شاعرانگی

  Poetics

  By Aristotle

  Written 350 B.C.E

  Translated by S. H. Butcher

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        Section 1   

  Part 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 color 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
  meters 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 meter. People do, indeed,
  add the word 'maker' or 'poet' to the name of the meter, 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 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 meter, 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 meters, as Chaeremon did
  in his Centaur, which is a medley composed of meters 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 meter. Such are Dithyrambic and Nomic poetry, and
  also Tragedy and Comedy; but between them originally 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

  Part 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.

  Part 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
  komai, by the Athenians demoi: and they assume that comedians were so named
  not from komazein, 'to revel,' but because they wandered from village to
  village (kata komas), being excluded contemptuously from the city. They add
  also that the Dorian word for 'doing' is dran, and the Athenian, prattein.

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

  Part 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 coloring, or some such other cause.

  Imitation, then, is one instinct of our nature. Next, there is the instinct
  for 'harmony' and rhythm, meters 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 meter 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 dramatizing 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
  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.

  Part 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, generalized 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 meter and is narrative in form. They differ, again, in their length:
  for Tragedy endeavors, 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.

  Part 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 media 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 fist. 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 colors, 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.

  Part 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.

  Part 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 center 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.

  Part 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 meter 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 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 a 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 episodic are the worst. I call a plot 'episodic'
  in which the episodes or acts succeed one another without probable or
  necessary sequence. Bad poets compose such pieces by their own fault, good
  poets, to please the players; for, as they write show pieces for competition,
  they stretch the plot beyond its capacity, and are often forced to break the
  natural continuity.

  But again, Tragedy is an imitation not only of a complete action, but of
  events inspiring fear or pity. Such an effect is best produced when the events
  come on us by surprise; and the effect is heightened when, at the same time,
  they follows as cause and effect. The tragic wonder will then 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.

  Part 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.

  Part 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 recognize 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 recognized 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.

        Section 2   

  Part 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- 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.

  Part 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.

  Part 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 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,
  recognizing who he is, spares his life. So in the Iphigenia, the sister
  recognizes the brother just in time. Again in the Helle, the son recognizes
  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.

  Part 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 valor; but valor 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 unraveling 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 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.

  Part 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]
  recognize the bow which, in fact, he had not seen; and to bring about a
  recognition by this means- the expectation that A would recognize 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.

  Part 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 lifelike 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 an 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.

  Part XVIII

  Every tragedy falls into two parts- Complication and Unraveling 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 Unraveling. 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 Unraveling
  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
  Unraveling] extends from the accusation of murder to

  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 endeavor,
  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 caviling
  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 Unraveling are the same.
  Many poets tie the knot well, but unravel it 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 dramatized 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 marvelous 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: '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.

  Part 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 effects
  aimed at in 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.

  Part XX

  Language in general includes the following parts: Letter, Syllable, Connecting
  Word, Noun, Verb, Inflection 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
  semivowel, or a mute. A vowel is that which without impact of tongue or lip
  has an audible sound. A semivowel 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 meter.

  A Syllable is a nonsignificant 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 nonsignificant 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 nonsignificant sound, which
  out of several sounds, each of them significant, is capable of forming one
  significant sound- as amphi, peri, and the like. Or, a nonsignificant 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 men,
  etoi, de.

  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 doron 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.

  Inflection 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 inflections 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.

  Poetics

  By Aristotle  

        Section 3  

  Part XXI

  Words are of two kinds, simple and double. By simple I mean those composed of
  nonsignificant elements, such as ge, 'earth.' By double or compound, those
  composed either of a significant and nonsignificant 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 sigynon, '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 arusai, 'to draw away'
  is used for tamein, 'to cleave,' and tamein, again for arusai- 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 ernyges,
  'sprouters,' for kerata, 'horns'; and areter, 'supplicator', for hiereus,
  '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: poleos for poleos, Peleiadeo for Peleidou; of
  contraction: kri, do, and ops, as in mia ginetai amphoteron ops, 'the
  appearance of both is one.'

