibheid):

As for those works of piety and charity of which you speak, these are necessary in this present life for as long as inequality prevails. Their workings here would not be required were it not for the superabundant numbers of the poor, the needy, and the sick. These are there because of the iniquity of men who have held for their own private use what the common Creator has made available to all.

haec etiam quae dicitis opera pietatis ac misericordiae necessaria sunt in hoc tempore, dum adhuc inaequalis diuersitas dominatur: quorum ne hic quidem expectaretur operatio, nisi inopum, indigentum infirmorumque pars maxima redundaret, quae iniquitate hominum facta est, eorum scilicet, qui ea quae omnibus a communi creatore concessa sunt in suos tantum occupata usus nec tamen utenda tenuerunt.

Arthur Schopenhauer (1788-1860), Parerga and Paralipomena, Vol. II, Chapter 21, § 254 (tr. Adrian Del Caro and Christopher Janaway):

How bad things would be for human knowledge if it weren't for writing and printing! Therefore the libraries alone are the certain and enduring memory of the human race, whose individual members all have only a very limited and imperfect memory.

Wie schlecht würde es also um das menschliche Wissen stehn, wenn Schrift und Druck nicht wären. Daher sind die Bibliotheken allein das sichere und bleibende Gedächtniß des menschlichen Geschlechts, dessen einzelne Mitglieder alle nur ein sehr beschränktes und unvollkommenes haben.

Robert Burton (1577-1640), Anatomy of Melancholy ("Democritus Junior to the Reader," vol. 1, pp. 18-19 of the Everyman edition):

I hear new news every day, and those ordinary rumours of war, plagues, fires, inundations, thefts, murders, massacres, meteors, comets, spectrums, prodigies, apparitions, of towns taken, cities besieged in France, Germany, Turkey, Persia, Poland, etc., daily musters and preparations, and such-like, which these tempestuous times afford, battles fought, so many men slain, monomachies, shipwrecks, piracies, and sea-fights; peace, leagues, stratagems, and fresh alarms. A vast confusion of vows, wishes, actions, edicts, petitions, lawsuits, pleas, laws, proclamations, complaints, grievances, are daily brought to our ears. New books every day, pamphlets, currantoes, stories, whole catalogues of volumes of all sorts, new paradoxes, opinions, schisms, heresies, controversies in philosophy, religion, etc. Now come tidings of weddings, maskings, mummeries, entertainments, jubilees, embassies, tilts and tournaments, trophies, triumphs, revels, sports, plays: then again, as in a new shifted scene, treasons, cheating tricks, robberies, enormous villanies in all kinds, funerals, burials, deaths of princes, new discoveries, expeditions, now comical, then tragical matters. To-day we hear of new lords and officers created, to-morrow of some great men deposed, and then again of fresh honours conferred; one is let loose, another imprisoned; one purchaseth, another breaketh: he thrives, his neighbour turns bankrupt: now plenty, then again dearth and famine; one runs, another rides, wrangles, laughs, weeps, etc.

From Eric Thomson:

Vercelli Book, Homily XV, f.85r:

And the holy Peter goes with [them] and bears the keys of hell in his hand. Oh, my brothers, what great sorrow and great lamentation and great sighing and weeping can be heard there, and furthermore, gnashing of teeth, and the loudest mournful cry, and the most sorrowful voice, and the most sorrowful lamentation and groaning! And then the devils drive the sinful and miserable souls into the torments of hell, and they themselves go in with them. And then Saint Peter turns away from the door of hell, and he locks the door of hell afterward. The wretched souls will then be in eternal hell and in everlasting torment, and the devils with them. And then Saint Peter turns away from the door of hell. And then he throws the key full of care over his back into hell. This he does because he cannot look upon the great pain, and upon the great lamentation, and the great weeping that the wretched souls suffer with the devils in the torments of hell. Alas, my brothers, how great and how loud will be the clang when that key falls into hell.

⁊ ꞅe halga petrus gæð mid ⁊ bereð hellecægan on handa: eala broðor mine hwæt ðær mæg gehyran micel sorh ⁊ mycel wanung ⁊ mycel ſworetung ⁊ mycel wóp ⁊ to ða gristbitung ⁊ þone hludestan sarigcerm ⁊ þone sarigestan stefn. ⁊ þone sarigestan wanunge. ⁊ granunge. ⁊ þonne drifað ða deofla þa ꞅynfullan ꞅawla ⁊ þa dreorigan in helle witu ⁊ hie sylfe gað mid in on þa helle. ⁊ þōn wendeð sc̄s petrus þanon fram þære helle dura ⁊ he be luceð þa helle duru syðþan. þa earman sawla bioð in ða ecan helle ⁊ in ða écan cwylmnesse. ⁊ ða deofla mid him. ⁊ þonne wendeð him sc̄s petrus þanon fram þære helle dura. ⁊ he ðonne weorpeð ða cearfullan cæge ofer bæc in on þa helle. ðis he deð forðam þe he ne mæg locian on ðæt mycle sár ⁊ onðam myclan wanunge ⁊ on ðam myclan wope. þe þa earman ꞅawla dreogað mid ðam deoflum in helle tintrego. Eala broðor mine, hu mycel ⁊ hu hlud bið se cnyll þonne seo cæge fealleð in ða helle.

