Thoughts on Mind and Style

The difference between the mathematical and the intuitive mind.¹—In the one the principles are palpable, but removed from ordinary use; so that for want of habit it is difficult to turn one's mind in that direction: but if one turns it thither ever so little, one sees the principles fully, and one must have a quite inaccurate mind who reasons wrongly from principles so plain that it is almost impossible they should escape notice.

The difference between the mathematical and the intuitive mind.¹ In the mathematical mind the principles are obvious, but they are far removed from everyday use. Because of this lack of habit, it is hard to turn one's thought that way. If one does turn it even a little, one sees the principles clearly. Only a very faulty mind would reason wrongly from such plain principles. It is almost impossible to miss them.

But in the intuitive mind the principles are found in common use, and are before the eyes of everybody. One has only to look, and no effort is necessary; it is only a question of good eyesight, but it must be good, for the principles are so subtle and so numerous, that it is almost impossible but that some escape notice. Now the omission of one principle leads to error; thus one must have very clear sight to see all the principles, and in the next place an accurate mind not to draw false deductions from known principles.

In the intuitive mind, principles are commonly used and lie before everyone's eyes. You only have to look. No effort is needed. It is a matter of good eyesight, and it must be sharp. The principles are so subtle and so numerous that it is almost impossible not to miss some. Omitting even one principle leads to error. So you must have very clear sight to see all the principles. You must also have an accurate mind to avoid drawing false conclusions from known principles.

All mathematicians would then be intuitive if they had clear sight, for they do not reason incorrectly from principles known to them; and intuitive minds would be mathematical if they could turn their eyes to the principles of mathematics to which they are unused.

All mathematicians would be intuitive if they had clear sight. They do not reason wrongly from principles they already know. And intuitive minds would be mathematical if they could turn their attention to mathematical principles they are unused to.

The reason, therefore, that some intuitive minds are not mathematical is that they cannot at all turn their attention to the principles of mathematics. But the reason that mathematicians are not intuitive is that they do not see what is before them, and that, accustomed to the exact and plain principles of mathematics, and not reasoning till they have well inspected and arranged their principles, they are lost in matters of intuition where the principles do not allow of such arrangement. They are scarcely seen; they are felt rather than seen; there is the greatest difficulty in making them felt by those who do not of themselves perceive them. These principles are so fine and so numerous that a very delicate and very clear sense is needed to perceive them, and to judge rightly and justly when they are perceived, without for the most part being able to demonstrate them in order as in mathematics; because the principles are not known to us in the same way, and because it would be an endless matter to undertake it. We must see the matter at once, at one glance, and not by a process of reasoning, at least to a certain degree. And thus it is rare that mathematicians are intuitive, and that men of intuition are mathematicians, because mathematicians wish to treat matters of intuition mathematically, and make themselves ridiculous, wishing to begin with definitions and then with axioms, which is not the way to proceed in this kind of reasoning. Not that the mind does not do so, but it does it tacitly, naturally, and without technical rules; for the expression of it is beyond all men, and only a few can feel it.

So the reason some intuitive minds are not mathematical is that they cannot turn their attention to the principles of mathematics at all. But the reason mathematicians are not intuitive is that they do not see what is in front of them. They are used to the exact and plain principles of mathematics. They do not reason until they have carefully inspected and arranged their principles. So they are lost in matters of intuition, where the principles cannot be arranged like that. These principles are scarcely seen. They are felt rather than seen. It is extremely hard to make them felt by those who do not perceive them on their own. They are so fine and so numerous that a very delicate and very clear sense is needed to perceive them. That sense is also needed to judge rightly and justly once they are perceived. Yet for the most part one cannot demonstrate them in order as in mathematics. This is because we do not know the principles in the same way, and because it would be an endless task. We must see the matter at once, at one glance, and not by a process of reasoning, at least to a certain degree. And so it is rare for mathematicians to be intuitive, and for men of intuition to be mathematicians. Mathematicians wish to treat matters of intuition mathematically, and they make themselves ridiculous. They want to begin with definitions and then with axioms, which is not the way to proceed in this kind of reasoning. Not that the mind does not do this. But it does it tacitly, naturally, and without technical rules. For the expression of it is beyond all men, and only a few can feel it.

Intuitive minds, on the contrary, being thus accustomed to judge at a single glance, are so astonished when they are presented with propositions of which they understand nothing, and the way to which is through definitions and axioms so sterile, and which they are not accustomed to see thus in detail, that they are repelled and disheartened.

