ARISTOTLE：POETICS

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.

I

I propose to treat of Poetry in itself and of its various kinds, noting

the essential quality of each; to inquire into the structure of the plot

as requisite to a good poem; into the number and nature of the parts of

which a poem is composed; and similarly into whatever else falls within

the same inquiry. Following, then, the order of nature, let us begin with

the principles which come first.

Epic poetry and Tragedy, Comedy also and Dithyrambic: poetry, and the

music of the flute and of the lyre in most of their forms, are all in

their general conception modes of imitation. They differ, however, from

one: another in three respects,—the medium, the objects, the manner or

mode of imitation, being in each case distinct.

For as there are persons who, by conscious art or mere habit, imitate and

represent various objects through the medium of colour and form, or again

by the voice; so in the arts above mentioned, taken as a whole, the

imitation is produced by rhythm, language, or ‘harmony,’ either singly or

combined.

Thus in the music of the flute and of the lyre, ‘harmony’ and rhythm

alone are employed; also in other arts, such as that of the shepherd’s

pipe, which are essentially similar to these. In dancing, rhythm alone is

used without ‘harmony’; for even dancing imitates character, emotion, and

action, by rhythmical movement.

There is another art which imitates by means of language alone, and that

either in prose or verse—which, verse, again, may either combine

different metres or consist of but one kind—but this has hitherto been

without a name. For there is no common term we could apply to the mimes

of Sophron and Xenarchus and the Socratic dialogues on the one hand; and,

on the other, to poetic imitations in iambic, elegiac, or any similar

metre. People do, indeed, add the word ‘maker’ or ‘poet’ to the name of

the metre, and speak of elegiac poets, or epic (that is, hexameter)

poets, as if it were not the imitation that makes the poet, but the verse

that entitles them all indiscriminately to the name. Even when a treatise

on medicine or natural science is brought out in verse, the name of poet

is by custom given to the author; and yet Homer and Empedocles have

nothing in common but the metre, so that it would be right to call the

one poet, the other physicist rather than poet. On the same principle,

even if a writer in his poetic imitation were to combine all metres, as

Chaeremon did in his Centaur, which is a medley composed of metres of all

kinds, we should bring him too under the general term poet. So much then

for these distinctions.

There are, again, some arts which employ all the means above mentioned,

namely, rhythm, tune, and metre. Such are Dithyrambic and Nomic poetry,

and also Tragedy and Comedy; but between them the difference is, that in

the first two cases these means are all employed in combination, in the

latter, now one means is employed, now another.

Such, then, are the differences of the arts with respect to the medium of

imitation.

II

Since the objects of imitation are men in action, and these men must be

either of a higher or a lower type (for moral character mainly answers to

these divisions, goodness and badness being the distinguishing marks of

moral differences), it follows that we must represent men either as

better than in real life, or as worse, or as they are. It is the same in

painting. Polygnotus depicted men as nobler than they are, Pauson as less

noble, Dionysius drew them true to life.

Now it is evident that each of the modes of imitation above mentioned

will exhibit these differences, and become a distinct kind in imitating

objects that are thus distinct. Such diversities may be found even in

dancing,: flute-playing, and lyre-playing. So again in language, whether

prose or verse unaccompanied by music. Homer, for example, makes men

better than they are; Cleophon as they are; Hegemon the Thasian, the

inventor of parodies, and Nicochares, the author of the Deiliad, worse

than they are. The same thing holds good of Dithyrambs and Nomes; here

too one may portray different types, as Timotheus and Philoxenus differed

in representing their Cyclopes. The same distinction marks off Tragedy

from Comedy; for Comedy aims at representing men as worse, Tragedy as

better than in actual life.

III

There is still a third difference—the manner in which each of these

objects may be imitated. For the medium being the same, and the objects

the same, the poet may imitate by narration—in which case he can either

take another personality as Homer does, or speak in his own person,

unchanged—or he may present all his characters as living and moving

before us.

These, then, as we said at the beginning, are the three differences which

distinguish artistic imitation,—the medium, the objects, and the manner.

So that from one point of view, Sophocles is an imitator of the same kind

as Homer—for both imitate higher types of character; from another point

of view, of the same kind as Aristophanes—for both imitate persons

acting and doing. Hence, some say, the name of ‘drama’ is given to such

poems, as representing action. For the same reason the Dorians claim the

invention both of Tragedy and Comedy. The claim to Comedy is put forward

by the Megarians,—not only by those of Greece proper, who allege that it

originated under their democracy, but also by the Megarians of Sicily,

for the poet Epicharmus, who is much earlier than Chionides and Magnes,

belonged to that country. Tragedy too is claimed by certain Dorians of

the Peloponnese. In each case they appeal to the evidence of language.

