THE POETICS OF ARISTOTLE
By Aristotle
A Translation By S. H. Butcher
[Transcriber's Annotations and Conventions: the translator left intact
some Greek words to illustrate a specific point of the original
discourse. In this transcription, in order to retain the accuracy of
this text, those words are rendered by spelling out each Greek letter
individually, such as {alpha beta gamma delta...}. The reader can
distinguish these words by the enclosing braces {}. Where multiple words
occur together, they are separated by the "/" symbol for clarity.
Readers who do not speak or read the Greek language will usually neither
gain nor lose understanding by skipping over these passages. Those who
understand Greek, however, may gain a deeper insight to the original
meaning and distinctions expressed by Aristotle.]
CONTENTS
ARISTOTLE'S POETICS
I
II
III
IV
V
VI
VII
VIII
IX
X
XI
XII
XIII
XIV
XV
XVI
XVII
XVIII
XIX
XX
XXI
XXII
XXIII
XXIV
XXV
XXVI
ARISTOTLE'S POETICS
I
I propose to treat of Poetry in itself and of its various kinds, noting
the essential quality of each; to inquire into the structure of the plot
as requisite to a good poem; into the number and nature of the parts of
which a poem is composed; and similarly into whatever else falls within
the same inquiry. Following, then, the order of nature, let us begin with
the principles which come first.
Epic poetry and Tragedy, Comedy also and Dithyrambic: poetry, and the
music of the flute and of the lyre in most of their forms, are all in
their general conception modes of imitation. They differ, however, from
one: another in three respects,—the medium, the objects, the manner
or mode of imitation, being in each case distinct.
For as there are persons who, by conscious art or mere habit, imitate and
represent various objects through the medium of colour and form, or again
by the voice; so in the arts above mentioned, taken as a whole, the
imitation is produced by rhythm, language, or 'harmony,' either singly or
combined.
Thus in the music of the flute and of the lyre, 'harmony' and rhythm alone
are employed; also in other arts, such as that of the shepherd's pipe,
which are essentially similar to these. In dancing, rhythm alone is used
without 'harmony'; for even dancing imitates character, emotion, and
action, by rhythmical movement.
There is another art which imitates by means of language alone, and that
either in prose or verse—which, verse, again, may either combine
different metres or consist of but one kind—but this has hitherto
been without a name. For there is no common term we could apply to the
mimes of Sophron and Xenarchus and the Socratic dialogues on the one hand;
and, on the other, to poetic imitations in iambic, elegiac, or any similar
metre. People do, indeed, add the word 'maker' or 'poet' to the name of
the metre, and speak of elegiac poets, or epic (that is, hexameter) poets,
as if it were not the imitation that makes the poet, but the verse that
entitles them all indiscriminately to the name. Even when a treatise on
medicine or natural science is brought out in verse, the name of poet is
by custom given to the author; and yet Homer and Empedocles have nothing
in common but the metre, so that it would be right to call the one poet,
the other physicist rather than poet. On the same principle, even if a
writer in his poetic imitation were to combine all metres, as Chaeremon
did in his Centaur, which is a medley composed of metres of all kinds, we
should bring him too under the general term poet. So much then for these
distinctions.
There are, again, some arts which employ all the means above mentioned,
namely, rhythm, tune, and metre. Such are Dithyrambic and Nomic poetry,
and also Tragedy and Comedy; but between them the difference is, that in
the first two cases these means are all employed in combination, in the
latter, now one means is employed, now another.
Such, then, are the differences of the arts with respect to the medium of
imitation.
II
Since the objects of imitation are men in action, and these men must be
either of a higher or a lower type (for moral character mainly answers to
these divisions, goodness and badness being the distinguishing marks of
moral differences), it follows that we must represent men either as better
than in real life, or as worse, or as they are. It is the same in
painting. Polygnotus depicted men as nobler than they are, Pauson as less
noble, Dionysius drew them true to life.
Now it is evident that each of the modes of imitation above mentioned will
exhibit these differences, and become a distinct kind in imitating objects
that are thus distinct. Such diversities may be found even in dancing,
flute-playing, and lyre-playing. So again in language, whether prose or
verse unaccompanied by music. Homer, for example, makes men better than
they are; Cleophon as they are; Hegemon the Thasian, the inventor of
parodies, and Nicochares, the author of the Deiliad, worse than they are.
The same thing holds good of Dithyrambs and Nomes; here too one may
portray different types, as Timotheus and Philoxenus differed in
representing their Cyclopes. The same distinction marks off Tragedy from
Comedy; for Comedy aims at representing men as worse, Tragedy as better
than in actual life.
III
There is still a third difference—the manner in which each of these
objects may be imitated. For the medium being the same, and the objects
the same, the poet may imitate by narration—in which case he can
either take another personality as Homer does, or speak in his own person,
unchanged—or he may present all his characters as living and moving
before us.
These, then, as we said at the beginning, are the three differences which
distinguish artistic imitation,—the medium, the objects, and the
manner. So that from one point of view, Sophocles is an imitator of the
same kind as Homer—for both imitate higher types of character; from
another point of view, of the same kind as Aristophanes—for both
imitate persons acting and doing. Hence, some say, the name of 'drama' is
given to such poems, as representing action. For the same reason the
Dorians claim the invention both of Tragedy and Comedy. The claim to
Comedy is put forward by the Megarians,—not only by those of Greece
proper, who allege that it originated under their democracy, but also by
the Megarians of Sicily, for the poet Epicharmus, who is much earlier than
Chionides and Magnes, belonged to that country. Tragedy too is claimed by
certain Dorians of the Peloponnese. In each case they appeal to the
evidence of language. The outlying villages, they say, are by them called
{kappa omega mu alpha iota}, by the Athenians {delta eta mu iota}: and
they assume that Comedians were so named not from {kappa omega mu 'alpha
zeta epsilon iota nu}, 'to revel,' but because they wandered from village
to village (kappa alpha tau alpha / kappa omega mu alpha sigma), being
excluded contemptuously from the city. They add also that the Dorian word
for 'doing' is {delta rho alpha nu}, and the Athenian, {pi rho alpha tau
tau epsilon iota nu}.
This may suffice as to the number and nature of the various modes of
imitation.
IV
Poetry in general seems to have sprung from two causes, each of them lying
deep in our nature. First, the instinct of imitation is implanted in man
from childhood, one difference between him and other animals being that he
is the most imitative of living creatures, and through imitation learns
his earliest lessons; and no less universal is the pleasure felt in things
imitated. We have evidence of this in the facts of experience. Objects
which in themselves we view with pain, we delight to contemplate when
reproduced with minute fidelity: such as the forms of the most ignoble
animals and of dead bodies. The cause of this again is, that to learn
gives the liveliest pleasure, not only to philosophers but to men in
general; whose capacity, however, of learning is more limited. Thus the
reason why men enjoy seeing a likeness is, that in contemplating it they
find themselves learning or inferring, and saying perhaps, 'Ah, that is
he.' For if you happen not to have seen the original, the pleasure will be
due not to the imitation as such, but to the execution, the colouring, or
some such other cause.
Imitation, then, is one instinct of our nature. Next, there is the
instinct for 'harmony' and rhythm, metres being manifestly sections of
rhythm. Persons, therefore, starting with this natural gift developed by
degrees their special aptitudes, till their rude improvisations gave birth
to Poetry.
Poetry now diverged in two directions, according to the individual
character of the writers. The graver spirits imitated noble actions, and
the actions of good men. The more trivial sort imitated the actions of
meaner persons, at first composing satires, as the former did hymns to the
gods and the praises of famous men. A poem of the satirical kind cannot
indeed be put down to any author earlier than Homer; though many such
writers probably there were. But from Homer onward, instances can be
cited,—his own Margites, for example, and other similar
compositions. The appropriate metre was also here introduced; hence the
measure is still called the iambic or lampooning measure, being that in
which people lampooned one another. Thus the older poets were
distinguished as writers of heroic or of lampooning verse.
As, in the serious style, Homer is pre-eminent among poets, for he alone
combined dramatic form with excellence of imitation, so he too first laid
down the main lines of Comedy, by dramatising the ludicrous instead of
writing personal satire. His Margites bears the same relation to Comedy
that the Iliad and Odyssey do to Tragedy. But when Tragedy and Comedy came
to light, the two classes of poets still followed their natural bent: the
lampooners became writers of Comedy, and the Epic poets were succeeded by
Tragedians, since the drama was a larger and higher form of art.
Whether Tragedy has as yet perfected its proper types or not; and whether
it is to be judged in itself, or in relation also to the audience,—this
raises another question. Be that as it may, Tragedy—as also Comedy—was
at first mere improvisation. The one originated with the authors of the
Dithyramb, the other with those of the phallic songs, which are still in
use in many of our cities. Tragedy advanced by slow degrees; each new
element that showed itself was in turn developed. Having passed through
many changes, it found its natural form, and there it stopped.