Intuitive minds, by contrast, are used to judging at a single glance. They are shocked when given propositions they do not understand. These propositions are reached only through dry definitions and axioms. They are not used to seeing such things spelled out in this much detail. As a result, they feel repelled and disheartened.

But dull minds are never either intuitive or mathematical.

But dull minds are neither intuitive nor mathematical.

Mathematicians who are only mathematicians have exact minds, provided all things are explained to them by means of definitions and axioms; otherwise they are inaccurate and insufferable, for they are only right when the principles are quite clear.

Mathematicians who are nothing but mathematicians have precise minds when everything is explained to them with definitions and axioms. If not, they become inaccurate and insufferable. They are only right when the underlying principles are perfectly clear.

And men of intuition who are only intuitive cannot have the patience to reach to first principles of things speculative and conceptual, which they have never seen in the world, and which are altogether out of the common.

People who rely only on intuition lack the patience to reach the first principles of speculative or conceptual matters. They have never seen these principles in the world, and they are entirely outside ordinary experience.

There are different kinds of right understanding;² some have right understanding in a certain order of things, and not in others, where they go astray. Some draw conclusions well from a few premises, and this displays an acute judgment.

There are different kinds of right understanding². Some people have right understanding in one order of things, but not in others. In those cases they go astray. Some draw correct conclusions from a few premises. This shows keen judgment.

Others draw conclusions well where there are many premises.

Others draw conclusions well when there are many premises.

For example, the former easily learn hydrostatics, where the premises are few, but the conclusions are so fine that only the greatest acuteness can reach them.

For example, the former easily learn hydrostatics. Its premises are few. Its conclusions are so subtle that only the keenest minds can grasp them.

And in spite of that these persons would perhaps not be great mathematicians, because mathematics contain a great number of premises, and there is perhaps a kind of intellect that can search with ease a few premises to the bottom, and cannot in the least penetrate those matters in which there are many premises.

Even so, these people might not be great mathematicians. Mathematics contains a large number of premises. There may be a kind of intellect that can thoroughly examine a few premises with ease. It cannot at all penetrate matters that involve many premises.

There are then two kinds of intellect: the one able to penetrate acutely and deeply into the conclusions of given premises, and this is the precise intellect; the other able to comprehend a great number of premises without confusing them, and this is the mathematical intellect. The one has force and exactness, the other comprehension. Now the one quality can exist without the other; the intellect can be strong and narrow, and can also be comprehensive and weak.

There are two kinds of intellect. One can reason sharply and deeply from given premises to their conclusions. This is the precise intellect. The other can grasp many premises without confusing them. This is the mathematical intellect. The first has strength and accuracy. The second has breadth of understanding. Either quality can exist without the other. An intellect can be strong but narrow, or broad but weak.

Those who are accustomed to judge by feeling do not understand the process of reasoning, for they would understand at first sight, and are not used to seek for principles. And others, on the contrary, who are accustomed to reason from principles, do not at all understand matters of feeling, seeking principles, and being unable to see at a glance.

People who are used to judging by feeling do not understand the process of reasoning. They expect to understand things at first sight and are not used to looking for principles. Others, by contrast, are used to reasoning from principles. They do not understand matters of feeling at all. They look for principles and cannot see things at a glance.

Mathematics, intuition.—True eloquence makes light of eloquence, true morality makes light of morality; that is to say, the morality of the judgment, which has no rules, makes light of the morality of the intellect.

Mathematics, intuition. True eloquence makes little of eloquence. True morality makes little of morality. In other words, the morality of judgment, which has no rules, makes little of the morality of the intellect.

For it is to judgment that perception belongs, as science belongs to intellect. Intuition is the part of judgment, mathematics of intellect.

For perception belongs to judgment, just as science belongs to intellect. Intuition is part of judgment, and mathematics is part of intellect.

To make light of philosophy is to be a true philosopher.

To make fun of philosophy is to be a true philosopher.

Those who judge of a work by rule³ are in regard to others as those who have a watch are in regard to others. One says, "It is two hours ago"; the other says, "It is only three-quarters of an hour." I look at my watch, and say to the one, "You are weary," and to the other, "Time gallops with you"; for it is only an hour and a half ago, and I laugh at those who tell me that time goes slowly with me, and that I judge by imagination. They do not know that I judge by my watch.⁴

People who judge a work by a rule³ are like people who have a watch among those who do not. One person says, "That was two hours ago." Another says, "It was only three-quarters of an hour ago." I look at my watch and tell the first, "You are tired," and the second, "Time flies for you." For it was only an hour and a half ago. I laugh at those who tell me that time passes slowly for me and that I judge by imagination. They do not know that I judge by my watch.⁴

Just as we harm the understanding, we harm the feelings also.