The outlying villages, they say, are by them called {kappa omega mu alpha

iota}, by the Athenians {delta eta mu iota}: and they assume that

Comedians were so named not from {kappa omega mu ‘alpha zeta epsilon iota

nu}, ‘to revel,’ but because they wandered from village to village (kappa

alpha tau alpha / kappa omega mu alpha sigma), being excluded

contemptuously from the city. They add also that the Dorian word for

‘doing’ is {delta rho alpha nu}, and the Athenian, {pi rho alpha tau tau

epsilon iota nu}.

This may suffice as to the number and nature of the various modes of

imitation.

IV

Poetry in general seems to have sprung from two causes, each of them

lying deep in our nature. First, the instinct of imitation is implanted

in man from childhood, one difference between him and other animals being

that he is the most imitative of living creatures, and through imitation

learns his earliest lessons; and no less universal is the pleasure felt

in things imitated. We have evidence of this in the facts of experience.

Objects which in themselves we view with pain, we delight to contemplate

when reproduced with minute fidelity: such as the forms of the most

ignoble animals and of dead bodies. The cause of this again is, that to

learn gives the liveliest pleasure, not only to philosophers but to men

in general; whose capacity, however, of learning is more limited. Thus

the reason why men enjoy seeing a likeness is, that in contemplating it

they find themselves learning or inferring, and saying perhaps, ‘Ah, that

is he.’ For if you happen not to have seen the original, the pleasure

will be due not to the imitation as such, but to the execution, the

colouring, or some such other cause.

Imitation, then, is one instinct of our nature. Next, there is the

instinct for ‘harmony’ and rhythm, metres being manifestly sections of

rhythm. Persons, therefore, starting with this natural gift developed by

degrees their special aptitudes, till their rude improvisations gave

birth to Poetry.

Poetry now diverged in two directions, according to the individual

character of the writers. The graver spirits imitated noble actions, and

the actions of good men. The more trivial sort imitated the actions of

meaner persons, at first composing satires, as the former did hymns to

the gods and the praises of famous men. A poem of the satirical kind

cannot indeed be put down to any author earlier than Homer; though many

such writers probably there were. But from Homer onward, instances can be

cited,—his own Margites, for example, and other similar compositions.

The appropriate metre was also here introduced; hence the measure is

still called the iambic or lampooning measure, being that in which people

lampooned one another. Thus the older poets were distinguished as writers

of heroic or of lampooning verse.

As, in the serious style, Homer is pre-eminent among poets, for he alone

combined dramatic form with excellence of imitation, so he too first laid

down the main lines of Comedy, by dramatising the ludicrous instead of

writing personal satire. His Margites bears the same relation to Comedy

that the Iliad and Odyssey do to Tragedy. But when Tragedy and Comedy

came to light, the two classes of poets still followed their natural

bent: the lampooners became writers of Comedy, and the Epic poets were

succeeded by Tragedians, since the drama was a larger and higher form of

art.

Whether Tragedy has as yet perfected its proper types or not; and whether

it is to be judged in itself, or in relation also to the audience,—this

raises another question. Be that as it may, Tragedy—as also Comedy –

was at first mere improvisation. The one originated with the authors of

the Dithyramb, the other with those of the phallic songs, which are still

in use in many of our cities. Tragedy advanced by slow degrees; each new

element that showed itself was in turn developed. Having passed through

many changes, it found its natural form, and there it stopped.

Aeschylus first introduced a second actor; he diminished the importance

of the Chorus, and assigned the leading part to the dialogue. Sophocles

raised the number of actors to three, and added scene-painting. Moreover,

it was not till late that the short plot was discarded for one of greater

compass, and the grotesque diction of the earlier satyric form for the

stately manner of Tragedy. The iambic measure then replaced the trochaic

tetrameter, which was originally employed when the poetry was of the

Satyric order, and had greater affinities with dancing. Once dialogue had

come in, Nature herself discovered the appropriate measure. For the

iambic is, of all measures, the most colloquial: we see it in the fact

that conversational speech runs into iambic lines more frequently than

into any other kind of verse; rarely into hexameters, and only when we

drop the colloquial intonation. The additions to the number of ‘episodes’

or acts, and the other accessories of which tradition; tells, must be

taken as already described; for to discuss them in detail would,

doubtless, be a large undertaking.

V

Comedy is, as we have said, an imitation of characters of a lower type,

not, however, in the full sense of the word bad, the Ludicrous being

merely a subdivision of the ugly. It consists in some defect or ugliness

which is not painful or destructive. To take an obvious example, the

comic mask is ugly and distorted, but does not imply pain.