Aeschylus first introduced a second actor; he diminished the importance of
the Chorus, and assigned the leading part to the dialogue. Sophocles
raised the number of actors to three, and added scene-painting. Moreover,
it was not till late that the short plot was discarded for one of greater
compass, and the grotesque diction of the earlier satyric form for the
stately manner of Tragedy. The iambic measure then replaced the trochaic
tetrameter, which was originally employed when the poetry was of the
Satyric order, and had greater affinities with dancing. Once dialogue had
come in, Nature herself discovered the appropriate measure. For the iambic
is, of all measures, the most colloquial: we see it in the fact that
conversational speech runs into iambic lines more frequently than into any
other kind of verse; rarely into hexameters, and only when we drop the
colloquial intonation. The additions to the number of 'episodes' or acts,
and the other accessories of which tradition; tells, must be taken as
already described; for to discuss them in detail would, doubtless, be a
large undertaking.
V
Comedy is, as we have said, an imitation of characters of a lower type,
not, however, in the full sense of the word bad, the Ludicrous being
merely a subdivision of the ugly. It consists in some defect or ugliness
which is not painful or destructive. To take an obvious example, the comic
mask is ugly and distorted, but does not imply pain.
The successive changes through which Tragedy passed, and the authors of
these changes, are well known, whereas Comedy has had no history, because
it was not at first treated seriously. It was late before the Archon
granted a comic chorus to a poet; the performers were till then voluntary.
Comedy had already taken definite shape when comic poets, distinctively so
called, are heard of. Who furnished it with masks, or prologues, or
increased the number of actors,—these and other similar details
remain unknown. As for the plot, it came originally from Sicily; but of
Athenian writers Crates was the first who, abandoning the 'iambic' or
lampooning form, generalised his themes and plots.
Epic poetry agrees with Tragedy in so far as it is an imitation in verse
of characters of a higher type. They differ, in that Epic poetry admits
but one kind of metre, and is narrative in form. They differ, again, in
their length: for Tragedy endeavours, as far as possible, to confine
itself to a single revolution of the sun, or but slightly to exceed this
limit; whereas the Epic action has no limits of time. This, then, is a
second point of difference; though at first the same freedom was admitted
in Tragedy as in Epic poetry.
Of their constituent parts some are common to both, some peculiar to
Tragedy, whoever, therefore, knows what is good or bad Tragedy, knows also
about Epic poetry. All the elements of an Epic poem are found in Tragedy,
but the elements of a Tragedy are not all found in the Epic poem.
VI
Of the poetry which imitates in hexameter verse, and of Comedy, we will
speak hereafter. Let us now discuss Tragedy, resuming its formal
definition, as resulting from what has been already said.
Tragedy, then, is an imitation of an action that is serious, complete, and
of a certain magnitude; in language embellished with each kind of artistic
ornament, the several kinds being found in separate parts of the play; in
the form of action, not of narrative; through pity and fear effecting the
proper purgation of these emotions. By 'language embellished,' I mean
language into which rhythm, 'harmony,' and song enter. By 'the several
kinds in separate parts,' I mean, that some parts are rendered through the
medium of verse alone, others again with the aid of song.
Now as tragic imitation implies persons acting, it necessarily follows, in
the first place, that Spectacular equipment will be a part of Tragedy.
Next, Song and Diction, for these are the medium of imitation. By
'Diction' I mean the mere metrical arrangement of the words: as for
'Song,' it is a term whose sense every one understands.
Again, Tragedy is the imitation of an action; and an action implies
personal agents, who necessarily possess certain distinctive qualities
both of character and thought; for it is by these that we qualify actions
themselves, and these—thought and character—are the two
natural causes from which actions spring, and on actions again all success
or failure depends. Hence, the Plot is the imitation of the action: for by
plot I here mean the arrangement of the incidents. By Character I mean
that in virtue of which we ascribe certain qualities to the agents.
Thought is required wherever a statement is proved, or, it may be, a
general truth enunciated. Every Tragedy, therefore, must have six parts,
which parts determine its quality—namely, Plot, Character, Diction,
Thought, Spectacle, Song. Two of the parts constitute the medium of
imitation, one the manner, and three the objects of imitation. And these
complete the list. These elements have been employed, we may say, by the
poets to a man; in fact, every play contains Spectacular elements as well
as Character, Plot, Diction, Song, and Thought.
But most important of all is the structure of the incidents. For Tragedy
is an imitation, not of men, but of an action and of life, and life
consists in action, and its end is a mode of action, not a quality. Now
character determines men's qualities, but it is by their actions that they
are happy or the reverse. Dramatic action, therefore, is not with a view
to the representation of character: character comes in as subsidiary to
the actions. Hence the incidents and the plot are the end of a tragedy;
and the end is the chief thing of all. Again, without action there cannot
be a tragedy; there may be without character. The tragedies of most of our
modern poets fail in the rendering of character; and of poets in general
this is often true. It is the same in painting; and here lies the
difference between Zeuxis and Polygnotus. Polygnotus delineates character
well: the style of Zeuxis is devoid of ethical quality. Again, if you
string together a set of speeches expressive of character, and well
finished in point of diction and thought, you will not produce the
essential tragic effect nearly so well as with a play which, however
deficient in these respects, yet has a plot and artistically constructed
incidents. Besides which, the most powerful elements of emotional:
interest in Tragedy Peripeteia or Reversal of the Situation, and
Recognition scenes—are parts of the plot. A further proof is, that
novices in the art attain to finish: of diction and precision of
portraiture before they can construct the plot. It is the same with almost
all the early poets.
The Plot, then, is the first principle, and, as it were, the soul of a
tragedy: Character holds the second place. A similar fact is seen in
painting. The most beautiful colours, laid on confusedly, will not give as
much pleasure as the chalk outline of a portrait. Thus Tragedy is the
imitation of an action, and of the agents mainly with a view to the
action.
Third in order is Thought,—that is, the faculty of saying what is
possible and pertinent in given circumstances. In the case of oratory,
this is the function of the Political art and of the art of rhetoric: and
so indeed the older poets make their characters speak the language of
civic life; the poets of our time, the language of the rhetoricians.
Character is that which reveals moral purpose, showing what kind of things
a man chooses or avoids. Speeches, therefore, which do not make this
manifest, or in which the speaker does not choose or avoid anything
whatever, are not expressive of character. Thought, on the other hand, is
found where something is proved to be, or not to be, or a general maxim is
enunciated.
Fourth among the elements enumerated comes Diction; by which I mean, as
has been already said, the expression of the meaning in words; and its
essence is the same both in verse and prose.
Of the remaining elements Song holds the chief place among the
embellishments.
The Spectacle has, indeed, an emotional attraction of its own, but, of all
the parts, it is the least artistic, and connected least with the art of
poetry. For the power of Tragedy, we may be sure, is felt even apart from
representation and actors. Besides, the production of spectacular effects
depends more on the art of the stage machinist than on that of the poet.
VII
These principles being established, let us now discuss the proper
structure of the Plot, since this is the first and most important thing in
Tragedy.
Now, according to our definition, Tragedy is an imitation of an action
that is complete, and whole, and of a certain magnitude; for there may be
a whole that is wanting in magnitude. A whole is that which has a
beginning, a middle, and an end. A beginning is that which does not itself
follow anything by causal necessity, but after which something naturally
is or comes to be. An end, on the contrary, is that which itself naturally
follows some other thing, either by necessity, or as a rule, but has
nothing following it. A middle is that which follows something as some
other thing follows it. A well constructed plot, therefore, must neither
begin nor end at haphazard, but conform to these principles.
Again, a beautiful object, whether it be a living organism or any whole
composed of parts, must not only have an orderly arrangement of parts, but
must also be of a certain magnitude; for beauty depends on magnitude and
order. Hence a very small animal organism cannot be beautiful; for the
view of it is confused, the object being seen in an almost imperceptible
moment of time. Nor, again, can one of vast size be beautiful; for as the
eye cannot take it all in at once, the unity and sense of the whole is
lost for the spectator; as for instance if there were one a thousand miles
long. As, therefore, in the case of animate bodies and organisms a certain
magnitude is necessary, and a magnitude which may be easily embraced in
one view; so in the plot, a certain length is necessary, and a length
which can be easily embraced by the memory. The limit of length in
relation to dramatic competition and sensuous presentment, is no part of
artistic theory. For had it been the rule for a hundred tragedies to
compete together, the performance would have been regulated by the
water-clock,—as indeed we are told was formerly done. But the limit
as fixed by the nature of the drama itself is this: the greater the
length, the more beautiful will the piece be by reason of its size,
provided that the whole be perspicuous. And to define the matter roughly,
we may say that the proper magnitude is comprised within such limits, that
the sequence of events, according to the law of probability or necessity,
will admit of a change from bad fortune to good, or from good fortune to
bad.
