If, as Alfred North Whitehead maintained, "all of Western philosophy is but a footnote to Plato," can we make the same claim for Western literary theory?
Yes, in the sense that Plato—and his pupil, Aristotle—produced works that have been preserved and read over the centuries, works that set forth strongly argued positions about the nature and purpose of literary art. *Platonic Idealism and the concept of *mimesis that it entails remain powerful assumptions behind current debates about the canon, literary evaluation, and speech-centered versus writing-centered knowledge. Further, Plato’s fears that poets (for classical theorists, ‘poets’ included dramatists and, by extension, all creative writers) were bad influences on the public inaugurate discussion of art’s ethical dimension and the dynamics between artist and audience. Whereas Plato’s thinking was grounded in the ideal world of Being, his pupil Aristotle’s thinking was grounded in the physical world of Becoming—in the processes of nature, in the definitions of kinds, parts, and functions. Aristotle’s analytical methods, adapted for each subject he studied, have patterned modern notions of academic (and career) disciplines; his explanation and classification of tragedy can be seen as the first document of formalist textual criticism, and his concept of *katharsis critiques Plato’s position on the public ‘use’ of art.
No, in the sense that ‘footnote’ implies not only a later but also a lesser development—the implication being that everything worthy of being said about literary art had already been uttered by the end of the fourth century BCE. Plato and Aristotle were products of their time (a time of exterior conflict and of interior dissent) and therefore limited to thinking within the parameters of the possible available at that time. For instance, since printing would not be invented (in the West) for almost 2000 years, their notion of literary art was based on oral performance and therefore immediate audiences (the solitary reader would be almost inconceivable); their slaveholding society also relegated women to (at best) second-class citizenship, making consideration of relationships among texts, institutions, gender, and ethnicity highly unlikely. Further, the increasing ‘globalization of culture’ that has occurred in the last few centuries has brought Western critics into contact with non-Western modes of philosophy, literary theory, and textual production—and thus contemporary critical practice does not depend solely on the ‘Western tradition.’
Following are excerpts from Plato’s Dialogues (his thought is couched in the form of conversations between Socrates and a variety of pupils, conversations taking place in the Academy) and from Aristotle’s Poetics (a treatise meant to be discussed in ‘classes’ at the Lyceum). Read these carefully, mark passages that seem important, disputable, or unclear, and be ready to discuss them in class. Also think about whether any of the issues they raise (e.g., the influence of art on people’s behavior, the impact of new communications technologies, the relationship between art and inspiration on the one hand and deliberate craft on the other, the best way to learn and to teach) are still of public importance today.
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--from Plato’s Republic, Book Ten
[Socrates is positing an Ideal State {the Republic} in conversation with friends; I have italicized the friends’ remarks to distinguish them from Socrates’ words.]
Of the many excellences which I perceive in the order of our State, there is none which upon reflection pleases me better than the rule about poetry.
To what do you refer?
To our refusal to admit the imitative kind of poetry, for it certainly ought not to be received; as I see far more clearly now that the parts of the soul have been distinguished.
What do you mean?
Speaking in confidence, for you will not denounce me to the tragedians and the rest of the imitative tribe, all poetical imitations are ruinous to the understanding of the hearers, unless as an antidote they possess the knowledge of the true nature of the originals.
[Socrates is asked to explain what he means by originals and imitations.]
Let us take, for our present purpose, any instance of such a group; there are beds and tables in the world—many of each, are there not?
Yes.
But there are only two ideas or forms of such furniture—one the idea of a bed, the other of a table.
True.
And the maker of either of them makes a bed or he makes a table for our use, in accordance with the idea—that is our way of speaking in this and similar instances—but no artificer makes the idea itself: how could he?
Impossible.
And there is another artificer—I should like to know what you would say of him.
Who is he?
One who is the maker of all the works of all other workmen.
What an extraordinary man!
Wait a little, and there will be more reason for your saying so. For this is the craftsman who is able to make not only furniture of every kind, but all that grows out of the earth, and all living creatures, himself included; and besides these he can make earth and sky and the gods, and all the things which are in heaven or in the realm of Hades under the earth.