The successive changes through which Tragedy passed, and the authors of

these changes, are well known, whereas Comedy has had no history, because

it was not at first treated seriously. It was late before the Archon

granted a comic chorus to a poet; the performers were till then

voluntary. Comedy had already taken definite shape when comic poets,

distinctively so called, are heard of. Who furnished it with masks, or

prologues, or increased the number of actors,—these and other similar

details remain unknown. As for the plot, it came originally from Sicily;

but of Athenian writers Crates was the first who, abandoning the ‘iambic’

or lampooning form, generalised his themes and plots.

Epic poetry agrees with Tragedy in so far as it is an imitation in verse

of characters of a higher type. They differ, in that Epic poetry admits

but one kind of metre, and is narrative in form. They differ, again, in

their length: for Tragedy endeavours, as far as possible, to confine

itself to a single revolution of the sun, or but slightly to exceed this

limit; whereas the Epic action has no limits of time. This, then, is a

second point of difference; though at first the same freedom was admitted

in Tragedy as in Epic poetry.

Of their constituent parts some are common to both, some peculiar to

Tragedy, whoever, therefore, knows what is good or bad Tragedy, knows

also about Epic poetry. All the elements of an Epic poem are found in

Tragedy, but the elements of a Tragedy are not all found in the Epic

poem.

VI

Of the poetry which imitates in hexameter verse, and of Comedy, we will

speak hereafter. Let us now discuss Tragedy, resuming its formal

definition, as resulting from what has been already said.

Tragedy, then, is an imitation of an action that is serious, complete,

and of a certain magnitude; in language embellished with each kind of

artistic ornament, the several kinds being found in separate parts of the

play; in the form of action, not of narrative; through pity and fear

effecting the proper purgation of these emotions. By ‘language

embellished,’ I mean language into which rhythm, ‘harmony,’ and song

enter. By ‘the several kinds in separate parts,’ I mean, that some parts

are rendered through the medium of verse alone, others again with the aid

of song.

Now as tragic imitation implies persons acting, it necessarily follows,

in the first place, that Spectacular equipment will be a part of Tragedy.

Next, Song and Diction, for these are the medium of imitation. By

‘Diction’ I mean the mere metrical arrangement of the words: as for

‘Song,’ it is a term whose sense every one understands.

Again, Tragedy is the imitation of an action; and an action implies

personal agents, who necessarily possess certain distinctive qualities

both of character and thought; for it is by these that we qualify actions

themselves, and these—thought and character—are the two natural causes

from which actions spring, and on actions again all success or failure

depends. Hence, the Plot is the imitation of the action: for by plot I

here mean the arrangement of the incidents. By Character I mean that in

virtue of which we ascribe certain qualities to the agents. Thought is

required wherever a statement is proved, or, it may be, a general truth

enunciated. Every Tragedy, therefore, must have six parts, which parts

determine its quality—namely, Plot, Character, Diction, Thought,

Spectacle, Song. Two of the parts constitute the medium of imitation, one

the manner, and three the objects of imitation. And these complete the

list. These elements have been employed, we may say, by the poets to a

man; in fact, every play contains Spectacular elements as well as

Character, Plot, Diction, Song, and Thought.

But most important of all is the structure of the incidents. For Tragedy

is an imitation, not of men, but of an action and of life, and life

consists in action, and its end is a mode of action, not a quality. Now

character determines men’s qualities, but it is by their actions that

they are happy or the reverse. Dramatic action, therefore, is not with a

view to the representation of character: character comes in as subsidiary

to the actions. Hence the incidents and the plot are the end of a

tragedy; and the end is the chief thing of all. Again, without action

there cannot be a tragedy; there may be without character. The tragedies

of most of our modern poets fail in the rendering of character; and of

poets in general this is often true. It is the same in painting; and here

lies the difference between Zeuxis and Polygnotus. Polygnotus delineates

character well: the style of Zeuxis is devoid of ethical quality. Again,

if you string together a set of speeches expressive of character, and

well finished in point of diction and thought, you will not produce the

essential tragic effect nearly so well as with a play which, however

deficient in these respects, yet has a plot and artistically constructed

incidents. Besides which, the most powerful elements of emotional:

interest in Tragedy Peripeteia or Reversal of the Situation, and

Recognition scenes—are parts of the plot. A further proof is, that

novices in the art attain to finish: of diction and precision of

portraiture before they can construct the plot. It is the same with

almost all the early poets.

The Plot, then, is the first principle, and, as it were, the soul of a

tragedy: Character holds the second place. A similar fact is seen in

painting. The most beautiful colours, laid on confusedly, will not give

as much pleasure as the chalk outline of a portrait. Thus Tragedy is the

imitation of an action, and of the agents mainly with a view to the

action.

Third in order is Thought,—that is, the faculty of saying what is

possible and pertinent in given circumstances. In the case of oratory,

this is the function of the Political art and of the art of rhetoric: and

so indeed the older poets make their characters speak the language of

civic life; the poets of our time, the language of the rhetoricians.