VIII
Unity of plot does not, as some persons think, consist in the Unity of the
hero. For infinitely various are the incidents in one man's life which
cannot be reduced to unity; and so, too, there are many actions of one man
out of which we cannot make one action. Hence, the error, as it appears,
of all poets who have composed a Heracleid, a Theseid, or other poems of
the kind. They imagine that as Heracles was one man, the story of Heracles
must also be a unity. But Homer, as in all else he is of surpassing merit,
here too—whether from art or natural genius—seems to have
happily discerned the truth. In composing the Odyssey he did not include
all the adventures of Odysseus—such as his wound on Parnassus, or
his feigned madness at the mustering of the host—incidents between
which there was no necessary or probable connection: but he made the
Odyssey, and likewise the Iliad, to centre round an action that in our
sense of the word is one. As therefore, in the other imitative arts, the
imitation is one when the object imitated is one, so the plot, being an
imitation of an action, must imitate one action and that a whole, the
structural union of the parts being such that, if any one of them is
displaced or removed, the whole will be disjointed and disturbed. For a
thing whose presence or absence makes no visible difference, is not an
organic part of the whole.
IX
It is, moreover, evident from what has been said, that it is not the
function of the poet to relate what has happened, but what may happen,—what
is possible according to the law of probability or necessity. The poet and
the historian differ not by writing in verse or in prose. The work of
Herodotus might be put into verse, and it would still be a species of
history, with metre no less than without it. The true difference is that
one relates what has happened, the other what may happen. Poetry,
therefore, is a more philosophical and a higher thing than history: for
poetry tends to express the universal, history the particular. By the
universal, I mean how a person of a certain type will on occasion speak or
act, according to the law of probability or necessity; and it is this
universality at which poetry aims in the names she attaches to the
personages. The particular is—for example—what Alcibiades did
or suffered. In Comedy this is already apparent: for here the poet first
constructs the plot on the lines of probability, and then inserts
characteristic names;—unlike the lampooners who write about
particular individuals. But tragedians still keep to real names, the
reason being that what is possible is credible: what has not happened we
do not at once feel sure to be possible: but what has happened is
manifestly possible: otherwise it would not have happened. Still there are
even some tragedies in which there are only one or two well known names,
the rest being fictitious. In others, none are well known, as in Agathon's
Antheus, where incidents and names alike are fictitious, and yet they give
none the less pleasure. We must not, therefore, at all costs keep to the
received legends, which are the usual subjects of Tragedy. Indeed, it
would be absurd to attempt it; for even subjects that are known are known
only to a few, and yet give pleasure to all. It clearly follows that the
poet or 'maker' should be the maker of plots rather than of verses; since
he is a poet because he imitates, and what he imitates are actions. And
even if he chances to take an historical subject, he is none the less a
poet; for there is no reason why some events that have actually happened
should not conform to the law of the probable and possible, and in virtue
of that quality in them he is their poet or maker.
Of all plots and actions the epeisodic are the worst. I call a plot
'epeisodic' in which the episodes or acts succeed one another without
probable or necessary sequence. Bad poets compose such pieces by their own
fault, good poets, to please the players; for, as they write show pieces
for competition, they stretch the plot beyond its capacity, and are often
forced to break the natural continuity.
But again, Tragedy is an imitation not only of a complete action, but of
events inspiring fear or pity. Such an effect is best produced when the
events come on us by sunrise; and the effect is heightened when, at the
same time, they follow as cause and effect. The tragic wonder will thee be
greater than if they happened of themselves or by accident; for even
coincidences are most striking when they have an air of design. We may
instance the statue of Mitys at Argos, which fell upon his murderer while
he was a spectator at a festival, and killed him. Such events seem not to
be due to mere chance. Plots, therefore, constructed on these principles
are necessarily the best.
X
Plots are either Simple or Complex, for the actions in real life, of which
the plots are an imitation, obviously show a similar distinction. An
action which is one and continuous in the sense above defined, I call
Simple, when the change of fortune takes place without Reversal of the
Situation and without Recognition.
A Complex action is one in which the change is accompanied by such
Reversal, or by Recognition, or by both. These last should arise from the
internal structure of the plot, so that what follows should be the
necessary or probable result of the preceding action. It makes all the
difference whether any given event is a case of propter hoc or post hoc.
XI
Reversal of the Situation is a change by which the action veers round to
its opposite, subject always to our rule of probability or necessity. Thus
in the Oedipus, the messenger comes to cheer Oedipus and free him from his
alarms about his mother, but by revealing who he is, he produces the
opposite effect. Again in the Lynceus, Lynceus is being led away to his
death, and Danaus goes with him, meaning, to slay him; but the outcome of
the preceding incidents is that Danaus is killed and Lynceus saved.
Recognition, as the name indicates, is a change from ignorance to
knowledge, producing love or hate between the persons destined by the poet
for good or bad fortune. The best form of recognition is coincident with a
Reversal of the Situation, as in the Oedipus. There are indeed other
forms. Even inanimate things of the most trivial kind may in a sense be
objects of recognition. Again, we may recognise or discover whether a
person has done a thing or not. But the recognition which is most
intimately connected with the plot and action is, as we have said, the
recognition of persons. This recognition, combined, with Reversal, will
produce either pity or fear; and actions producing these effects are those
which, by our definition, Tragedy represents. Moreover, it is upon such
situations that the issues of good or bad fortune will depend.
Recognition, then, being between persons, it may happen that one person
only is recognised by the other-when the latter is already known—or
it may be necessary that the recognition should be on both sides. Thus
Iphigenia is revealed to Orestes by the sending of the letter; but another
act of recognition is required to make Orestes known to Iphigenia.
Two parts, then, of the Plot—Reversal of the Situation and
Recognition—turn upon surprises. A third part is the Scene of
Suffering. The Scene of Suffering is a destructive or painful action, such
as death on the stage, bodily agony, wounds and the like.
XII
[The parts of Tragedy which must be treated as elements of the whole have
been already mentioned. We now come to the quantitative parts, and the
separate parts into which Tragedy is divided, namely, Prologue, Episode,
Exode, Choric song; this last being divided into Parode and Stasimon.
These are common to all plays: peculiar to some are the songs of actors
from the stage and the Commoi.
The Prologue is that entire part of a tragedy which precedes the Parode of
the Chorus. The Episode is that entire part of a tragedy which is between
complete choric songs. The Exode is that entire part of a tragedy which
has no choric song after it. Of the Choric part the Parode is the first
undivided utterance of the Chorus: the Stasimon is a Choric ode without
anapaests or trochaic tetrameters: the Commos is a joint lamentation of
Chorus and actors. The parts of Tragedy which must be treated as elements
of the whole have been already mentioned. The quantitative parts the
separate parts into which it is divided—are here enumerated.]
XIII
As the sequel to what has already been said, we must proceed to consider
what the poet should aim at, and what he should avoid, in constructing his
plots; and by what means the specific effect of Tragedy will be produced.
A perfect tragedy should, as we have seen, be arranged not on the simple
but on the complex plan. It should, moreover, imitate actions which excite
pity and fear, this being the distinctive mark of tragic imitation. It
follows plainly, in the first place, that the change, of fortune presented
must not be the spectacle of a virtuous man brought from prosperity to
adversity: for this moves neither pity nor fear; it merely shocks us. Nor,
again, that of a bad man passing from adversity to prosperity: for nothing
can be more alien to the spirit of Tragedy; it possesses no single tragic
quality; it neither satisfies the moral sense nor calls forth pity or
fear. Nor, again, should the downfall of the utter villain be exhibited. A
plot of this kind would, doubtless, satisfy the moral sense, but it would
inspire neither pity nor fear; for pity is aroused by unmerited
misfortune, fear by the misfortune of a man like ourselves. Such an event,
therefore, will be neither pitiful nor terrible. There remains, then, the
character between these two extremes,—that of a man who is not
eminently good and just,-yet whose misfortune is brought about not by vice
or depravity, but by some error or frailty. He must be one who is highly
renowned and prosperous,—a personage like Oedipus, Thyestes, or
other illustrious men of such families.
A well constructed plot should, therefore, be single in its issue, rather
than double as some maintain. The change of fortune should be not from bad
to good, but, reversely, from good to bad. It should come about as the
result not of vice, but of some great error or frailty, in a character
either such as we have described, or better rather than worse. The
practice of the stage bears out our view. At first the poets recounted any
legend that came in their way. Now, the best tragedies are founded on the
story of a few houses, on the fortunes of Alcmaeon, Oedipus, Orestes,
Meleager, Thyestes, Telephus, and those others who have done or suffered
something terrible. A tragedy, then, to be perfect according to the rules
of art should be of this construction. Hence they are in error who censure
Euripides just because he follows this principle in his plays, many of
which end unhappily. It is, as we have said, the right ending. The best
proof is that on the stage and in dramatic competition, such plays, if
well worked out, are the most tragic in effect; and Euripides, faulty
though he may be in the general management of his subject, yet is felt to
be the most tragic of the poets.
In the second rank comes the kind of tragedy which some place first. Like
the Odyssey, it has a double thread of plot, and also an opposite
catastrophe for the good and for the bad. It is accounted the best because
of the weakness of the spectators; for the poet is guided in what he
writes by the wishes of his audience. The pleasure, however, thence
derived is not the true tragic pleasure. It is proper rather to Comedy,
where those who, in the piece, are the deadliest enemies—like
Orestes and Aegisthus—quit the stage as friends at the close, and no
one slays or is slain.