  An altered word is one in which part of the ordinary form is left unchanged,
  and part is recast: as in dexiteron kata mazon, 'on the right breast,'
  dexiteron is for dexion.

  Nouns in themselves are either masculine, feminine, or neuter. Masculine are
  such as end in N, R, S, or in some letter compounded with S- these being two,
  PS and X. Feminine, such as end in vowels that are always long, namely E and
  O, and- of vowels that admit of lengthening- those in A. Thus the number of
  letters in which nouns masculine and feminine end is the same; for PS and X
  are equivalent to endings in S. No noun ends in a mute or a vowel short by
  nature. Three only end in I- meli, 'honey'; kommi, 'gum'; peperi, 'pepper';
  five end in U. Neuter nouns end in these two latter vowels; also in N and S.

  Part 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 cleanness 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:

  "Epicharen eidon Marathonade badizonta,

  "I saw Epichares walking to Marathon, "

  or,

  "ouk an g'eramenos ton ekeinou elleboron.

  "Not if you desire his hellebore. "

  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:

  "phagedaina d'he mou sarkas esthiei podos.

  "The tumor which is eating the flesh of my foot. "

  Euripides substitutes thoinatai, 'feasts on,' for esthiei, 'feeds on.' Again,
  in the line,

  "nun de m'eon oligos te kai outidanos kai aeikes,

  "Yet a small man, worthless and unseemly, "

  the difference will be felt if we substitute the common words,

  "nun de m'eon mikros te kai asthenikos kai aeides.

  "Yet a little fellow, weak and ugly. "

  Or, if for the line,

  "diphron aeikelion katatheis oligen te trapezan,

  "Setting an unseemly couch and a meager table, "

  we read,

  "diphron mochtheron katatheis mikran te trapezan.

  "Setting a wretched couch and a puny table. "

  Or, for eiones booosin, 'the sea shores roar,' eiones krazousin, 'the sea
  shores screech.'

  Again, Ariphrades ridiculed the tragedians for using phrases which no one
  would employ in ordinary speech: for example, domaton apo, 'from the house
  away,' instead of apo domaton, 'away from the house;' sethen, ego de nin, 'to
  thee, and I to him;' Achilleos peri, 'Achilles about,' instead of peri
  Achilleos, 'about Achilles;' 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.

  Part XXIII

  As to that poetic imitation which is narrative in form and employs a single
  meter, 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.

  Part 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 meter. 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 meter, the heroic measure has proved its fitness by hexameter test
  of experience. If a narrative poem in any other meter or in many meters 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
  meters, 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
  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

  Part 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.' 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 oureas men proton, 'the mules first [he killed],'
  where the poet perhaps employs oureas not in the sense of mules, but of
  sentinels. So, again, of Dolon: 'ill-favored 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 eueides, 'well-flavored' to denote a fair face. Again,
  zoroteron de keraie, '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 marveled 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... , oie, '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, didomen (didomen) de hoi, and to
  men hou (ou) kataputhetai ombro.

  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 parocheken de pleo nux, where the word
  pleo is ambiguous.

  Or by the usage of language. Thus any mixed drink is called oinos, '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 chalkeas, 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 judgement 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 realty.' 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.

  Part 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
  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 Sosistratus, 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 an the epic elements- it may even use the
  epic meter- 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 conforms to the Epic canon of
  length, it must seem weak and watery. [Such length implies some loss of
  unity,] if, I mean, the poem is constructed out of several actions, like the
  Iliad and the Odyssey, which have many such parts, each with a certain
  magnitude of its own. Yet these poems are as perfect as possible in structure;
  each is, in the highest degree attainable, an imitation of a single action.

  If, then, tragedy is superior to epic poetry in all these respects, and,
  moreover, fulfills 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....

  THE END