Character is that which reveals moral purpose, showing what kind of

things a man chooses or avoids. Speeches, therefore, which do not make

this manifest, or in which the speaker does not choose or avoid anything

whatever, are not expressive of character. Thought, on the other hand, is

found where something is proved to be. or not to be, or a general maxim

is enunciated.

Fourth among the elements enumerated comes Diction; by which I mean, as

has been already said, the expression of the meaning in words; and its

essence is the same both in verse and prose.

Of the remaining elements Song holds the chief place among the

embellishments.

The Spectacle has, indeed, an emotional attraction of its own, but, of

all the parts, it is the least artistic, and connected least with the art

of poetry. For the power of Tragedy, we may be sure, is felt even apart

from representation and actors. Besides, the production of spectacular

effects depends more on the art of the stage machinist than on that of

the poet.

VII

These principles being established, let us now discuss the proper

structure of the Plot, since this is the first and most important thing

in Tragedy.

Now, according to our definition, Tragedy is an imitation of an action

that is complete, and whole, and of a certain magnitude; for there may be

a whole that is wanting in magnitude. A whole is that which has a

beginning, a middle, and an end. A beginning is that which does not

itself follow anything by causal necessity, but after which something

naturally is or comes to be. An end, on the contrary, is that which

itself naturally follows some other thing, either by necessity, or as a

rule, but has nothing following it. A middle is that which follows

something as some other thing follows it. A well constructed plot,

therefore, must neither begin nor end at haphazard, but conform to these

principles.

Again, a beautiful object, whether it be a living organism or any whole

composed of parts, must not only have an orderly arrangement of parts,

but must also be of a certain magnitude; for beauty depends on magnitude

and order. Hence a very small animal organism cannot be beautiful; for

the view of it is confused, the object being seen in an almost

imperceptible moment of time. Nor, again, can one of vast size be

beautiful; for as the eye cannot take it all in at once, the unity and

sense of the whole is lost for the spectator; as for instance if there

were one a thousand miles long. As, therefore, in the case of animate

bodies and organisms a certain magnitude is necessary, and a magnitude

which may be easily embraced in one view; so in the plot, a certain

length is necessary, and a length which can be easily embraced by the

memory. The limit of length in relation to dramatic competition and

sensuous presentment, is no part of artistic theory. For had it been the

rule for a hundred tragedies to compete together, the performance would

have been regulated by the water-clock,—as indeed we are told was

formerly done. But the limit as fixed by the nature of the drama itself

is this: the greater the length, the more beautiful will the piece be by

reason of its size, provided that the whole be perspicuous. And to define

the matter roughly, we may say that the proper magnitude is comprised

within such limits, that the sequence of events, according to the law of

probability or necessity, will admit of a change from bad fortune to

good, or from good fortune to bad.

VIII

Unity of plot does not, as some persons think, consist in the Unity of

the hero. For infinitely various are the incidents in one man’s life

which cannot be reduced to unity; and so, too, there are many actions of

one man out of which we cannot make one action. Hence, the error, as it

appears, of all poets who have composed a Heracleid, a Theseid, or other

poems of the kind. They imagine that as Heracles was one man, the story

of Heracles must also be a unity. But Homer, as in all else he is of

surpassing merit, here too—whether from art or natural genius—seems to

have happily discerned the truth. In composing the Odyssey he did not

include all the adventures of Odysseus—such as his wound on Parnassus,

or his feigned madness at the mustering of the host—incidents between

which there was no necessary or probable connection: but he made the

Odyssey, and likewise the Iliad, to centre round an action that in our

sense of the word is one. As therefore, in the other imitative arts, the

imitation is one when the object imitated is one, so the plot, being an

imitation of an action, must imitate one action and that a whole, the

structural union of the parts being such that, if any one of them is

displaced or removed, the whole will be disjointed and disturbed. For a

thing whose presence or absence makes no visible difference, is not an

organic part of the whole.