Just as we harm the mind, we also harm the feelings.

The understanding and the feelings are moulded by intercourse; the understanding and feelings are corrupted by intercourse. Thus good or bad society improves or corrupts them. It is, then, all-important to know how to choose in order to improve and not to corrupt them; and we cannot make this choice, if they be not already improved and not corrupted. Thus a circle is formed, and those are fortunate who escape it.

Our minds and feelings are shaped by the people we spend time with. They can also be corrupted by them. Good company improves them, while bad company corrupts them. So it is all-important to know how to choose company that improves rather than corrupts us. But we cannot make this choice unless our minds and feelings are already improved and uncorrupted. This creates a vicious circle, and those who escape it are fortunate.

The greater intellect one has, the more originality one finds in men. Ordinary persons find no difference between men.

The more intelligent a person is, the more originality they see in others. Ordinary people see no difference between people.

There are many people who listen to a sermon in the same way as they listen to vespers.

Many people listen to a sermon the same way they listen to evening prayers.

When we wish to correct with advantage, and to show another that he errs, we must notice from what side he views the matter, for on that side it is usually true, and admit that truth to him, but reveal to him the side on which it is false. He is satisfied with that, for he sees that he was not mistaken, and that he only failed to see all sides. Now, no one is offended at not seeing everything; but one does not like to be mistaken, and that perhaps arises from the fact that man naturally cannot see everything, and that naturally he cannot err in the side he looks at, since the perceptions of our senses are always true.

When we want to correct someone effectively and show them they are wrong, we must consider their point of view. From that side, the matter is usually as they see it. We should acknowledge that truth, but show them the side where they are wrong. This satisfies them, because they see that they were not mistaken. They simply failed to see every side. No one is offended by not seeing everything, but people do not like to be mistaken. Perhaps this is because people naturally cannot see everything. And naturally they cannot be mistaken about the side they do see, since the perceptions of our senses are always true.

People are generally better persuaded by the reasons which they have themselves discovered than by those which have come into the mind of others.

People are generally more persuaded by reasons they discover themselves than by reasons others have found.

All great amusements are dangerous to the Christian life; but among all those which the world has invented there is none more to be feared than the theatre. It is a representation of the passions so natural and so delicate that it excites them and gives birth to them in our hearts, and, above all, to that of love, principally when it is represented as very chaste and virtuous. For the more innocent it appears to innocent souls, the more they are likely to be touched by it. Its violence pleases our self-love, which immediately forms a desire to produce the same effects which are seen so well represented; and, at the same time, we make ourselves a conscience founded on the propriety of the feelings which we see there, by which the fear of pure souls is removed, since they imagine that it cannot hurt their purity to love with a love which seems to them so reasonable.

All great amusements are dangerous to the Christian life. But of all those the world has invented, none is more to be feared than the theatre. It portrays the passions so naturally and delicately that it stirs them up and awakens them in our hearts. This is especially true of love, particularly when it is portrayed as chaste and virtuous. The more innocent it appears to innocent souls, the more likely they are to be moved by it. Its intensity appeals to our self-love, and we immediately want to produce the same effects we see so vividly portrayed. At the same time, we form a sense of what is right based on the propriety of those feelings. This removes the fear of pure souls. They imagine that loving in a way that seems so reasonable cannot harm their purity.

So we depart from the theatre with our heart so filled with all the beauty and tenderness of love, the soul and the mind so persuaded of its innocence, that we are quite ready to receive its first impressions, or rather to seek an opportunity of awakening them in the heart of another, in order that we may receive the same pleasures and the same sacrifices which we have seen so well represented in the theatre.

We leave the theater with our hearts filled with all the beauty and tenderness of love. Our souls and minds are so convinced of its innocence that we are ready to feel its first stirrings. Or rather, we are ready to look for a chance to awaken love in someone else’s heart. We want to receive the same pleasures and sacrifices that we have seen so well portrayed on stage.

Scaramouch,⁵ who only thinks of one thing.

Scaramouch,⁵ who thinks of only one thing.

The doctor,⁶ who speaks for a quarter of an hour after he has said everything, so full is he of the desire of talking.

The doctor⁶ keeps talking for fifteen minutes after he has said everything. He is so eager to talk.