XIV
Fear and pity may be aroused by spectacular means; but they may also
result from the inner structure of the piece, which is the better way, and
indicates a superior poet. For the plot ought to be so constructed that,
even without the aid of the eye, he who hears the tale told will thrill
with horror and melt to pity at what takes place. This is the impression
we should receive from hearing the story of the Oedipus. But to produce
this effect by the mere spectacle is a less artistic method, and dependent
on extraneous aids. Those who employ spectacular means to create a sense
not of the terrible but only of the monstrous, are strangers to the
purpose of Tragedy; for we must not demand of Tragedy any and every kind
of pleasure, but only that which is proper to it. And since the pleasure
which the poet should afford is that which comes from pity and fear
through imitation, it is evident that this quality must be impressed upon
the incidents.
Let us then determine what are the circumstances which strike us as
terrible or pitiful.
Actions capable of this effect must happen between persons who are either
friends or enemies or indifferent to one another. If an enemy kills an
enemy, there is nothing to excite pity either in the act or the intention,—except
so far as the suffering in itself is pitiful. So again with indifferent
persons. But when the tragic incident occurs between those who are near or
dear to one another—if, for example, a brother kills, or intends to
kill, a brother, a son his father, a mother her son, a son his mother, or
any other deed of the kind is done—these are the situations to be
looked for by the poet. He may not indeed destroy the framework of the
received legends—the fact, for instance, that Clytemnestra was slain
by Orestes and Eriphyle by Alcmaeon but he ought to show invention of his
own, and skilfully handle the traditional material. Let us explain more
clearly what is meant by skilful handling.
The action may be done consciously and with knowledge of the persons, in
the manner of the older poets. It is thus too that Euripides makes Medea
slay her children. Or, again, the deed of horror may be done, but done in
ignorance, and the tie of kinship or friendship be discovered afterwards.
The Oedipus of Sophocles is an example. Here, indeed, the incident is
outside the drama proper; but cases occur where it falls within the action
of the play: one may cite the Alcmaeon of Astydamas, or Telegonus in the
Wounded Odysseus. Again, there is a third case,— (to be about to act
with knowledge of the persons and then not to act. The fourth case is)
when some one is about to do an irreparable deed through ignorance, and
makes the discovery before it is done. These are the only possible ways.
For the deed must either be done or not done,—and that wittingly or
unwittingly. But of all these ways, to be about to act knowing the
persons, and then not to act, is the worst. It is shocking without being
tragic, for no disaster follows. It is, therefore, never, or very rarely,
found in poetry. One instance, however, is in the Antigone, where Haemon
threatens to kill Creon. The next and better way is that the deed should
be perpetrated. Still better, that it should be perpetrated in ignorance,
and the discovery made afterwards. There is then nothing to shock us,
while the discovery produces a startling effect. The last case is the
best, as when in the Cresphontes Merope is about to slay her son, but,
recognising who he is, spares his life. So in the Iphigenia, the sister
recognises the brother just in time. Again in the Helle, the son
recognises the mother when on the point of giving her up. This, then, is
why a few families only, as has been already observed, furnish the
subjects of tragedy. It was not art, but happy chance, that led the poets
in search of subjects to impress the tragic quality upon their plots. They
are compelled, therefore, to have recourse to those houses whose history
contains moving incidents like these.
Enough has now been said concerning the structure of the incidents, and
the right kind of plot.
XV
In respect of Character there are four things to be aimed at. First, and
most important, it must be good. Now any speech or action that manifests
moral purpose of any kind will be expressive of character: the character
will be good if the purpose is good. This rule is relative to each class.
Even a woman may be good, and also a slave; though the woman may be said
to be an inferior being, and the slave quite worthless. The second thing
to aim at is propriety. There is a type of manly valour; but valour in a
woman, or unscrupulous cleverness, is inappropriate. Thirdly, character
must be true to life: for this is a distinct thing from goodness and
propriety, as here described. The fourth point is consistency: for though
the subject of the imitation, who suggested the type, be inconsistent,
still he must be consistently inconsistent. As an example of motiveless
degradation of character, we have Menelaus in the Orestes: of character
indecorous and inappropriate, the lament of Odysseus in the Scylla, and
the speech of Melanippe: of inconsistency, the Iphigenia at Aulis,—for
Iphigenia the suppliant in no way resembles her later self.
As in the structure of the plot, so too in the portraiture of character,
the poet should always aim either at the necessary or the probable. Thus a
person of a given character should speak or act in a given way, by the
rule either of necessity or of probability; just as this event should
follow that by necessary or probable sequence. It is therefore evident
that the unravelling of the plot, no less than the complication, must
arise out of the plot itself, it must not be brought about by the 'Deus ex
Machina'—as in the Medea, or in the Return of the Greeks in the
Iliad. The 'Deus ex Machina' should be employed only for events external
to the drama,—for antecedent or subsequent events, which lie beyond
the range of human knowledge, and which require to be reported or
foretold; for to the gods we ascribe the power of seeing all things.
Within the action there must be nothing irrational. If the irrational
cannot be excluded, it should be outside the scope of the tragedy. Such is
the irrational element in the Oedipus of Sophocles.
Again, since Tragedy is an imitation of persons who are above the common
level, the example of good portrait-painters should be followed. They,
while reproducing the distinctive form of the original, make a likeness
which is true to life and yet more beautiful. So too the poet, in
representing men who are irascible or indolent, or have other defects of
character, should preserve the type and yet ennoble it. In this way
Achilles is portrayed by Agathon and Homer.
These then are rules the poet should observe. Nor should he neglect those
appeals to the senses, which, though not among the essentials, are the
concomitants of poetry; for here too there is much room for error. But of
this enough has been said in our published treatises.
XVI
What Recognition is has been already explained. We will now enumerate its
kinds.
First, the least artistic form, which, from poverty of wit, is most
commonly employed recognition by signs. Of these some are congenital,—such
as 'the spear which the earth-born race bear on their bodies,' or the
stars introduced by Carcinus in his Thyestes. Others are acquired after
birth; and of these some are bodily marks, as scars; some external tokens,
as necklaces, or the little ark in the Tyro by which the discovery is
effected. Even these admit of more or less skilful treatment. Thus in the
recognition of Odysseus by his scar, the discovery is made in one way by
the nurse, in another by the swineherds. The use of tokens for the express
purpose of proof—and, indeed, any formal proof with or without
tokens—is a less artistic mode of recognition. A better kind is that
which comes about by a turn of incident, as in the Bath Scene in the
Odyssey.
Next come the recognitions invented at will by the poet, and on that
account wanting in art. For example, Orestes in the Iphigenia reveals the
fact that he is Orestes. She, indeed, makes herself known by the letter;
but he, by speaking himself, and saying what the poet, not what the plot
requires. This, therefore, is nearly allied to the fault above mentioned:—for
Orestes might as well have brought tokens with him. Another similar
instance is the 'voice of the shuttle' in the Tereus of Sophocles.
The third kind depends on memory when the sight of some object awakens a
feeling: as in the Cyprians of Dicaeogenes, where the hero breaks into
tears on seeing the picture; or again in the 'Lay of Alcinous,' where
Odysseus, hearing the minstrel play the lyre, recalls the past and weeps;
and hence the recognition.
The fourth kind is by process of reasoning. Thus in the Choephori: 'Some
one resembling me has come: no one resembles me but Orestes: therefore
Orestes has come.' Such too is the discovery made by Iphigenia in the play
of Polyidus the Sophist. It was a natural reflection for Orestes to make,
'So I too must die at the altar like my sister.' So, again, in the Tydeus
of Theodectes, the father says, 'I came to find my son, and I lose my own
life.' So too in the Phineidae: the women, on seeing the place, inferred
their fate:—'Here we are doomed to die, for here we were cast
forth.' Again, there is a composite kind of recognition involving false
inference on the part of one of the characters, as in the Odysseus
Disguised as a Messenger. A said (that no one else was able to bend the
bow;... hence B (the disguised Odysseus) imagined that A would) recognise
the bow which, in fact, he had not seen; and to bring about a recognition
by this means that the expectation A would recognise the bow is false
inference.
But, of all recognitions, the best is that which arises from the incidents
themselves, where the startling discovery is made by natural means. Such
is that in the Oedipus of Sophocles, and in the Iphigenia; for it was
natural that Iphigenia should wish to dispatch a letter. These
recognitions alone dispense with the artificial aid of tokens or amulets.
Next come the recognitions by process of reasoning.
XVII
In constructing the plot and working it out with the proper diction, the
poet should place the scene, as far as possible, before his eyes. In this
way, seeing everything with the utmost vividness, as if he were a
spectator of the action, he will discover what is in keeping with it, and
be most unlikely to overlook inconsistencies. The need of such a rule is
shown by the fault found in Carcinus. Amphiaraus was on his way from the
temple. This fact escaped the observation of one who did not see the
situation. On the stage, however, the piece failed, the audience being
offended at the oversight.