IX

It is, moreover, evident from what has been said, that it is not the

function of the poet to relate what has happened, but what may happen,—

what is possible according to the law of probability or necessity. The

poet and the historian differ not by writing in verse or in prose. The

work of Herodotus might be put into verse, and it would still be a

species of history, with metre no less than without it. The true

difference is that one relates what has happened, the other what may

happen. Poetry, therefore, is a more philosophical and a higher thing

than history: for poetry tends to express the universal, history the

particular. By the universal, I mean how a person of a certain type will

on occasion speak or act, according to the law of probability or

necessity; and it is this universality at which poetry aims in the names

she attaches to the personages. The particular is—for example—what

Alcibiades did or suffered. In Comedy this is already apparent: for here

the poet first constructs the plot on the lines of probability, and then

inserts characteristic names;—unlike the lampooners who write about

particular individuals. But tragedians still keep to real names, the

reason being that what is possible is credible: what has not happened we

do not at once feel sure to be possible: but what has happened is

manifestly possible: otherwise it would not have happened. Still there

are even some tragedies in which there are only one or two well known

names, the rest being fictitious. In others, none are well known, as in

Agathon’s Antheus, where incidents and names alike are fictitious, and

yet they give none the less pleasure. We must not, therefore, at all

costs keep to the received legends, which are the usual subjects of

Tragedy. Indeed, it would be absurd to attempt it; for even subjects that

are known are known only to a few, and yet give pleasure to all. It

clearly follows that the poet or ‘maker’ should be the maker of plots

rather than of verses; since he is a poet because he imitates, and what

he imitates are actions. And even if he chances to take an historical

subject, he is none the less a poet; for there is no reason why some

events that have actually happened should not conform to the law of the

probable and possible, and in virtue of that quality in them he is their

poet or maker.

Of all plots and actions the epeisodic are the worst. I call a plot

‘epeisodic’ in which the episodes or acts succeed one another without

probable or necessary sequence. Bad poets compose such pieces by their

own fault, good poets, to please the players; for, as they write show

pieces for competition, they stretch the plot beyond its capacity, and

are often forced to break the natural continuity.

But again, Tragedy is an imitation not only of a complete action, but of

events inspiring fear or pity. Such an effect is best produced when the

events come on us by sunrise; and the effect is heightened when, at the

same time, they follow as cause and effect. The tragic wonder will thee

be greater than if they happened of themselves or by accident; for even

coincidences are most striking when they have an air of design. We may

instance the statue of Mitys at Argos, which fell upon his murderer while

he was a spectator at a festival, and killed him. Such events seem not to

be due to mere chance. Plots, therefore, constructed on these principles

are necessarily the best.

X

Plots are either Simple or Complex, for the actions in real life, of

which the plots are an imitation, obviously show a similar distinction.

An action which is one and continuous in the sense above defined, I call

Simple, when the change of fortune takes place without Reversal of the

Situation and without Recognition.

A Complex action is one in which the change is accompanied by such

Reversal, or by Recognition, or by both. These last should arise from the

internal structure of the plot, so that what follows should be the

necessary or probable result of the preceding action. It makes all the

difference whether any given event is a case of propter hoc or post hoc.

XI

Reversal of the Situation is a change by which the action veers round to

its opposite, subject always to our rule of probability or necessity.

Thus in the Oedipus, the messenger comes to cheer Oedipus and free him

from his alarms about his mother, but by revealing who he is, he produces

the opposite effect. Again in the Lynceus, Lynceus is being led away to

his death, and Danaus goes with him, meaning, to slay him; but the

outcome of the preceding incidents is that Danaus is killed and Lynceus

saved. Recognition, as the name indicates, is a change from ignorance to

knowledge, producing love or hate between the persons destined by the

poet for good or bad fortune. The best form of recognition is coincident

with a Reversal of the Situation, as in the Oedipus. There are indeed

other forms. Even inanimate things of the most trivial kind may in a

sense be objects of recognition. Again, we may recognise or discover

whether a person has done a thing or not. But the recognition which is

most intimately connected with the plot and action is, as we have said,

the recognition of persons. This recognition, combined, with Reversal,

will produce either pity or fear; and actions producing these effects are

those which, by our definition, Tragedy represents. Moreover, it is upon

such situations that the issues of good or bad fortune will depend.

Recognition, then, being between persons, it may happen that one person

only is recognised by the other-when the latter is already known—or it

may be necessary that the recognition should be on both sides. Thus

Iphigenia is revealed to Orestes by the sending of the letter; but

another act of recognition is required to make Orestes known to

Iphigenia.

Two parts, then, of the Plot—Reversal of the Situation and Recognition—

turn upon surprises. A third part is the Scene of Suffering. The Scene of

Suffering is a destructive or painful action, such as death on the stage,

bodily agony, wounds and the like.

XII

[The parts of Tragedy which must be treated as elements of the whole have

been already mentioned. We now come to the quantitative parts, and the

separate parts into which Tragedy is divided, namely, Prologue, Episode,

Exode, Choric song; this last being divided into Parode and Stasimon.

These are common to all plays: peculiar to some are the songs of actors

from the stage and the Commoi.

The Prologue is that entire part of a tragedy which precedes the Parode

of the Chorus. The Episode is that entire part of a tragedy which is

between complete choric songs. The Exode is that entire part of a tragedy

which has no choric song after it. Of the Choric part the Parode is the

first undivided utterance of the Chorus: the Stasimon is a Choric ode

without anapaests or trochaic tetrameters: the Commos is a joint

lamentation of Chorus and actors. The parts of Tragedy which must be

treated as elements of the whole have been already mentioned. The

quantitative parts the separate parts into which it is divided—are here

enumerated.]