One likes to see the error, the passion of Cleobuline,⁷ because she is unconscious of it. She would be displeasing, if she were not deceived.

We like seeing Cleobuline’s error and passion⁷ because she is unaware of them. She would be unpleasant if she were not mistaken.

When a natural discourse paints a passion or an effect, one feels within oneself the truth of what one reads, which was there before, although one did not know it. Hence one is inclined to love him who makes us feel it, for he has not shown us his own riches, but ours. And thus this benefit renders him pleasing to us, besides that such community of intellect as we have with him necessarily inclines the heart to love.

When a natural account describes a passion or an effect, we feel the truth of it within ourselves. It was already there, though we did not know it. So we are inclined to love the person who makes us feel it. He has shown us not his own riches, but ours. This benefit makes him pleasing to us. And the understanding we share with him necessarily inclines our hearts to love.

Eloquence, which persuades by sweetness, not by authority; as a tyrant, not as a king.

Eloquence persuades through charm, not authority, like a tyrant, not a king.

Eloquence is an art of saying things in such a way—(1) that those to whom we speak may listen to them without pain and with pleasure; (2) that they feel themselves interested, so that self-love leads them more willingly to reflection upon it.

Eloquence is the art of speaking in a way that (1) lets listeners hear what is said without discomfort and with pleasure, and (2) makes them feel personally interested, so that self-love leads them more willingly to reflect on it.

It consists, then, in a correspondence which we seek to establish between the head and the heart of those to whom we speak on the one hand, and, on the other, between the thoughts and the expressions which we employ. This assumes that we have studied well the heart of man so as to know all its powers, and then to find the just proportions of the discourse which we wish to adapt to them. We must put ourselves in the place of those who are to hear us, and make trial on our own heart of the turn which we give to our discourse in order to see whether one is made for the other, and whether we can assure ourselves that the hearer will be, as it were, forced to surrender. We ought to restrict ourselves, so far as possible, to the simple and natural, and not to magnify that which is little, or belittle that which is great. It is not enough that a thing be beautiful; it must be suitable to the subject, and there must be in it nothing of excess or defect.

It consists, then, in establishing a match between the minds and hearts of our listeners and the thoughts and words we use. This assumes that we have studied the human heart thoroughly and know all its powers. We can then shape our speech in the right proportions to suit them. We must put ourselves in our listeners’ place and test the way we frame our speech against our own hearts. This lets us see whether the speech and its listeners are suited to each other. It also helps us judge whether the listener will be, as it were, forced to yield. As far as possible, we should keep to what is simple and natural. We should not exaggerate what is small or diminish what is great. It is not enough for something to be beautiful. It must also suit the subject and have neither too much nor too little.

Rivers are roads which move,⁸ and which carry us whither we desire to go.

Rivers are roads that move,⁸ carrying us where we want to go.

When we do not know the truth of a thing, it is of advantage that there should exist a common error which determines the mind of man, as, for example, the moon, to which is attributed the change of seasons, the progress of diseases, etc. For the chief malady of man is restless curiosity about things which he cannot understand; and it is not so bad for him to be in error as to be curious to no purpose.

When we do not know the truth about something, it helps to have a common belief, even if it is wrong, to settle our minds. For example, people attribute changes in the seasons and the progress of diseases to the moon. For humanity’s chief affliction is restless curiosity about things we cannot understand. It is not as bad to be wrong as to be curious to no purpose.

The manner in which Epictetus, Montaigne, and Salomon de Tultie⁹ wrote, is the most usual, the most suggestive, the most remembered, and the oftenest quoted; because it is entirely composed of thoughts born from the common talk of life. As when we speak of the common error which exists among men that the moon is the cause of everything, we never fail to say that Salomon de Tultie says that when we do not know the truth of a thing, it is of advantage that there should exist a common error, etc.; which is the thought above.

The way Epictetus, Montaigne, and Salomon de Tultie⁹ wrote is the most common and the most thought-provoking. It is also the most remembered and the most often quoted. This is because it consists entirely of thoughts drawn from everyday conversation. For example, people commonly and mistakenly believe that the moon causes everything. When we speak of this error, we never fail to mention what Salomon de Tultie says. When we do not know the truth about something, it is useful to have a common error, and so on. That is the thought expressed above.

The last thing one settles in writing a book is what one should put in first.

The last thing you decide when writing a book is what to put first.