Again, the poet should work out his play, to the best of his power, with
appropriate gestures; for those who feel emotion are most convincing
through natural sympathy with the characters they represent; and one who
is agitated storms, one who is angry rages, with the most life-like
reality. Hence poetry implies either a happy gift of nature or a strain of
madness. In the one case a man can take the mould of any character; in the
other, he is lifted out of his proper self.
As for the story, whether the poet takes it ready made or constructs it
for himself, he should first sketch its general outline, and then fill in
the episodes and amplify in detail. The general plan may be illustrated by
the Iphigenia. A young girl is sacrificed; she disappears mysteriously
from the eyes of those who sacrificed her; She is transported to another
country, where the custom is to offer up all strangers to the goddess. To
this ministry she is appointed. Some time later her own brother chances to
arrive. The fact that the oracle for some reason ordered him to go there,
is outside the general plan of the play. The purpose, again, of his coming
is outside the action proper. However, he comes, he is seized, and, when
on the point of being sacrificed, reveals who he is. The mode of
recognition may be either that of Euripides or of Polyidus, in whose play
he exclaims very naturally:—'So it was not my sister only, but I
too, who was doomed to be sacrificed'; and by that remark he is saved.
After this, the names being once given, it remains to fill in the
episodes. We must see that they are relevant to the action. In the case of
Orestes, for example, there is the madness which led to his capture, and
his deliverance by means of the purificatory rite. In the drama, the
episodes are short, but it is these that give extension to Epic poetry.
Thus the story of the Odyssey can be stated briefly. A certain man is
absent from home for many years; he is jealously watched by Poseidon, and
left desolate. Meanwhile his home is in a wretched plight—suitors
are wasting his substance and plotting against his son. At length,
tempest-tost, he himself arrives; he makes certain persons acquainted with
him; he attacks the suitors with his own hand, and is himself preserved
while he destroys them. This is the essence of the plot; the rest is
episode.
XVIII
Every tragedy falls into two parts,—Complication and Unravelling or
Denouement. Incidents extraneous to the action are frequently combined
with a portion of the action proper, to form the Complication; the rest is
the Unravelling. By the Complication I mean all that extends from the
beginning of the action to the part which marks the turning-point to good
or bad fortune. The Unravelling is that which extends from the beginning
of the change to the end. Thus, in the Lynceus of Theodectes, the
Complication consists of the incidents presupposed in the drama, the
seizure of the child, and then again, The Unravelling extends from the
accusation of murder to the end.
There are four kinds of Tragedy, the Complex, depending entirely on
Reversal of the Situation and Recognition; the Pathetic (where the motive
is passion),—such as the tragedies on Ajax and Ixion; the Ethical
(where the motives are ethical),—such as the Phthiotides and the
Peleus. The fourth kind is the Simple (We here exclude the purely
spectacular element), exemplified by the Phorcides, the Prometheus, and
scenes laid in Hades. The poet should endeavour, if possible, to combine
all poetic elements; or failing that, the greatest number and those the
most important; the more so, in face of the cavilling criticism of the
day. For whereas there have hitherto been good poets, each in his own
branch, the critics now expect one man to surpass all others in their
several lines of excellence.
In speaking of a tragedy as the same or different, the best test to take
is the plot. Identity exists where the Complication and Unravelling are
the same. Many poets tie the knot well, but unravel it ill. Both arts,
however, should always be mastered.
Again, the poet should remember what has been often said, and not make an
Epic structure into a Tragedy—by an Epic structure I mean one with a
multiplicity of plots—as if, for instance, you were to make a
tragedy out of the entire story of the Iliad. In the Epic poem, owing to
its length, each part assumes its proper magnitude. In the drama the
result is far from answering to the poet's expectation. The proof is that
the poets who have dramatised the whole story of the Fall of Troy, instead
of selecting portions, like Euripides; or who have taken the whole tale of
Niobe, and not a part of her story, like Aeschylus, either fail utterly or
meet with poor success on the stage. Even Agathon has been known to fail
from this one defect. In his Reversals of the Situation, however, he shows
a marvellous skill in the effort to hit the popular taste,—to
produce a tragic effect that satisfies the moral sense. This effect is
produced when the clever rogue, like Sisyphus, is outwitted, or the brave
villain defeated. Such an event is probable in Agathon's sense of the
word: 'it is probable,' he says, 'that many things should happen contrary
to probability.'
The Chorus too should be regarded as one of the actors; it should be an
integral part of the whole, and share in the action, in the manner not of
Euripides but of Sophocles. As for the later poets, their choral songs
pertain as little to the subject of the piece as to that of any other
tragedy. They are, therefore, sung as mere interludes, a practice first
begun by Agathon. Yet what difference is there between introducing such
choral interludes, and transferring a speech, or even a whole act, from
one play to another?
XIX
It remains to speak of Diction and Thought, the other parts of Tragedy
having been already discussed. Concerning Thought, we may assume what is
said in the Rhetoric, to which inquiry the subject more strictly belongs.
Under Thought is included every effect which has to be produced by speech,
the subdivisions being,—proof and refutation; the excitation of the
feelings, such as pity, fear, anger, and the like; the suggestion of
importance or its opposite. Now, it is evident that the dramatic incidents
must be treated from the same points of view as the dramatic speeches,
when the object is to evoke the sense of pity, fear, importance, or
probability. The only difference is, that the incidents should speak for
themselves without verbal exposition; while the effects aimed at in speech
should be produced by the speaker, and as a result of the speech. For what
were the business of a speaker, if the Thought were revealed quite apart
from what he says?
Next, as regards Diction. One branch of the inquiry treats of the Modes of
Utterance. But this province of knowledge belongs to the art of Delivery
and to the masters of that science. It includes, for instance,—what
is a command, a prayer, a statement, a threat, a question, an answer, and
so forth. To know or not to know these things involves no serious censure
upon the poet's art. For who can admit the fault imputed to Homer by
Protagoras,—that in the words, 'Sing, goddess, of the wrath,' he
gives a command under the idea that he utters a prayer? For to tell some
one to do a thing or not to do it is, he says, a command. We may,
therefore, pass this over as an inquiry that belongs to another art, not
to poetry.
XX
[Language in general includes the following parts:—Letter, Syllable,
Connecting word, Noun, Verb, Inflexion or Case, Sentence or Phrase.
A Letter is an indivisible sound, yet not every such sound, but only one
which can form part of a group of sounds. For even brutes utter
indivisible sounds, none of which I call a letter. The sound I mean may be
either a vowel, a semi-vowel, or a mute. A vowel is that which without
impact of tongue or lip has an audible sound. A semi-vowel, that which
with such impact has an audible sound, as S and R. A mute, that which with
such impact has by itself no sound, but joined to a vowel sound becomes
audible, as G and D. These are distinguished according to the form assumed
by the mouth and the place where they are produced; according as they are
aspirated or smooth, long or short; as they are acute, grave, or of an
intermediate tone; which inquiry belongs in detail to the writers on
metre.
A Syllable is a non-significant sound, composed of a mute and a vowel: for
GR without A is a syllable, as also with A,—GRA. But the
investigation of these differences belongs also to metrical science.
A Connecting word is a non-significant sound, which neither causes nor
hinders the union of many sounds into one significant sound; it may be
placed at either end or in the middle of a sentence. Or, a non-significant
sound, which out of several sounds, each of them significant, is capable
of forming one significant sound,—as {alpha mu theta iota}, {pi
epsilon rho iota}, and the like. Or, a non-significant sound, which marks
the beginning, end, or division of a sentence; such, however, that it
cannot correctly stand by itself at the beginning of a sentence, as {mu
epsilon nu}, {eta tau omicron iota}, {delta epsilon}.
A Noun is a composite significant sound, not marking time, of which no
part is in itself significant: for in double or compound words we do not
employ the separate parts as if each were in itself significant. Thus in
Theodorus, 'god-given,' the {delta omega rho omicron nu} or 'gift' is not
in itself significant.
A Verb is a composite significant sound, marking time, in which, as in the
noun, no part is in itself significant. For 'man,' or 'white' does not
express the idea of 'when'; but 'he walks,' or 'he has walked' does
connote time, present or past.
Inflexion belongs both to the noun and verb, and expresses either the
relation 'of,' 'to,' or the like; or that of number, whether one or many,
as 'man' or 'men '; or the modes or tones in actual delivery, e.g. a
question or a command. 'Did he go?' and 'go' are verbal inflexions of this
kind.
A Sentence or Phrase is a composite significant sound, some at least of
whose parts are in themselves significant; for not every such group of
words consists of verbs and nouns—'the definition of man,' for
example—but it may dispense even with the verb. Still it will always
have some significant part, as 'in walking,' or 'Cleon son of Cleon.' A
sentence or phrase may form a unity in two ways,—either as
signifying one thing, or as consisting of several parts linked together.
Thus the Iliad is one by the linking together of parts, the definition of
man by the unity of the thing signified.]