XIII

As the sequel to what has already been said, we must proceed to consider

what the poet should aim at, and what he should avoid, in constructing

his plots; and by what means the specific effect of Tragedy will be

produced.

A perfect tragedy should, as we have seen, be arranged not on the simple

but on the complex plan. It should, moreover, imitate actions which

excite pity and fear, this being the distinctive mark of tragic

imitation. It follows plainly, in the first place, that the change, of

fortune presented must not be the spectacle of a virtuous man brought

from prosperity to adversity: for this moves neither pity nor fear; it

merely shocks us. Nor, again, that of a bad man passing from adversity to

prosperity: for nothing can be more alien to the spirit of Tragedy; it

possesses no single tragic quality; it neither satisfies the moral sense

nor calls forth pity or fear. Nor, again, should the downfall of the

utter villain be exhibited. A plot of this kind would, doubtless, satisfy

the moral sense, but it would inspire neither pity nor fear; for pity is

aroused by unmerited misfortune, fear by the misfortune of a man like

ourselves. Such an event, therefore, will be neither pitiful nor

terrible. There remains, then, the character between these two extremes,-

-that of a man who is not eminently good and just,-yet whose misfortune

is brought about not by vice or depravity, but by some error or frailty.

He must be one who is highly renowned and prosperous,—a personage like

Oedipus, Thyestes, or other illustrious men of such families.

A well constructed plot should, therefore, be single in its issue, rather

than double as some maintain. The change of fortune should be not from

bad to good, but, reversely, from good to bad. It should come about as

the result not of vice, but of some great error or frailty, in a

character either such as we have described, or better rather than worse.

The practice of the stage bears out our view. At first the poets

recounted any legend that came in their way. Now, the best tragedies are

founded on the story of a few houses, on the fortunes of Alcmaeon,

Oedipus, Orestes, Meleager, Thyestes, Telephus, and those others who have

done or suffered something terrible. A tragedy, then, to be perfect

according to the rules of art should be of this construction. Hence they

are in error who censure Euripides just because he follows this principle

in his plays, many of which end unhappily. It is, as we have said, the

right ending. The best proof is that on the stage and in dramatic

competition, such plays, if well worked out, are the most tragic in

effect; and Euripides, faulty though he may be in the general management

of his subject, yet is felt to be the most tragic of the poets.

In the second rank comes the kind of tragedy which some place first. Like

the Odyssey, it has a double thread of plot, and also an opposite

catastrophe for the good and for the bad. It is accounted the best

because of the weakness of the spectators; for the poet is guided in what

he writes by the wishes of his audience. The pleasure, however, thence

derived is not the true tragic pleasure. It is proper rather to Comedy,

where those who, in the piece, are the deadliest enemies–like Orestes

and Aegisthus—quit the stage as friends at the close, and no one slays

or is slain.

XIV

Fear and pity may be aroused by spectacular means; but they may also

result from the inner structure of the piece, which is the better way,

and indicates a superior poet. For the plot ought to be so constructed

that, even without the aid of the eye, he who hears the tale told will

thrill with horror and melt to pity at what takes place. This is the

impression we should receive from hearing the story of the Oedipus. But

to produce this effect by the mere spectacle is a less artistic method,

and dependent on extraneous aids. Those who employ spectacular means to

create a sense not of the terrible but only of the monstrous, are

strangers to the purpose of Tragedy; for we must not demand of Tragedy

any and every kind of pleasure, but only that which is proper to it. And

since the pleasure which the poet should afford is that which comes from

pity and fear through imitation, it is evident that this quality must be

impressed upon the incidents.

Let us then determine what are the circumstances which strike us as

terrible or pitiful.

Actions capable of this effect must happen between persons who are either

friends or enemies or indifferent to one another. If an enemy kills an

enemy, there is nothing to excite pity either in the act or the

intention, —except so far as the suffering in itself is pitiful. So

again with indifferent persons. But when the tragic incident occurs

between those who are near or dear to one another—if, for example, a

brother kills, or intends to kill, a brother, a son his father, a mother

her son, a son his mother, or any other deed of the kind is done–these

are the situations to be looked for by the poet. He may not indeed

destroy the framework of the received legends—the fact, for instance,

that Clytemnestra was slain by Orestes and Eriphyle by Alcmaeon but he

ought to show invention of his own, and skilfully handle the traditional

material. Let us explain more clearly what is meant by skilful handling.

The action may be done consciously and with knowledge of the persons, in

the manner of the older poets. It is thus too that Euripides makes Medea

slay her children. Or, again, the deed of horror may be done, but done in

ignorance, and the tie of kinship or friendship be discovered afterwards.