He must be a wizard and no mistake.
Oh! You are incredulous, are you? Do you mean that there is no such maker or creator, or that in one sense there might be a maker of all these things but in another not? Do you see that there is a way in which you could make them all yourself?
And what way is this? He asked.
An easy way enough; or rather, there are many ways in which the feat might be quickly and easily accomplished, none quicker than that of turning a mirror round and round – you would soon enough make the sun and the heavens, and the earth and yourself, and other animals and plants, and furniture and all the other things of which we were just now speaking, in the mirror.
Yes, he said; but they would be appearances only.
Very good, I said, you are coming to the point now. And the painter too is, as I conceive, just such another—a creator of appearances, is he not?
Of course.
But then I suppose you will say that what he creates is untrue. And yet there is a sense in which the painter also creates a bed? Is there not?
Yes, he said, but here again, an appearance only.
And what of the maker of the bed? Were you not saying that he too makes, not the idea which according to our view is the real object denoted by the word bed, but only a particular bed?
Yes, I did.
Then, if he does not make a real object he cannot make what is, but only some semblance of existence; and if anyone were to say that the work of the make of the bed, or of any other workman, has real existence, he cold hardly be supposed to be speaking the truth.
Not, at least, he replied, in the view of those who make a business of these discussions.
No wonder, then, that his work too is an indistinct expression of truth.
No wonder.
Suppose now that by the light of the examples just offered we inquire who this imitator is?
If you please.
Well then, here we find three beds; one existing in nature, which is made by God, as I think that we may say—for on one else can be the maker?
No one, I think.
There is another which is the work of the carpenter?
Yes.
And the work of the painter is a third?
Yes.
Beds, then, are of three kinds, and there are three artists who superintend them: God, the maker of the bed, and the painter?
Yes, there are three of them.
[They establish that both God and the carpenter can be called ‘makers of beds.’]
But would you call the painter an artificer and maker?
Certainly not.
Yet if he is not the maker, what is he in relation to the bed?
I think, he said, that we may fairly designate him as the imitator of that which the others make.
Good, I said; then you call him whose product is third in the descent from nature, an imitator?
Certainly, he said.
And so if the tragic poet is an imitator, he too is thrice removed from the king and from the truth; and so are all other imitators.
That appears to be so.
Then about the imitator we are agreed. And what about the painter?—Do you think he tries to imitate in each case that which originally exists in nature, or only the creation of artificers?
The latter.
As they are or as they appear? You have still to determine this.
What do you mean?
I mean to ask whether a bed really becomes different when it is seen from different points of view, obliquely or directly or from any other point of view? Or does it simply appear different, without being really so? And the same of all things.
Yes, he said, the difference is only apparent.
Now let me ask you another question: Which is the art of painting designed to be—an imitation of things as they are, or as they appear—of appearance or of reality?
Of appearance, he said.
Then the imitator is a long way off the truth, and can reproduce all things because he lightly touches on a small part of them, and that part an image. For example: A painter will paint a cobbler, carpenter, or any other artisan, though he knows nothing of their arts.
[. . .]
And next, I said, we have to consider tragedy and its leader, Homer; for we hear some persons saying that these poets know all the arts; and all things human; where virtue and vice are concerned, and indeed all divine things too; because the good poet cannot compose well unless he knows his subject, and he who has not this knowledge can never be a poet. We ought to consider whether here also there may not be a similar illusion. Perhaps they may have come across imitators and been deceived by them; they may not have remembered when they saw their works that these were thrice removed from the truth, and could easily be made without any knowledge of the truth, because they are appearances only and not realities?
[. . .]
Now do you suppose that if a person were able to make the original as well as the image, he would seriously devote himself to the image-making branch? Would he allow imitation to be the ruling principle of his life, as if he had nothing higher in him?
I should say not.
[. . .]
Then must we not infer that all these poetical individuals, beginning with Homer, are only imitators, who copy images of virtue and the other themes of their poetry, but have no contact with the truth? The poet is like a painter who, as we have already observed, will make a likeness of a cobbler though he understands nothing of cobbling; and his picture is good enough for those who know no more than he does, and judge only by colors and figures.