XXI
Words are of two kinds, simple and double. By simple I mean those composed
of non-significant elements, such as {gamma eta}. By double or compound,
those composed either of a significant and non-significant element (though
within the whole word no element is significant), or of elements that are
both significant. A word may likewise be triple, quadruple, or multiple in
form, like so many Massilian expressions, e.g. 'Hermo-caico-xanthus who
prayed to Father Zeus>.'
Every word is either current, or strange, or metaphorical, or ornamental,
or newly-coined, or lengthened, or contracted, or altered.
By a current or proper word I mean one which is in general use among a
people; by a strange word, one which is in use in another country.
Plainly, therefore, the same word may be at once strange and current, but
not in relation to the same people. The word {sigma iota gamma upsilon nu
omicron nu}, 'lance,' is to the Cyprians a current term but to us a
strange one.
Metaphor is the application of an alien name by transference either from
genus to species, or from species to genus, or from species to species, or
by analogy, that is, proportion. Thus from genus to species, as: 'There
lies my ship'; for lying at anchor is a species of lying. From species to
genus, as: 'Verily ten thousand noble deeds hath Odysseus wrought'; for
ten thousand is a species of large number, and is here used for a large
number generally. From species to species, as: 'With blade of bronze drew
away the life,' and 'Cleft the water with the vessel of unyielding
bronze.' Here {alpha rho upsilon rho alpha iota}, 'to draw away,' is used
for {tau alpha mu epsilon iota nu}, 'to cleave,' and {tau alpha mu epsilon
iota nu} again for {alpha rho upsilon alpha iota},—each being a
species of taking away. Analogy or proportion is when the second term is
to the first as the fourth to the third. We may then use the fourth for
the second, or the second for the fourth. Sometimes too we qualify the
metaphor by adding the term to which the proper word is relative. Thus the
cup is to Dionysus as the shield to Ares. The cup may, therefore, be
called 'the shield of Dionysus,' and the shield 'the cup of Ares.' Or,
again, as old age is to life, so is evening to day. Evening may therefore
be called 'the old age of the day,' and old age, 'the evening of life,'
or, in the phrase of Empedocles, 'life's setting sun.' For some of the
terms of the proportion there is at times no word in existence; still the
metaphor may be used. For instance, to scatter seed is called sowing: but
the action of the sun in scattering his rays is nameless. Still this
process bears to the sun the same relation as sowing to the seed. Hence
the expression of the poet 'sowing the god-created light.' There is
another way in which this kind of metaphor may be employed. We may apply
an alien term, and then deny of that term one of its proper attributes; as
if we were to call the shield, not 'the cup of Ares,' but 'the wineless
cup.'
{An ornamental word...}
A newly-coined word is one which has never been even in local use, but is
adopted by the poet himself. Some such words there appear to be: as
{epsilon rho nu upsilon gamma epsilon sigma}, 'sprouters,' for {kappa
epsilon rho alpha tau alpha}, 'horns,' and {alpha rho eta tau eta rho},
'supplicator,' for {iota epsilon rho epsilon upsilon sigma}, 'priest.'
A word is lengthened when its own vowel is exchanged for a longer one, or
when a syllable is inserted. A word is contracted when some part of it is
removed. Instances of lengthening are,—{pi omicron lambda eta
omicron sigma} for {pi omicron lambda epsilon omega sigma}, and {Pi eta
lambda eta iota alpha delta epsilon omega} for {Pi eta lambda epsilon iota
delta omicron upsilon}: of contraction,—{kappa rho iota}, {delta
omega}, and {omicron psi}, as in {mu iota alpha / gamma iota nu epsilon
tau alpha iota / alpha mu phi omicron tau episilon rho omega nu / omicron
psi}.
An altered word is one in which part of the ordinary form is left
unchanged, and part is re-cast; as in {delta epsilon xi iota-tau epsilon
rho omicron nu / kappa alpha tau alpha / mu alpha zeta omicron nu}, {delta
epsilon xi iota tau epsilon rho omicron nu} is for {delta epsilon xi iota
omicron nu}.
[Nouns in themselves are either masculine, feminine, or neuter. Masculine
are such as end in {nu}, {rho}, {sigma}, or in some letter compounded with
{sigma},—these being two, and {xi}. Feminine, such as end in vowels
that are always long, namely {eta} and {omega}, and—of vowels that
admit of lengthening—those in {alpha}. Thus the number of letters in
which nouns masculine and feminine end is the same; for {psi} and {xi} are
equivalent to endings in {sigma}. No noun ends in a mute or a vowel short
by nature. Three only end in {iota},—{mu eta lambda iota}, {kappa
omicron mu mu iota}, {pi epsilon pi epsilon rho iota}: five end in
{upsilon}. Neuter nouns end in these two latter vowels; also in {nu} and
{sigma}.]
XXII
The perfection of style is to be clear without being mean. The clearest
style is that which uses only current or proper words; at the same time it
is mean:—witness the poetry of Cleophon and of Sthenelus. That
diction, on the other hand, is lofty and raised above the commonplace
which employs unusual words. By unusual, I mean strange (or rare) words,
metaphorical, lengthened,—anything, in short, that differs from the
normal idiom. Yet a style wholly composed of such words is either a riddle
or a jargon; a riddle, if it consists of metaphors; a jargon, if it
consists of strange (or rare) words. For the essence of a riddle is to
express true facts under impossible combinations. Now this cannot be done
by any arrangement of ordinary words, but by the use of metaphor it can.
Such is the riddle:—'A man I saw who on another man had glued the
bronze by aid of fire,' and others of the same kind. A diction that is
made up of strange (or rare) terms is a jargon. A certain infusion,
therefore, of these elements is necessary to style; for the strange (or
rare) word, the metaphorical, the ornamental, and the other kinds above
mentioned, will raise it above the commonplace and mean, while the use of
proper words will make it perspicuous. But nothing contributes more to
produce a clearness of diction that is remote from commonness than the
lengthening, contraction, and alteration of words. For by deviating in
exceptional cases from the normal idiom, the language will gain
distinction; while, at the same time, the partial conformity with usage
will give perspicuity. The critics, therefore, are in error who censure
these licenses of speech, and hold the author up to ridicule. Thus
Eucleides, the elder, declared that it would be an easy matter to be a
poet if you might lengthen syllables at will. He caricatured the practice
in the very form of his diction, as in the verse: '{Epsilon pi iota chi
alpha rho eta nu / epsilon iota delta omicron nu / Mu alpha rho alpha
theta omega nu alpha delta epsilon / Beta alpha delta iota zeta omicron nu
tau alpha}, or, {omicron upsilon kappa / alpha nu / gamma / epsilon rho
alpha mu epsilon nu omicron sigma / tau omicron nu / epsilon kappa epsilon
iota nu omicron upsilon /epsilon lambda lambda epsilon beta omicron rho
omicron nu}. To employ such license at all obtrusively is, no doubt,
grotesque; but in any mode of poetic diction there must be moderation.
Even metaphors, strange (or rare) words, or any similar forms of speech,
would produce the like effect if used without propriety and with the
express purpose of being ludicrous. How great a difference is made by the
appropriate use of lengthening, may be seen in Epic poetry by the
insertion of ordinary forms in the verse. So, again, if we take a strange
(or rare) word, a metaphor, or any similar mode of expression, and replace
it by the current or proper term, the truth of our observation will be
manifest. For example Aeschylus and Euripides each composed the same
iambic line. But the alteration of a single word by Euripides, who
employed the rarer term instead of the ordinary one, makes one verse
appear beautiful and the other trivial. Aeschylus in his Philoctetes says:
{Phi alpha gamma epsilon delta alpha iota nu alpha / delta / eta / mu
omicron upsilon / sigma alpha rho kappa alpha sigma / epsilon rho theta
iota epsilon iota / pi omicron delta omicron sigma}.
Euripides substitutes {Theta omicron iota nu alpha tau alpha iota} 'feasts
on' for {epsilon sigma theta iota epsilon iota} 'feeds on.' Again, in the
line, {nu upsilon nu / delta epsilon / mu /epsilon omega nu / omicron
lambda iota gamma iota gamma upsilon sigma / tau epsilon / kappa alpha
iota / omicron upsilon tau iota delta alpha nu omicron sigma / kappa alpha
iota / alpha epsilon iota kappa eta sigma), the difference will be felt if
we substitute the common words, {nu upsilon nu / delta epsilon / mu /
epsilon omega nu / mu iota kappa rho omicron sigma / tau epsilon / kappa
alpha iota / alpha rho theta epsilon nu iota kappa omicron sigma / kappa
alpha iota / alpha epsilon iota delta gamma sigma}. Or, if for the line,
{delta iota phi rho omicron nu / alpha epsilon iota kappa epsilon lambda
iota omicron nu / kappa alpha tau alpha theta epsilon iota sigma / omicron
lambda iota gamma eta nu / tau epsilon / tau rho alpha pi epsilon iota
sigma / omicron lambda iota gamma eta nu / tau epsilon / tau rho alpha pi
epsilon zeta alpha nu,} We read, {delta iota phi rho omicron nu / mu
omicron chi theta eta rho omicron nu / kappa alpha tau alpha theta epsilon
iota sigma / mu iota kappa rho alpha nu / tau epsilon / tau rho alpha pi
epsilon zeta alpha nu}.