The Oedipus of Sophocles is an example. Here, indeed, the incident is

outside the drama proper; but cases occur where it falls within the

action of the play: one may cite the Alcmaeon of Astydamas, or Telegonus

in the Wounded Odysseus. Again, there is a third case,—<to be about to

act with knowledge of the persons and then not to act. The fourth case

is> when some one is about to do an irreparable deed through ignorance,

and makes the discovery before it is done. These are the only possible

ways. For the deed must either be done or not done,—and that wittingly

or unwittingly. But of all these ways, to be about to act knowing the

persons, and then not to act, is the worst. It is shocking without being

tragic, for no disaster follows. It is, therefore, never, or very rarely,

found in poetry. One instance, however, is in the Antigone, where Haemon

threatens to kill Creon. The next and better way is that the deed should

be perpetrated. Still better, that it should be perpetrated in ignorance,

and the discovery made afterwards. There is then nothing to shock us,

while the discovery produces a startling effect. The last case is the

best, as when in the Cresphontes Merope is about to slay her son, but,

recognising who he is, spares his life. So in the Iphigenia, the sister

recognises the brother just in time. Again in the Helle, the son

recognises the mother when on the point of giving her up. This, then, is

why a few families only, as has been already observed, furnish the

subjects of tragedy. It was not art, but happy chance, that led the poets

in search of subjects to impress the tragic quality upon their plots.

They are compelled, therefore, to have recourse to those houses whose

history contains moving incidents like these.

Enough has now been said concerning the structure of the incidents, and

the right kind of plot.

XV

In respect of Character there are four things to be aimed at. First, and

most important, it must be good. Now any speech or action that manifests

moral purpose of any kind will be expressive of character: the character

will be good if the purpose is good. This rule is relative to each class.

Even a woman may be good, and also a slave; though the woman may be said

to be an inferior being, and the slave quite worthless. The second thing

to aim at is propriety. There is a type of manly valour; but valour in a

woman, or unscrupulous cleverness, is inappropriate. Thirdly, character

must be true to life: for this is a distinct thing from goodness and

propriety, as here described. The fourth point is consistency: for though

the subject of the imitation, who suggested the type, be inconsistent,

still he must be consistently inconsistent. As an example of motiveless

degradation of character, we have Menelaus in the Orestes: of character

indecorous and inappropriate, the lament of Odysseus in the Scylla, and

the speech of Melanippe: of inconsistency, the Iphigenia at Aulis,—for

Iphigenia the suppliant in no way resembles her later self.

As in the structure of the plot, so too in the portraiture of character,

the poet should always aim either at the necessary or the probable. Thus

a person of a given character should speak or act in a given way, by the

rule either of necessity or of probability; just as this event should

follow that by necessary or probable sequence. It is therefore evident

that the unravelling of the plot, no less than the complication, must

arise out of the plot itself, it must not be brought about by the ‘Deus

ex Machina’—as in the Medea, or in the Return of the Greeks in the

Iliad. The ‘Deus ex Machina’ should be employed only for events external

to the drama,—for antecedent or subsequent events, which lie beyond the

range of human knowledge, and which require to be reported or foretold;

for to the gods we ascribe the power of seeing all things. Within the

action there must be nothing irrational. If the irrational cannot be

excluded, it should be outside the scope of the tragedy. Such is the

irrational element in the Oedipus of Sophocles.

Again, since Tragedy is an imitation of persons who are above the

common level, the example of good portrait-painters should be followed.

They, while reproducing the distinctive form of the original, make a

likeness which is true to life and yet more beautiful. So too the poet,

in representing men who are irascible or indolent, or have other defects

of character, should preserve the type and yet ennoble it. In this way

Achilles is portrayed by Agathon and Homer.

These then are rules the poet should observe. Nor should he neglect those

appeals to the senses, which, though not among the essentials, are the

concomitants of poetry; for here too there is much room for error. But of

this enough has been said in our published treatises.

XVI

What Recognition is has been already explained. We will now enumerate its

kinds.

First, the least artistic form, which, from poverty of wit, is most

commonly employed recognition by signs. Of these some are congenital,—

such as ‘the spear which the earth-born race bear on their bodies,’ or

the stars introduced by Carcinus in his Thyestes. Others are acquired

after birth; and of these some are bodily marks, as scars; some external

tokens, as necklaces, or the little ark in the Tyro by which the

discovery is effected. Even these admit of more or less skilful

treatment. Thus in the recognition of Odysseus by his scar, the discovery

is made in one way by the nurse, in another by the swineherds. The use of

tokens for the express purpose of proof —and, indeed, any formal proof

with or without tokens —is a less artistic mode of recognition. A better

kind is that which comes about by a turn of incident, as in the Bath

Scene in the Odyssey.

