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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.]









Analysis of Contents



  I     'Imitation' the common principle of the Arts of Poetry.

  II    The Objects of Imitation.

  III   The Manner of Imitation.

  IV    The Origin and Development of Poetry.

  V     Definition of the Ludicrous, and a brief sketch of the rise of

        Comedy.

  VI    Definition of Tragedy.

  VII   The Plot must be a Whole.

  VIII  The Plot must be a Unity.

  IX    (Plot continued.) Dramatic Unity.

  X     (Plot continued.) Definitions of Simple and Complex Plots.

  XI    (Plot continued.) Reversal of the Situation, Recognition, and

        Tragic or disastrous Incident defined and explained.

  XII   The 'quantitative parts' of Tragedy defined.

  XIII  (Plot continued.) What constitutes Tragic Action.

  XIV   (Plot continued.) The tragic emotions of pity and fear should

        spring out of the Plot itself.

  XV    The element of Character in Tragedy.

  XVI   (Plot continued.) Recognition: its various kinds, with examples.

  XVII  Practical rules for the Tragic Poet.

  XVIII Further rules for the Tragic Poet.

  XIX   Thought, or the Intellectual element, and Diction in Tragedy.

  XX    Diction, or Language in general.

  XXI   Poetic Diction.

  XXII  (Poetic Diction continued.) How Poetry combines elevation of

        language with perspicuity.

  XXIII Epic Poetry.

  XXIV  (Epic Poetry continued.) Further points of agreement with Tragedy.

  XXV   Critical Objections brought against Poetry, and the principles on

        which they are to be answered.

  XXVI  A general estimate of the comparative worth of Epic Poetry and

        Tragedy.









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 surprise; 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.