Quite so.
In like manner the poet with his words and phrases [also translated ‘his nouns and verbs’] may be said to lay on the colors of the several arts, himself understanding their nature enough to imitate them; and other people, who are as ignorant as he is, and judge only from his words, imagine that if he speaks of cobbling, or of military tactics, or of anything else, in meter and harmony and rhythm, he speaks very well—such is the sweet influence which melody and rhythm by nature have. For I am sure that you know what a poor appearance the works of poets make when stripped of the colors which art puts upon them, and recited in simple prose.
[They discuss the more about third-degree imitation of truth, then move to the sorts of human actions imitated by tragic poets. Socrates asserts that if a tragic event occurs (like the death of a son), the most useful course of action would be to be patient, seek good council, and try to act according to rational principles.]
But the other principle, which inclines us to recollection of our troubles and to lamentation, and can never have enough of them, we may call irrational, useless, and cowardly?
Indeed, we may.
Now does not the principle which is thus inclined to complaint, furnish a great variety of materials for imitation? Whereas the wise and calm temperament, being always nearly equable, is not easy to imitate or to appreciate when imitated, especially at a public festival when a promiscuous crowd is assembled in a theater. For the feeling represented is one to which they are strangers.
Certainly.
Then the imitative poet who aims at being popular is not by nature made, nor is his art intended, to please or to affect the rational principle in the soul; but he will appeal rather to the lachrymose and fitful temper, which is easily imitated.?
Clearly.
And now we may fairly take him and place him by the side of the painter, for he is like him in two ways: first, inasmuch as his creations have an inferior degree of truth—in this, I say, he is like him; and he is also like him in being the associate of an inferior part of the soul; and this is enough to show that we shall be right in refusing to admit him into a State which is to be well ordered, because he awakens and nourishes this part of the soul, and by strengthening it impairs the reason. As in a city when the evil are permitted to wield power and the finer men are put out of the way, so in the soul of each man, as we shall maintain, the imitative poet implants an evil constitution, for he indulges the irrational nature which has no discernment of greater and less, but thinks the same thing at one time great and at another small—he is an imitator of images and is very far removed from the truth.
Exactly.
But we have not yet brought forward the heaviest count in our accusation. The power which poetry has of harming even the good (and there are very few who are not harmed) is surely an awful thing?
Yes, certainly, if the effect is what you say.
[ . . .]
If you consider, I said, that when in misfortune we feel a natural hunger and desire to relieve our sorrow by weeping and lamentation, and that this very feeling which is starved and suppressed in our own calamities is satisfied and delighted by the poets; the better nature in each of us, not having been sufficiently trained by reason or habit, allows the sympathetic element to break loose.
[. . . ]
And the same may be said of lust and anger and all the other affections, of desire and pain and pleasure, which are held to be inseparable from every action—in all of them poetry has a like effect; it feeds and waters the passions instead of drying them up; she lets them rule, although they ought to be controlled if mankind are ever to increase in happiness and virtue.
I cannot deny it.
Therefore, Glaucon [. . .] we must remain firm in our conviction that hymns to the gods and praises of famous men are the only poetry which ought to be admitted into our State. For if you go beyond this and allow the honeyed Muse to enter, either in epic or lyric verse, not law and the reason of mankind, which by common consent have ever been deemed best, but pleasure and pain will be the rulers of the State.
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[Many scholars think that in this dialogue, Socrates contradicts his own argument in The Republic. As you read this selection, pay attention to Socrates’ tactics—is his question-and-answer technique designed to enlighten Ion, or for some other end? Also pay attention to the character of Ion and, of course, to the parallels and divergences between Ion and The Republic concerning the nature and use of poetry. Ion, by the way, is a rhapsode—a public performer of poetry. Evidently, such rhapsodic performances could include commentary as well as dramatic oration.]