Next come the recognitions invented at will by the poet, and on that

account wanting in art. For example, Orestes in the Iphigenia reveals the

fact that he is Orestes. She, indeed, makes herself known by the letter;

but he, by speaking himself, and saying what the poet, not what the plot

requires. This, therefore, is nearly allied to the fault above

mentioned:—for Orestes might as well have brought tokens with him.

Another similar instance is the ‘voice of the shuttle’ in the Tereus of

Sophocles.

The third kind depends on memory when the sight of some object awakens a

feeling: as in the Cyprians of Dicaeogenes, where the hero breaks into

tears on seeing the picture; or again in the ‘Lay of Alcinous,’ where

Odysseus, hearing the minstrel play the lyre, recalls the past and weeps;

and hence the recognition.

The fourth kind is by process of reasoning. Thus in the Choephori: ‘Some

one resembling me has come: no one resembles me but Orestes: therefore

Orestes has come.’ Such too is the discovery made by Iphigenia in the

play of Polyidus the Sophist. It was a natural reflection for Orestes to

make, ‘So I too must die at the altar like my sister.’ So, again, in the

Tydeus of Theodectes, the father says, ‘I came to find my son, and I lose

my own life.’ So too in the Phineidae: the women, on seeing the place,

inferred their fate:—‘Here we are doomed to die, for here we were cast

forth.’ Again, there is a composite kind of recognition involving false

inference on the part of one of the characters, as in the Odysseus

Disguised as a Messenger. A said <that no one else was able to bend the

bow; … hence B (the disguised Odysseus) imagined that A would>

recognise the bow which, in fact, he had not seen; and to bring about a

recognition by this means that the expectation A would recognise the bow

is false inference.

But, of all recognitions, the best is that which arises from the

incidents themselves, where the startling discovery is made by natural

means. Such is that in the Oedipus of Sophocles, and in the Iphigenia;

for it was natural that Iphigenia should wish to dispatch a letter. These

recognitions alone dispense with the artificial aid of tokens or amulets.

Next come the recognitions by process of reasoning.

XVII

In constructing the plot and working it out with the proper diction, the

poet should place the scene, as far as possible, before his eyes. In this

way, seeing everything with the utmost vividness, as if he were a

spectator of the action, he will discover what is in keeping with it, and

be most unlikely to overlook inconsistencies. The need of such a rule is

shown by the fault found in Carcinus. Amphiaraus was on his way from the

temple. This fact escaped the observation of one who did not see the

situation. On the stage, however, the piece failed, the audience being

offended at the oversight.

Again, the poet should work out his play, to the best of his power, with

appropriate gestures; for those who feel emotion are most convincing

through natural sympathy with the characters they represent; and one who

is agitated storms, one who is angry rages, with the most life-like

reality. Hence poetry implies either a happy gift of nature or a strain

of madness. In the one case a man can take the mould of any character; in

the other, he is lifted out of his proper self.

As for the story, whether the poet takes it ready made or constructs it

for himself, he should first sketch its general outline, and then fill in

the episodes and amplify in detail. The general plan may be illustrated

by the Iphigenia. A young girl is sacrificed; she disappears mysteriously

from the eyes of those who sacrificed her; She is transported to another

country, where the custom is to offer up all strangers to the goddess. To

this ministry she is appointed. Some time later her own brother chances

to arrive. The fact that the oracle for some reason ordered him to go

there, is outside the general plan of the play. The purpose, again, of

his coming is outside the action proper. However, he comes, he is seized,

and, when on the point of being sacrificed, reveals who he is. The mode

of recognition may be either that of Euripides or of Polyidus, in whose

play he exclaims very naturally:—‘So it was not my sister only, but I

too, who was doomed to be sacrificed’; and by that remark he is saved.

After this, the names being once given, it remains to fill in the

episodes. We must see that they are relevant to the action. In the case

of Orestes, for example, there is the madness which led to his capture,

and his deliverance by means of the purificatory rite. In the drama, the

episodes are short, but it is these that give extension to Epic poetry.

Thus the story of the Odyssey can be stated briefly. A certain man is

absent from home for many years; he is jealously watched by Poseidon, and

left desolate. Meanwhile his home is in a wretched plight–suitors are

wasting his substance and plotting against his son. At length, tempest-tost, he himself arrives; he makes certain persons acquainted with him;

he attacks the suitors with his own hand, and is himself preserved while

he destroys them. This is the essence of the plot; the rest is episode.

XVIII

Every tragedy falls into two parts,—Complication and Unravelling or

Denouement. Incidents extraneous to the action are frequently combined

with a portion of the action proper, to form the Complication; the rest

is the Unravelling. By the Complication I mean all that extends from the

beginning of the action to the part which marks the turning-point to good

or bad fortune. The Unravelling is that which extends from the beginning

of the change to the end. Thus, in the Lynceus of Theodectes, the

Complication consists of the incidents presupposed in the drama, the

seizure of the child, and then again 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.’

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 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.

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.