Order.—Why should I undertake to divide my virtues into four rather than into six? Why should I rather establish virtue in four, in two, in one? Why into Abstine et sustine¹⁰ rather than into "Follow Nature,"¹¹ or, "Conduct your private affairs without injustice," as Plato,¹² or anything else? But there, you will say, everything is contained in one word. Yes, but it is useless without explanation, and when we come to explain it, as soon as we unfold this maxim which contains all the rest, they emerge in that first confusion which you desired to avoid. So, when they are all included in one, they are hidden and useless, as in a chest, and never appear save in their natural confusion. Nature has established them all without including one in the other.

Order. Why should I divide my virtues into four rather than six? Why should I put virtue into four categories, or two, or one? Why choose Abstine et sustine (“Abstain and endure”)¹⁰ rather than "Follow Nature,"¹¹ or Plato’s "Conduct your private affairs without injustice,"¹² or anything else? But you will say that everything is contained in one phrase. Yes, but it is useless without an explanation. When we explain it and unfold this maxim that contains all the others, they emerge in the original confusion you wanted to avoid. So, when they are all included in one, they are hidden and useless, as if in a chest. They never appear except in their natural confusion. Nature has established them all without including one in another.

Nature has made all her truths independent of one another. Our art makes one dependent on the other. But this is not natural. Each keeps its own place.

Nature has made all its truths independent of one another. Our methods make them depend on one another. But this is not natural. Each truth has its own place.

Let no one say that I have said nothing new; the arrangement of the subject is new. When we play tennis, we both play with the same ball, but one of us places it better.

No one should say that I have said nothing new. The way I have arranged the subject is new. When we play tennis, we both use the same ball, but one of us places it better.

I had as soon it said that I used words employed before. And in the same way if the same thoughts in a different arrangement do not form a different discourse, no more do the same words in their different arrangement form different thoughts!

One might as well say that I use words others have used before. If the same thoughts in a different arrangement do not make a different discourse, then the same words in a different arrangement do not make different thoughts!

Words differently arranged have a different meaning, and meanings differently arranged have different effects.

Words arranged differently have different meanings, and meanings arranged differently have different effects.

Language.—We should not turn the mind from one thing to another, except for relaxation, and that when it is necessary and the time suitable, and not otherwise. For he that relaxes out of season wearies, and he who wearies us out of season makes us languid, since we turn quite away. So much does our perverse lust like to do the contrary of what those wish to obtain from us without giving us pleasure, the coin for which we will do whatever is wanted.

Language. We should not shift our minds from one thing to another except to rest. Even then, we should do so only when necessary and at the right time. Someone who offers relaxation at the wrong time tires us. Someone who tires us at the wrong time leaves us listless, since we turn away altogether. Our perverse desires make us want to do the opposite of what others ask, unless they give us pleasure. Pleasure is the coin for which we will do whatever is wanted.

Eloquence.—It requires the pleasant and the real; but the pleasant must itself be drawn from the true.

Eloquence. It requires both what is pleasing and what is real. But what is pleasing must itself come from truth.

Eloquence is a painting of thought; and thus those who, after having painted it, add something more, make a picture instead of a portrait.

Eloquence is a painting of thought. Those who add more after painting it make a picture instead of a portrait.

Miscellaneous. Language.—Those who make antitheses by forcing words are like those who make false windows for symmetry. Their rule is not to speak accurately, but to make apt figures of speech.

Miscellaneous. Language. People who force words into contrasts are like people who add false windows for symmetry. Their rule is not to speak accurately, but to create fitting figures of speech.

Symmetry is what we see at a glance; based on the fact that there is no reason for any difference, and based also on the face of man; whence it happens that symmetry is only wanted in breadth, not in height or depth.

Symmetry is what we take in at a glance. It is based on the idea that there is no reason for any difference. It is also based on the human face. That is why symmetry is desired only across the width, not in height or depth.

When we see a natural style, we are astonished and delighted; for we expected to see an author, and we find a man. Whereas those who have good taste, and who seeing a book expect to find a man, are quite surprised to find an author. Plus poetice quam humane locutus es. Those honour Nature well, who teach that she can speak on everything, even on theology.

When we encounter a natural style, we are surprised and delighted. We expected to find an author, but we find a person. Those with good taste, however, expect to find a person when they open a book. They are quite surprised to find an author instead. You have spoken more like a poet than a person. Those who teach that Nature can speak about everything, even theology, pay her great honor.

We only consult the ear because the heart is wanting. The rule is uprightness.

We only rely on the ear because the heart is lacking. The rule is integrity.