I must say, Ion, I am often envious of you rhapsodists in your profession. Your art requires of you always to go in fine array, and look as beautiful as you can, and meanwhile you must be conversant with many excellent poets, and especially with Homer, the best and most divine of all. You have to understand his thought, and not merely learn his lines. It is an enviable lot! In fact, one never could be a rhapsode if one did not comprehend the utterances of the poet, for the rhapsode must become an interpreter of the poet’s thought to those who listen, and to do this well is quite impossible, unless one knows just what the poet is saying. All that, of course, will excite one’s envy.
What you say is true, Socrates; to me, at all events, this aspect of the art has given the most concern. And I judge that I, of all men, have the finest things to say on Homer, that [no one] else who ever lived, had so many reflections, or such fine ones, to present on Homer as have I.
That is pleasant news, Ion, for obviously you will not begrudge me a display of your talent.
Not at all. And, Socrates, it really is worthwhile to hear how well I have embellished Homer. In my opinion I deserve to be crowned with a wreath of gold by the Homeridae [admirers of Homer].
[. . . ]
As I just now said, this gift you have of speaking well on Homer is not an art; it is a power divine, impelling you like the power in the stone Euripides called the magnet [. . . ] Just so the Muse. She first makes men inspired, and then through these inspired ones others share in the enthusiasm, and a chain is formed [. . .] And what they say is true, for a poet is a light and winged thing, and holy, and never able to compose until he has become inspired, and is beside himself [literal meaning of ecstatic], and reason is no longer in him. [. . . It] seems to me, the god would show us, lest we doubt, that these lovely poems are not of man or human workmanship, but are divine and from the gods, and that the poets are nothing but interpreters of the gods, each one possessed by the divinity to whom he is in bondage. And to prove this, the deity on purpose sang the loveliest of all lyrics through the most miserable poet. Isn’t it so, Ion? Don’t you think that I am right?
You are indeed, I vow! Socrates, your words in some way touch my very soul, and it does seem to me that by dispensation from above good poets convey to us these utterances of the gods.
Well, and you rhapsodists, again, interpret the utterances of the poets?
There also you are right.
Accordingly, you are interpreters of interpreters?
Undeniably.
Wait now, Ion; tell me this. And answer frankly what I ask you. Suppose you are reciting epic poetry well, and thrill the spectators most deeply [e.g., with a tale of Odysseus]. When you chant these, are you in your senses? Or are you carried out of yourself, and does not your soul in an ecstasy conceive herself to be engaged in the actions you relate [. . .]?
How vivid, Socrates, you make your proof for me! I will tell you frankly that whenever I recite a tale of pity, my eyes are filled with tears, and when it is one of horror or dismay, my hair stands up on end with fear, and my heart goes leaping.
[. . .]
Now the, are you aware that you produce the same effects in most of the spectators too?
Yes, indeed, I know it very well. As I look down at them from the stage above, I see them, every time, weeping, casting terrible glances, stricken with amazement at the deeds recounted. In fact, I have to give them very close attention, for if I set them weeping, I myself shall laugh when I get my money, but if they laugh, it is I who have to weep at losing it.
Well, do you see that the spectator is the last of the rings I spoke of [the concentric drawing power of the magnet, e.g. the deity, from whom inspiration goes out to the poet, the performer, and the audience]. But the majority are possessed and held by Home, and, Ion, you are one of these, and are possessed by Homer. [. . .] Because it is not by art but by lot divine that you are eloquent in praise of Homer.
Well put, I grant you, Socrates. And yet I should be much surprised if by your argument you succeeded in convincing me that I am possessed or mad when I praise Homer. Nor do I think that you yourself would find me so if you heard me speaking upon Homer.
And indeed I wish to hear you, but not until you have answered me as follows. On what point in Homer do you speak well? Not on all points, I take it.
I assure you, Socrates, I do it on every point, without exception.
[They discuss various skills, discourses, and areas of knowledge included in Homer, and Ion keeps maintaining that he understands them all. For example:]
Well, the rhapsodist will know "the kind of speech that suits a man"—a general exhorting his soldiers?
Yes! That is the sort of thing the rhapsodist will know.
What! Is the rhapsode’s art the general’s?
[. . .]
