Title: Poetics. English - The Poetics of Aristotle
Author: Aristotle, 384 BC-322 BC
Language: English
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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,
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,-- 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  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 , 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,  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.  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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