Beauty of omission, of judgment.

The beauty of leaving things out, of judgment.

All the false beauties which we blame in Cicero have their admirers, and in great number.

All the false beauties we criticize in Cicero have admirers, and many of them.

There is a certain standard of grace and beauty which consists in a certain relation between our nature, such as it is, weak or strong, and the thing which pleases us.

There is a standard of grace and beauty. It consists in a certain relationship between our nature, whether weak or strong, and the thing that pleases us.

Whatever is formed according to this standard pleases us, be it house, song, discourse, verse, prose, woman, birds, rivers, trees, rooms, dress, etc. Whatever is not made according to this standard displeases those who have good taste.

Whatever follows this standard pleases us. This applies to houses, songs, speeches, verse, prose, women, birds, rivers, trees, rooms, clothes, and so on. Whatever does not follow this standard displeases people with good taste.

And as there is a perfect relation between a song and a house which are made after a good model, because they are like this good model, though each after its kind; even so there is a perfect relation between things made after a bad model. Not that the bad model is unique, for there are many; but each bad sonnet, for example, on whatever false model it is formed, is just like a woman dressed after that model.

A song and a house made according to a good model are perfectly alike in this respect. Each resembles the good model, though in its own way. In the same way, things made according to a bad model are perfectly alike. This does not mean there is only one bad model. There are many. But every bad sonnet, whatever false model it follows, is just like a woman dressed according to that model.

Nothing makes us understand better the ridiculousness of a false sonnet than to consider nature and the standard, and then to imagine a woman or a house made according to that standard.

Nothing shows us how ridiculous a bad sonnet is better than comparing nature with the standard. Then imagine a woman or a house made according to that standard.

Poetical beauty.—As we speak of poetical beauty, so ought we to speak of mathematical beauty and medical beauty. But we do not do so; and the reason is that we know well what is the object of mathematics, and that it consists in proofs, and what is the object of medicine, and that it consists in healing. But we do not know in what grace consists, which is the object of poetry. We do not know the natural model which we ought to imitate; and through lack of this knowledge, we have coined fantastic terms, "The golden age," "The wonder of our times," "Fatal," etc., and call this jargon poetical beauty.¹³

Poetical beauty. We speak of poetical beauty, so we should also speak of mathematical beauty and medical beauty. But we do not. The reason is that we know the aim of mathematics is proof, and the aim of medicine is healing. But we do not know what grace, the aim of poetry, consists of. We do not know the natural model we should imitate. Because we lack this knowledge, we have invented fanciful expressions, such as "The golden age," "The wonder of our times," and "Fatal." We call this jargon poetical beauty.¹³

But whoever imagines a woman after this model, which consists in saying little things in big words, will see a pretty girl adorned with mirrors and chains, at whom he will smile; because we know better wherein consists the charm of woman than the charm of verse. But those who are ignorant would admire her in this dress, and there are many villages in which she would be taken for the queen; hence we call sonnets made after this model "Village Queens."

Imagine a woman dressed according to this model, which expresses little things in grand words. You would see a pretty girl decked out in mirrors and chains, and you would smile at her. We understand what makes a woman charming better than we understand what makes a poem charming. But those who do not know better would admire her outfit. In many villages, she would be taken for a queen. That is why we call sonnets made according to this model “Village Queens.”

No one passes in the world as skilled in verse unless he has put up the sign of a poet, a mathematician, etc. But educated people do not want a sign, and draw little distinction between the trade of a poet and that of an embroiderer.

No one is considered skilled in verse unless he advertises himself as a poet, a mathematician, or the like. But educated people do not want such labels. They see little difference between the work of a poet and that of an embroiderer.

People of education are not called poets or mathematicians, etc.; but they are all these, and judges of all these. No one guesses what they are. When they come into society, they talk on matters about which the rest are talking. We do not observe in them one quality rather than another, save when they have to make use of it. But then we remember it, for it is characteristic of such persons that we do not say of them that they are fine speakers, when it is not a question of oratory, and that we say of them that they are fine speakers, when it is such a question.

Educated people are not called poets or mathematicians, and so on. Yet they are all these things, and they can judge them all. No one can tell what they are. In company, they talk about whatever others are discussing. We notice no one quality in them more than another, unless they need to use it. Then we remember it. This is typical of such people. We do not call them fine speakers when public speaking is not the subject. But when it is, we do call them fine speakers.

It is therefore false praise to give a man when we say of him, on his entry, that he is a very clever poet; and it is a bad sign when a man is not asked to give his judgment on some verses.