But when you know of military matters, do you know them because you are competent as a general, or as a rhapsode?
I cannot see a bit of difference.
What, no difference, you say? You mean to call the art of the rhapsode and the art of the general a single art, or two?
To me, there is a single art.
And so, whoever is an able rhapsode is going to be an able general as well?
Unquestionably, Socrates.
And then, whoever happens to be an able general is an able rhapsode too.
No, I do not think that holds.
[. . .]
Then, Ion, how in heaven’s name is this? You are at once the ablest general and ablest rhapsodist among the Greeks, and yet you go about Greece performing as a rhapsode, but not as a general. What think you? The Greeks are in great need of a rhapsode adorned with a wreath of gold, and do not need a general at all?
It is because my native city [Ephesus . . . when Plato wrote this, Sparta and Athens were engaged in the Peloponnesian War for peninsular domination], Socrates, is under your dominion, and your military rule, and has no need whatever of a general. As for yours [Athens] and Lacedaemon [another city-state], neither would choose me for general; you think yourself sufficient to yourselves.
Excellent Ion, you know who Apollodorus is, of Cyzicus, don’t you?
What might he be?
The man whom the Athenians at various times have chosen for their general, although he is an alien. [. . .] And Ion of Ephesus, will she [Athens] not elect him general, and accord him honors, if his worth becomes apparent? [. . .] But the fact is, Ion, that if you are right, if it really is by art and knowledge that you are able to praise Homer, then you do me wrong [. . . ] Far from giving the display, you will not even tell me what subject it is on which you are so able, though all this while I have been entreating you to tell. No, you are just like Proteus; you twist and turn, this way and that, assuming every shape, until finally you elude my grasp and reveal yourself as a general. And all in order not to show how skilled you are in the lore concerning Homer! So if you are an artist, and, as I said just now, if you only promised me a display on Homer in order to deceive me, then you are at fault. But if you are not an artist, if by lot divine you are possessed by Homer, and so, knowing nothing, speak many things and fine about the poet, just as I said you did, then you do no wrong. Choose, therefore, how you will be called by us, whether we shall take you for a man unjust, or for a man divine.
The difference, Socrates, is great. It is far lovelier to be deemed divine.
This lovelier title, Ion, shall be yours, to be in our minds divine, and not an artist, in praising Homer.
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[Most of this dialogue concerns Socrates’ attempts to dissuade his pupil, Phaedrus, from over-admiring a discourse about love written by Phaedrus’s friend Lysias. Socrates has Phaedrus read the scroll, then more or less tears it apart—and offers his own orations from memory instead. The section below occurs toward the end of the dialogue. When you read the story of Theuth (Thoth, similar to the Greek Hermes), note that the word here translated as "a specific" is in Greek pharmikon (hence, our words pharmacy, pharmaceuticals), which meant both cure and poison.]
But there is something yet to be said of propriety and impropriety of writing.
Yes.
Do you know how you can speak or act about rhetoric in a manner which will be acceptable to God?
No, indeed. Do you?
I have heard a tradition of the ancients, whether true or not they only know; although if we had found the truth ourselves, do you think that we should care much about the opinions of men?
Your question needs no answer; but I wish that you would tell me what you say that you have heard.
At the Egyptian city of Naucratis, there was a famous old god, whose name was Theuth; the bird which is called the Ibis is sacred to him, and he was the inventor of many arts, such as arithmetic and calculation and geometry and astronomy and draughts and dice, but his great discovery was the use of letters. Now in those days the god Thamus was the king of the whole country of Egypt; and he dwelt in that great city of Upper Egypt which the Hellenes call Egyption Thebes, and the god himself is called by them Ammon. To him came Theuth and showed his inventions, desiring that the other Egyptians might be allowed to have the benefit of them; he enumerated them, and Thamus inquired about their several uses, and praised some of them and censured others, as he approved or disapproved of them. It would take a long time to repeat all that Thamus said to Theuth in praise or blame of the various arts. But when they came to letters, This, said Theuth, will make the Egyptians wiser and will give them better memories; it is a specific both for the memory and for the wit. Thamus replied: O most ingenious Theuth, the parent or inventor of an art is not always the best judge of the utility or inutility of his own inventions to the users of them.