Curiously enough, "how great and how loud will be the clang/ hu mycel ⁊ hu hlud bið se cnyll (> Mod. Eng. ‘knell’)" is accompanied in the vellum folio by what reminds me of nothing so much as a perforated eardrum.

Homer, Odyssey, tr. Daniel Mendelsohn (Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 2025), p. 58 (from "A Note on the Translation"):

On the other hand, there are times when I do relax the diction. I have no qualms about using contractions, for example, to soften a line, or to give a sense of intimacy between characters in dialogue....To Father Zeus, by contrast, I never give contractions.

Mendelsohn's translation of 13.140 (p. 271; Zeus speaking to Poseidon):

Come, come, Shaker of Earth, Mighty One—look what you've said!

What is "you've" if not a contraction of "you have"? By putting this contraction into the mouth of Zeus, Mendelsohn breaks his own rule.

Related posts:

• No Accounting for Taste
• A Puzzle
• Stopper
• Significant Searfaring Names

Cicero, On Old Age 19.67 (tr. William Armistead Falconer):

And yet is there anyone so foolish, even though he is young, as to feel absolutely sure that he will be alive when evening comes?

quamquam quis est tam stultus, quamvis sit adulescens, cui sit exploratum se ad vesperum esse victurum?

J.G.F. Powell ad loc.:

cui sit exploratum ... victurum Cf. Fin. 2.92 an id exploratum cuiquam potest esse, quomodo se hoc habiturum sit corpus, non dico ad annum, sed ad vesperum?, §74 and note; Simonides fr. 6.1 Diehl (16 Page); Eur. Alc. 783-4; Philodemus, De morte 37.23ff. (Gigante, Ricerche filodemee² 181, 193); Pap. Herc. 1251, col. 16.1 (W. Schmid, Studia Herculanensia fasc. 1, Leipzig 1939).

Philodemus, On Death 37.18-27 (tr. W. Benjamin Henry):

Now to be caught unawares when death comes, as something unexpected and incredible is happening, is foolish, but it occurs in the case of most people, as they do not know that every man, even if he should be stronger than the Giants, is transient in relation to life and death, and (that) it is uncertain not only what will happen tomorrow, but also what will happen in the immediate future...

                                          τὸ τοίνυν συν-
α[ρ]πάζεσθα[ι] θανάτου προσπίπτον-
τ[ο]ς, ὡς ἀπροσ[δ]οκήτου τινὸς καὶ παρα-
δόξου συνα[ν]τῶντο[ς], ἠλί[θιο]ν [μέ]ν
ἐ[σ]τ̣ι̣, γίνετα[ι δ]ὲ περὶ τοὺς πλείστ[ου]ς,
ἀγνοοῦντας ὅτι πᾶς ἄνθρωπος, κ[ἂ]ν
ἰσχυρότερος ἧ<ι> τῶν Γιγάντων, ἐφ[ήμ]ε-
ρός [ἐσ]τι πρὸς ζωὴν καὶ [τε]λευτὴν, καὶ
ἄδ[η]λόν ἐ[σ]τ̣ι̣ν οὐ τὸ αὔ[ρι]ον μόν[ο]ν,
ἀλλὰ καὶ [τ]ὸ [αὐ]τίκα δή...

Arrian, Discourses of Epictetus 1.9.20-21 (tr. W.A. Oldfather):

Why shall one man envy another? Why shall he admire those who have great possessions, or those who are stationed in places of power, especially if they be both strong and prone to anger? For what will they do to us? As for what they have power to do, we shall pay no heed thereto; as for the things we care about, over them they have no power. Who, then, will ever again be ruler over the man who is thus disposed?

διὰ τί ἄλλος ἄλλῳ φθονήσει; διὰ τί πολλὰ κεκτημένους θαυμάσει ἢ τοὺς ἐν δυνάμει τεταγμένους, μάλιστ᾿ ἂν καὶ ἰσχυροὶ ὦσιν καὶ ὀργίλοι; τί γὰρ ἡμῖν ποιήσουσιν; ἃ δύνανται ποιῆσαι, τούτων οὐκ ἐπιστρεψόμεθα· ὧν ἡμῖν μέλει, ταῦτα οὐ δύνανται. τίς οὖν ἔτι ἄρξει τοῦ οὕτως διακειμένου;