Or, for {eta iota omicron nu epsilon sigma / beta omicron omicron omega
rho iota nu, eta iota omicron nu epsilon sigma kappa rho alpha zeta
omicron upsilon rho iota nu}
Again, Ariphrades ridiculed the tragedians for using phrases which no one
would employ in ordinary speech: for example, {delta omega mu alpha tau
omega nu / alpha pi omicron} instead of {alpha pi omicron / delta omega mu
alpha tau omega nu}, {rho epsilon theta epsilon nu}, {epsilon gamma omega
/ delta epsilon / nu iota nu}, {Alpha chi iota lambda lambda epsilon omega
sigma / pi epsilon rho iota} instead of {pi epsilon rho iota / 'Alpha chi
iota lambda lambda epsilon omega sigma}, and the like. It is precisely
because such phrases are not part of the current idiom that they give
distinction to the style. This, however, he failed to see.
It is a great matter to observe propriety in these several modes of
expression, as also in compound words, strange (or rare) words, and so
forth. But the greatest thing by far is to have a command of metaphor.
This alone cannot be imparted by another; it is the mark of genius, for to
make good metaphors implies an eye for resemblances.
Of the various kinds of words, the compound are best adapted to
Dithyrambs, rare words to heroic poetry, metaphors to iambic. In heroic
poetry, indeed, all these varieties are serviceable. But in iambic verse,
which reproduces, as far as may be, familiar speech, the most appropriate
words are those which are found even in prose. These are,—the
current or proper, the metaphorical, the ornamental.
Concerning Tragedy and imitation by means of action this may suffice.
XXIII
As to that poetic imitation which is narrative in form and employs a
single metre, the plot manifestly ought, as in a tragedy, to be
constructed on dramatic principles. It should have for its subject a
single action, whole and complete, with a beginning, a middle, and an end.
It will thus resemble a living organism in all its unity, and produce the
pleasure proper to it. It will differ in structure from historical
compositions, which of necessity present not a single action, but a single
period, and all that happened within that period to one person or to many,
little connected together as the events may be. For as the sea-fight at
Salamis and the battle with the Carthaginians in Sicily took place at the
same time, but did not tend to any one result, so in the sequence of
events, one thing sometimes follows another, and yet no single result is
thereby produced. Such is the practice, we may say, of most poets. Here
again, then, as has been already observed, the transcendent excellence of
Homer is manifest. He never attempts to make the whole war of Troy the
subject of his poem, though that war had a beginning and an end. It would
have been too vast a theme, and not easily embraced in a single view. If,
again, he had kept it within moderate limits, it must have been
over-complicated by the variety of the incidents. As it is, he detaches a
single portion, and admits as episodes many events from the general story
of the war—such as the Catalogue of the ships and others—thus
diversifying the poem. All other poets take a single hero, a single
period, or an action single indeed, but with a multiplicity of parts. Thus
did the author of the Cypria and of the Little Iliad. For this reason the
Iliad and the Odyssey each furnish the subject of one tragedy, or, at
most, of two; while the Cypria supplies materials for many, and the Little
Iliad for eight—the Award of the Arms, the Philoctetes, the
Neoptolemus, the Eurypylus, the Mendicant Odysseus, the Laconian Women,
the Fall of Ilium, the Departure of the Fleet.
XXIV
Again, Epic poetry must have as many kinds as Tragedy: it must be simple,
or complex, or 'ethical,' or 'pathetic.' The parts also, with the
exception of song and spectacle, are the same; for it requires Reversals
of the Situation, Recognitions, and Scenes of Suffering. Moreover, the
thoughts and the diction must be artistic. In all these respects Homer is
our earliest and sufficient model. Indeed each of his poems has a twofold
character. The Iliad is at once simple and 'pathetic,' and the Odyssey
complex (for Recognition scenes run through it), and at the same time
'ethical.' Moreover, in diction and thought they are supreme.
Epic poetry differs from Tragedy in the scale on which it is constructed,
and in its metre. As regards scale or length, we have already laid down an
adequate limit:—the beginning and the end must be capable of being
brought within a single view. This condition will be satisfied by poems on
a smaller scale than the old epics, and answering in length to the group
of tragedies presented at a single sitting.
Epic poetry has, however, a great—a special—capacity for
enlarging its dimensions, and we can see the reason. In Tragedy we cannot
imitate several lines of actions carried on at one and the same time; we
must confine ourselves to the action on the stage and the part taken by
the players. But in Epic poetry, owing to the narrative form, many events
simultaneously transacted can be presented; and these, if relevant to the
subject, add mass and dignity to the poem. The Epic has here an advantage,
and one that conduces to grandeur of effect, to diverting the mind of the
hearer, and relieving the story with varying episodes. For sameness of
incident soon produces satiety, and makes tragedies fail on the stage.
As for the metre, the heroic measure has proved its fitness by the test of
experience. If a narrative poem in any other metre or in many metres were
now composed, it would be found incongruous. For of all measures the
heroic is the stateliest and the most massive; and hence it most readily
admits rare words and metaphors, which is another point in which the
narrative form of imitation stands alone. On the other hand, the iambic
and the trochaic tetrameter are stirring measures, the latter being akin
to dancing, the former expressive of action. Still more absurd would it be
to mix together different metres, as was done by Chaeremon. Hence no one
has ever composed a poem on a great scale in any other than heroic verse.
Nature herself, as we have said, teaches the choice of the proper measure.
Homer, admirable in all respects, has the special merit of being the only
poet who rightly appreciates the part he should take himself. The poet
should speak as little as possible in his own person, for it is not this
that makes him an imitator. Other poets appear themselves upon the scene
throughout, and imitate but little and rarely. Homer, after a few
prefatory words, at once brings in a man, or woman, or other personage;
none of them wanting in characteristic qualities, but each with a
character of his own.
The element of the wonderful is required in Tragedy. The irrational, on
which the wonderful depends for its chief effects, has wider scope in Epic
poetry, because there the person acting is not seen. Thus, the pursuit of
Hector would be ludicrous if placed upon the stage—the Greeks
standing still and not joining in the pursuit, and Achilles waving them
back. But in the Epic poem the absurdity passes unnoticed. Now the
wonderful is pleasing: as may be inferred from the fact that every one
tells a story with some addition of his own, knowing that his hearers like
it. It is Homer who has chiefly taught other poets the art of telling lies
skilfully. The secret of it lies in a fallacy, For, assuming that if one
thing is or becomes, a second is or becomes, men imagine that, if the
second is, the first likewise is or becomes. But this is a false
inference. Hence, where the first thing is untrue, it is quite
unnecessary, provided the second be true, to add that the first is or has
become. For the mind, knowing the second to be true, falsely infers the
truth of the first. There is an example of this in the Bath Scene of the
Odyssey.
Accordingly, the poet should prefer probable impossibilities to improbable
possibilities. The tragic plot must not be composed of irrational parts.
Everything irrational should, if possible, be excluded; or, at all events,
it should lie outside the action of the play (as, in the Oedipus, the
hero's ignorance as to the manner of Laius' death); not within the drama,—as
in the Electra, the messenger's account of the Pythian games; or, as in
the Mysians, the man who has come from Tegea to Mysia and is still
speechless. The plea that otherwise the plot would have been ruined, is
ridiculous; such a plot should not in the first instance be constructed.
But once the irrational has been introduced and an air of likelihood
imparted to it, we must accept it in spite of the absurdity. Take even the
irrational incidents in the Odyssey, where Odysseus is left upon the shore
of Ithaca. How intolerable even these might have been would be apparent if
an inferior poet were to treat the subject. As it is, the absurdity is
veiled by the poetic charm with which the poet invests it.
The diction should be elaborated in the pauses of the action, where there
is no expression of character or thought. For, conversely, character and
thought are merely obscured by a diction that is over brilliant.
XXV
With respect to critical difficulties and their solutions, the number and
nature of the sources from which they may be drawn may be thus exhibited.
The poet being an imitator, like a painter or any other artist, must of
necessity imitate one of three objects,—things as they were or are,
things as they are said or thought to be, or things as they ought to be.
The vehicle of expression is language,—either current terms or, it
may be, rare words or metaphors. There are also many modifications of
language, which we concede to the poets. Add to this, that the standard of
correctness is not the same in poetry and politics, any more than in
poetry and any other art. Within the art of poetry itself there are two
kinds of faults, those which touch its essence, and those which are
accidental. If a poet has chosen to imitate something, (but has imitated
it incorrectly) through want of capacity, the error is inherent in the
poetry. But if the failure is due to a wrong choice if he has represented
a horse as throwing out both his off legs at once, or introduced technical
inaccuracies in medicine, for example, or in any other art the error is
not essential to the poetry. These are the points of view from which we
should consider and answer the objections raised by the critics.