And in this instance, you who are the father of letters, from a paternal love of your own children have been led to attribute to them a quality which they cannot have; for this discovery of yours will create forgetfulness in the learners’ souls, because they will not use their memories; they will trust to the external written characters and not remember of themselves. The specific which you have discovered is an aid not to memory, but to reminiscence, and you give your disciples not truth, but only the semblance to truth; they will be hearers of many things and will have learned nothing; they will appear to be omniscient and will generally know nothing; they will be tiresome company, having the show of wisdom without the reality.
Yes, Socrates, you can easily invent tales of Egypt, or of any other country.
[. . .]
He would be a very simple person, and quite a stranger to the oracles of Thamus or Ammon, who should leave in writing or receive in writing any art under the idea that the written word would be intelligible or certain; or who deemed that writing was at all better than knowledge and recollection of the same matters?
That is most true.
I cannot help feeling, Phaedrus, that writing is unfortunately like painting; for the creations of the painter have the attitude of life, and yet if you ask them a question they preserve a solemn silence.
[. . .]
Is there not another kind of word or speech far better than this and having far greater power—a son of the same family, but lawfully begotten?
Whom do you mean, and what is his origin?
I mean an intelligent word graven in the soul of the learner, which can defend itself, and knows when to speak and when to be silent.
You mean the living word of knowledge which has a soul, and of which the written word is properly no more than an image?
Yes of course that is what I mean. [Socrates here talks about farmers planting seeds, and the case of sowing seeds during the heat of summer just for the amusement of seeing if anything comes up immediately. This pastime is compared to writing.]
[. . .]
In the garden of letters he will sow and plant, but only for the sake of recreation and amusement. [In brief, Socrates claims that writing can provide harmless pleasure for old men, as "memorials to be treasured against the forgetfulness of old age."}
A pastime, Socrates, as noble as the other [wasting seeds during youth] is ignoble, the pastime of a man who can be amused by serious talk, and can discourse merrily about justice and the like.
True, Phaedrus. But nobler far is the serious pursuit of the dialectician [i.e., a teacher like Socrates], who, finding a congenial soul, by the help of science sows and plants therein words which are able to help themselves and him who planted them and are not unfruitful, but have in them a seed which others brought up in different soils render immortal, making the possessors of it happy to the utmost extent of human happiness.
Far nobler, certainly.
[. . .]
But he who thinks that in the written word there is necessarily much which is not serious, and that neither poetry nor prose, spoken or written, is of any great value, if, like the compositions of the rhapsodes, they are only recited in order to be believed, and not with any view to criticism or instruction; and who thinks that even the best of writings are but a reminiscence of what we know, and that only in principles of justice and goodness and nobility taught and communicated orally for the sake of instruction and graven in the soul, which is the true way of writing, is there clearness and perfection and seriousness, and that such principles are a man’s own and his legitimate offspring;--being, in the first place, the word which he finds in his own bosom; secondly, the brethren and descendants and relations of his others;--and who cares for them and no others—this is the right sort of man; and you and I, Phaedrus, would pray that we may become like him.
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[The Poetics (the Greek word poetikes means ‘things that are made or crafted’) concerns itself with the general principles of dramatic art, and it uses Sophocles’ tragedy, Oedipus Rex, as a ‘proof text’ {thereby perhaps producing our first work of practical, or applied, criticism}. These principles depend on Aristotle’s method of definition, a four-cause analysis in which an artifact is defined by shape, materials, manner of construction, and purpose. Once he has defined tragedy in general, he examines its constitutive parts: plot (mythos), character (ethos), thought, diction, song, and spectacle. Believing that plot is ‘the soul’ of tragedy, he spends the bulk of his time analyzing plot (also from the four-cause standpoint).
Thus, as you read this selection, think about whether Aristotle’s and Plato’s ideas of artistic imitation are the same . . . and, even though we are working in translation, to differences in style that you find notable. Also pay attention to the concept of *katharsis.]