So it is misplaced praise to call a man a very clever poet as soon as he enters. It is also a bad sign when a man is not asked for his judgment on some verses.

We should not be able to say of a man, "He is a mathematician," or "a preacher," or "eloquent"; but that he is "a gentleman." That universal quality alone pleases me. It is a bad sign when, on seeing a person, you remember his book. I would prefer you to see no quality till you meet it and have occasion to use it (Ne quid nimis¹⁴), for fear some one quality prevail and designate the man. Let none think him a fine speaker, unless oratory be in question, and then let them think it.

We should not describe a man as "a mathematician," "a preacher," or "eloquent," but as "a gentleman." That well-rounded quality alone pleases me. It is a bad sign if seeing someone reminds you of his book. I would rather you notice no particular quality until the occasion calls for it (Ne quid nimis¹⁴). Otherwise, one quality might overshadow the rest and define the man. Let no one think him a fine speaker unless the occasion calls for public speaking. Then let them think it.

Man is full of wants: he loves only those who can satisfy them all. "This one is a good mathematician," one will say. But I have nothing to do with mathematics; he would take me for a proposition. "That one is a good soldier." He would take me for a besieged town. I need, then, an upright man who can accommodate himself generally to all my wants.

A person has many needs. He loves only those who can satisfy them all. Someone may say, "This man is a good mathematician." But I have nothing to do with mathematics. He would treat me like a mathematical problem. "That man is a good soldier." He would treat me like a town under siege. So I need an upright man who can generally adapt himself to all my needs.

[Since we cannot be universal and know all that is to be known of everything, we ought to know a little about everything. For it is far better to know something about everything than to know all about one thing. This universality is the best. If we can have both, still better; but if we must choose, we ought to choose the former. And the world feels this and does so; for the world is often a good judge.]

[We cannot know everything there is to know about everything, so we should know a little about everything. It is far better to know something about everything than to know everything about one thing. This breadth of knowledge is best. If we can have both, that is even better. But if we must choose, we should choose the first. People recognize this and act accordingly, for they are often good judges.]

A poet and not an honest man.

A poet, but not a cultivated gentleman.

If lightning fell on low places, etc., poets, and those who can only reason about things of that kind, would lack proofs.

If lightning struck low places, and so on, poets and those who can reason only about such things would lack evidence.

If we wished to prove the examples which we take to prove other things, we should have to take those other things to be examples; for, as we always believe the difficulty is in what we wish to prove, we find the examples clearer and a help to demonstration.

If we wanted to prove the examples we use to prove other things, we would have to use those other things as examples. We always think the difficulty lies in what we are trying to prove. So we find the examples clearer and helpful in proving it.

Thus when we wish to demonstrate a general theorem, we must give the rule as applied to a particular case; but if we wish to demonstrate a particular case, we must begin with the general rule. For we always find the thing obscure which we wish to prove, and that clear which we use for the proof; for, when a thing is put forward to be proved, we first fill ourselves with the imagination that it is therefore obscure, and on the contrary that what is to prove it is clear, and so we understand it easily.

When we want to prove a general theorem, we must show how the rule applies to a particular case. But when we want to prove a particular case, we must begin with the general rule. We always find what we want to prove unclear, and what we use to prove it clear. When something is put forward for proof, we first imagine that it must therefore be unclear. Conversely, we imagine that what will prove it is clear, and so we understand it easily.

Epigrams of Martial.—Man loves malice, but not against one-eyed men nor the unfortunate, but against the fortunate and proud. People are mistaken in thinking otherwise.

Epigrams of Martial. People enjoy malice, but not when it is aimed at one-eyed people or the unfortunate. They enjoy it when it is aimed at the fortunate and proud. People are wrong to think otherwise.

For lust is the source of all our actions, and humanity, etc. We must please those who have humane and tender feelings. That epigram about two one-eyed people is worthless,¹⁵ for it does not console them, and only gives a point to the author's glory. All that is only for the sake of the author is worthless. Ambitiosa recident ornamenta.¹⁶

For lust is the source of all our actions, and humanity, etc. We must please those who have kind and tender feelings. That epigram about two one-eyed people is worthless,¹⁵ because it does not comfort them. It only adds to the author's glory. Everything done only for the author's sake is worthless. Grand ornaments must be cut away.¹⁶

To call a king "Prince" is pleasing, because it diminishes his rank.

Calling a king "Prince" is pleasing because it lowers his rank.