First as to matters which concern the poet's own art. If he describes the
impossible, he is guilty of an error; but the error may be justified, if
the end of the art be thereby attained (the end being that already
mentioned), if, that is, the effect of this or any other part of the poem
is thus rendered more striking. A case in point is the pursuit of Hector.
If, however, the end might have been as well, or better, attained without
violating the special rules of the poetic art, the error is not justified:
for every kind of error should, if possible, be avoided.
Again, does the error touch the essentials of the poetic art, or some
accident of it? For example,—not to know that a hind has no horns is
a less serious matter than to paint it inartistically.
Further, if it be objected that the description is not true to fact, the
poet may perhaps reply,—'But the objects are as they ought to be':
just as Sophocles said that he drew men as they ought to be; Euripides, as
they are. In this way the objection may be met. If, however, the
representation be of neither kind, the poet may answer,—This is how
men say the thing is.' This applies to tales about the gods. It may well
be that these stories are not higher than fact nor yet true to fact: they
are, very possibly, what Xenophanes says of them. But anyhow, 'this is
what is said.' Again, a description may be no better than the fact:
'still, it was the fact'; as in the passage about the arms: 'Upright upon
their butt-ends stood the spears.' This was the custom then, as it now is
among the Illyrians.
Again, in examining whether what has been said or done by some one is
poetically right or not, we must not look merely to the particular act or
saying, and ask whether it is poetically good or bad. We must also
consider by whom it is said or done, to whom, when, by what means, or for
what end; whether, for instance, it be to secure a greater good, or avert
a greater evil.
Other difficulties may be resolved by due regard to the usage of language.
We may note a rare word, as in {omicron upsilon rho eta alpha sigma / mu
epsilon nu / pi rho omega tau omicron nu}, where the poet perhaps employs
{omicron upsilon rho eta alpha sigma} not in the sense of mules, but of
sentinels. So, again, of Dolon: 'ill-favoured indeed he was to look upon.'
It is not meant that his body was ill-shaped, but that his face was ugly;
for the Cretans use the word {epsilon upsilon epsilon iota delta epsilon
sigma}, 'well-favoured,' to denote a fair face. Again, {zeta omega rho
omicron tau epsilon rho omicron nu / delta epsilon / kappa epsilon rho
alpha iota epsilon}, 'mix the drink livelier,' does not mean `mix it
stronger' as for hard drinkers, but 'mix it quicker.'
Sometimes an expression is metaphorical, as 'Now all gods and men were
sleeping through the night,'—while at the same time the poet says:
'Often indeed as he turned his gaze to the Trojan plain, he marvelled at
the sound of flutes and pipes.' 'All' is here used metaphorically for
'many,' all being a species of many. So in the verse,—'alone she
hath no part...,' {omicron iota eta}, 'alone,' is metaphorical; for the
best known may be called the only one.
Again, the solution may depend upon accent or breathing. Thus Hippias of
Thasos solved the difficulties in the lines,—{delta iota delta
omicron mu epsilon nu (delta iota delta omicron mu epsilon nu) delta
epsilon / omicron iota,} and { tau omicron / mu epsilon nu / omicron
upsilon (omicron upsilon) kappa alpha tau alpha pi upsilon theta epsilon
tau alpha iota / omicron mu beta rho omega}.
Or again, the question may be solved by punctuation, as in Empedocles,—'Of
a sudden things became mortal that before had learnt to be immortal, and
things unmixed before mixed.'
Or again, by ambiguity of meaning,—as {pi alpha rho omega chi eta
kappa epsilon nu / delta epsilon / pi lambda epsilon omega / nu upsilon
xi}, where the word {pi lambda epsilon omega} is ambiguous.
Or by the usage of language. Thus any mixed drink is called {omicron iota
nu omicron sigma}, 'wine.' Hence Ganymede is said 'to pour the wine to
Zeus,' though the gods do not drink wine. So too workers in iron are
called {chi alpha lambda kappa epsilon alpha sigma}, or workers in bronze.
This, however, may also be taken as a metaphor.
Again, when a word seems to involve some inconsistency of meaning, we
should consider how many senses it may bear in the particular passage. For
example: 'there was stayed the spear of bronze'—we should ask in how
many ways we may take 'being checked there.' The true mode of
interpretation is the precise opposite of what Glaucon mentions. Critics,
he says, jump at certain groundless conclusions; they pass adverse
judgment and then proceed to reason on it; and, assuming that the poet has
said whatever they happen to think, find fault if a thing is inconsistent
with their own fancy. The question about Icarius has been treated in this
fashion. The critics imagine he was a Lacedaemonian. They think it
strange, therefore, that Telemachus should not have met him when he went
to Lacedaemon. But the Cephallenian story may perhaps be the true one.
They allege that Odysseus took a wife from among themselves, and that her
father was Icadius not Icarius. It is merely a mistake, then, that gives
plausibility to the objection.
In general, the impossible must be justified by reference to artistic
requirements, or to the higher reality, or to received opinion. With
respect to the requirements of art, a probable impossibility is to be
preferred to a thing improbable and yet possible. Again, it may be
impossible that there should be men such as Zeuxis painted. 'Yes,' we say,
'but the impossible is the higher thing; for the ideal type must surpass
the reality.' To justify the irrational, we appeal to what is commonly
said to be. In addition to which, we urge that the irrational sometimes
does not violate reason; just as 'it is probable that a thing may happen
contrary to probability.'
Things that sound contradictory should be examined by the same rules as in
dialectical refutation whether the same thing is meant, in the same
relation, and in the same sense. We should therefore solve the question by
reference to what the poet says himself, or to what is tacitly assumed by
a person of intelligence.
The element of the irrational, and, similarly, depravity of character, are
justly censured when there is no inner necessity for introducing them.
Such is the irrational element in the introduction of Aegeus by Euripides
and the badness of Menelaus in the Orestes.
Thus, there are five sources from which critical objections are drawn.
Things are censured either as impossible, or irrational, or morally
hurtful, or contradictory, or contrary to artistic correctness. The
answers should be sought under the twelve heads above mentioned.
XXVI
The question may be raised whether the Epic or Tragic mode of imitation is
the higher. If the more refined art is the higher, and the more refined in
every case is that which appeals to the better sort of audience, the art
which imitates anything and everything is manifestly most unrefined. The
audience is supposed to be too dull to comprehend unless something of
their own is thrown in by the performers, who therefore indulge in
restless movements. Bad flute-players twist and twirl, if they have to
represent 'the quoit-throw,' or hustle the coryphaeus when they perform
the 'Scylla.' Tragedy, it is said, has this same defect. We may compare
the opinion that the older actors entertained of their successors.
Mynniscus used to call Callippides 'ape' on account of the extravagance of
his action, and the same view was held of Pindarus. Tragic art, then, as a
whole, stands to Epic in the same relation as the younger to the elder
actors. So we are told that Epic poetry is addressed to a cultivated
audience, who do not need gesture; Tragedy, to an inferior public. Being
then unrefined, it is evidently the lower of the two.
Now, in the first place, this censure attaches not to the poetic but to
the histrionic art; for gesticulation may be equally overdone in epic
recitation, as by Sosi-stratus, or in lyrical competition, as by
Mnasitheus the Opuntian. Next, all action is not to be condemned any more
than all dancing—but only that of bad performers. Such was the fault
found in Callippides, as also in others of our own day, who are censured
for representing degraded women. Again, Tragedy like Epic poetry produces
its effect even without action; it reveals its power by mere reading. If,
then, in all other respects it is superior, this fault, we say, is not
inherent in it.
And superior it is, because it has all the epic elements—it may even
use the epic metre—with the music and spectacular effects as
important accessories; and these produce the most vivid of pleasures.
Further, it has vividness of impression in reading as well as in
representation. Moreover, the art attains its end within narrower limits;
for the concentrated effect is more pleasurable than one which is spread
over a long time and so diluted. What, for example, would be the effect of
the Oedipus of Sophocles, if it were cast into a form as long as the
Iliad? Once more, the Epic imitation has less unity; as is shown by this,
that any Epic poem will furnish subjects for several tragedies. Thus if
the story adopted by the poet has a strict unity, it must either be
concisely told and appear truncated; or, if it conform to the Epic canon
of length, it must seem weak and watery. (Such length implies some loss of
unity,) if, I mean, the poem is constructed out of several actions, like
the Iliad and the Odyssey, which have many such parts, each with a certain
magnitude of its own. Yet these poems are as perfect as possible in
structure; each is, in the highest degree attainable, an imitation of a
single action.
If, then, Tragedy is superior to Epic poetry in all these respects, and,
moreover, fulfils its specific function better as an art for each art
ought to produce, not any chance pleasure, but the pleasure proper to it,
as already stated it plainly follows that Tragedy is the higher art, as
attaining its end more perfectly.
Thus much may suffice concerning Tragic and Epic poetry in general; their
several kinds and parts, with the number of each and their differences;
the causes that make a poem good or bad; the objections of the critics and
the answers to these objections.
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