Certain authors, speaking of their works, say, "My book," "My commentary," "My history," etc. They resemble middle-class people who have a house of their own, and always have "My house" on their tongue. They would do better to say, "Our book," "Our commentary," "Our history," etc., because there is in them usually more of other people's than their own.

Some authors speak of their works as "my book," "my commentary," "my history," and so on. They are like middle-class people who own a house and are always talking about "my house." They would do better to say "our book," "our commentary," "our history," and so on. Their works usually contain more of other people's ideas than their own.

Do you wish people to believe good of you? Don't speak.

Do you want people to think well of you? Don't speak.

Languages are ciphers, wherein letters are not changed into letters, but words into words, so that an unknown language is decipherable.

Languages are codes in which words are substituted for words, rather than letters for letters. This makes it possible to decipher an unknown language.

A maker of witticisms, a bad character.

A person who makes witty remarks has a bad character.

There are some who speak well and write badly. For the place and the audience warm them, and draw from their minds more than they think of without that warmth.

Some people speak well but write poorly. The setting and the audience inspire them and draw out thoughts they would not otherwise have.

When we find words repeated in a discourse, and, in trying to correct them, discover that they are so appropriate that we would spoil the discourse, we must leave them alone. This is the test; and our attempt is the work of envy, which is blind, and does not see that repetition is not in this place a fault; for there is no general rule.

When we find repeated words in a piece of writing, we may try to correct them. If we discover that they fit so well that changing them would spoil the passage, we must leave them alone. This is the test. Our attempt to correct them is the work of envy. Envy is blind and cannot see that repetition is not a fault in this case. There is no general rule.

To mask nature and disguise her. No more king, pope, bishop—but august monarch, etc.; not Paris—the capital of the kingdom. There are places in which we ought to call Paris, Paris, and others in which we ought to call it the capital of the kingdom.

To mask and disguise nature. We no longer say king, pope, or bishop, but majestic monarch, and so on. We do not say Paris, but the capital of the kingdom. In some places, we should call Paris Paris. In others, we should call it the capital of the kingdom.

The same meaning changes with the words which express it. Meanings receive their dignity from words instead of giving it to them. Examples should be sought....

The same meaning changes depending on the words used to express it. Meanings get their dignity from words, rather than giving dignity to them. We should look for examples....

Sceptic, for obstinate.

Skeptic, meaning stubborn.

No one calls another a Cartesian¹⁷ but he who is one himself, a pedant but a pedant, a provincial but a provincial; and I would wager it was the printer who put it on the title of Letters to a Provincial.

Only a Cartesian¹⁷ calls someone else a Cartesian. Only a pedant calls someone else a pedant. Only a provincial calls someone else a provincial. I would wager that the printer put it in the title of Letters to a Provincial.

A carriage upset or overturned, according to the meaning To spread abroad or upset, according to the meaning. (The argument by force of M. le Maître¹⁸ over the friar.)

A carriage upset or overturned, depending on the meaning. To spread abroad or upset, depending on the meaning. (M. le Maître’s¹⁸ argument by force against the friar.)

Miscellaneous.—A form of speech, "I should have liked to apply myself to that."

Miscellaneous. A way of saying, "I would have liked to devote myself to that."

The aperitive virtue of a key, the attractive virtue of a hook.

The opening power of a key, the pulling power of a hook.

To guess: "The part that I take in your trouble." The Cardinal¹⁹ did not want to be guessed.

To guess: "How much I sympathize with your trouble." The Cardinal¹⁹ did not want anyone to guess his thoughts.

"My mind is disquieted." I am disquieted is better.

“My mind is troubled.” I am troubled is better.

I always feel uncomfortable under such compliments as these: "I have given you a great deal of trouble," "I am afraid I am boring you," "I fear this is too long." We either carry our audience with us, or irritate them.

I always feel uncomfortable with remarks like these: "I've caused you a lot of trouble," "I'm afraid I'm boring you," "I'm afraid this is too long." We either hold our audience's attention or irritate them.

You are ungraceful: "Excuse me, pray." Without that excuse I would not have known there was anything amiss. "With reverence be it spoken...." The only thing bad is their excuse.

You are awkward. "Please excuse me." Without that apology, I would not have noticed anything wrong. "I say this with respect...." The only thing wrong is their apology.

"To extinguish the torch of sedition"; too luxuriant. "The restlessness of his genius"; two superfluous grand words.

“Put out the torch of sedition”, too flowery. “The restlessness of his genius”, two unnecessary grand words.