Book One
Let us discuss the art of poetry, itself, and its species, describing the character of each of them, and how it is necessary to construct plots if the poetic composition is to be successful and, furthermore, the number and kind of parts to be found in the poetic work, and as many other matters as are relevant. Let us follow the order of nature, beginning with first principles.
Now epic poetry, tragedy, comedy, dithyrambic poetry, and most forms of flute and lyre playing all happen to be, in general, imitations, but they differ from each other in three ways: either because the imitation is carried on my different means or because it is concerned with different kinds of objects or because it is presented, not in the same, but in a different manner. [In this part, Aristotle explains these differences, and also claims that just as we can’t lump together these arts, we can’t lump together all verse writers.]
Book Four
Speaking generally, the origin of the art of poetry is to be found in two natural causes. For the process of imitation is natural to mankind from childhood on: Man is differentiated from other animals because he is the most imitative of them, and he learns his first lessons through imitation, and we observe that all men find pleasure in imitations. [. . .] Thus men find pleasure in viewing representations because it turns out that they learn and infer what each thing is-—or example, that this particular object is that kind of object; since if one has not happened to see the object previously, he will not find any pleasure in the imitation qua imitation but rather in the workmanship or coloring or something similar.
Since imitation is given to us by nature, as are harmony and rhythm [. . .] men, having been naturally endowed with these gifts from the beginning and then developing them gradually, for the most part, finally created the art of poetry from their early improvisations.
Poetry then diverged in the directions of the natural dispositions of the poets. Writers of greater dignity imitated the noble actions of noble heroes; the less dignified sort of writers imitated the actions of inferior men, at first writing invectives as the former writers wrote hymns and encomia. [. . .]
Tragedy, undergoing many changes (since our poets were developing aspects of it as they emerged), gradually progressed until it attained the fulfillment of its own nature. [Aristotle traces the progressive development of Greek tragedy, then discusses comedy and epic poetry--the latter being a literary genre as highly esteemed as tragedy. As Aristotle thinks the constitutive parts of the epic are contained ‘within’ tragedy, he claims that "whoever can judge what is good and bad in tragedy can also do this in regard to epic."]
Book Six
Let us now discuss tragedy, bringing together the definition of its essence that has emerged from what we have already said. Tragedy is, then, an imitation of a noble and complete action, having the proper magnitude; it employs language that has been artistically enhanced by each of the kinds of linguistic adornment, applied separately in the various parts of the play; it is presented in dramatic, not narrative form, and achieves, through the representation of pitiable and fearful incidents, the catharsis of such pitiable and fearful incidents. [. . . ]
Now I mean by the plot the arrangement of the incidents, and by character that element in accordance with which we say that agents are of a certain type, and by thought I mean that which is found in whatever thigs men say when they prove a point, or it may be, express a general truth. It is necessary, therefore, that tragedy as a whole have six parts in accordance with which, as a genre, it achieves its particular quality. These parts are plot, character, diction, thought, spectacle, and melody. Two of these parts come from the means by which the imitation is carried out; one from the manner of its presentation, and three from the objects of the imitation. Beyond these parts there is nothing left to mention. [. . .]
The most important of these parts is the arrangement of the incidents [i.e., plot]; for tragedy is not an imitation of men, per se, but of human action and life and happiness and misery. [. . .] Now according to their characters men have certain qualities; but according to their actions they are happy or the opposite. Poets do not, therefore, create action in order to imitate character; but character is included o account of the action. Thus the end of tragedy is the presentation of the individual incidents and of the plot; and the end is, of course, the most significant thing of all. Furthermore, without action tragedy would be impossible, but without character it would still be possible. This point is illustrated both by the fact that the tragedies of many of our modern poets are characterless, and by the fact that many poets, in general, experience this difficulty. Also, to take an example from our painters [. . .] Polygnotus is good at incorporating character into his painting, but the work of Zeuxis shows no real characterization at all. [. . .]
The first principle, then, and to speak figuratively, the soul of tragedy, is the plot; and second in importance is character. [Here Aristotle goes through the six elements in order of importance, ending with spectacle.]
Book Seven
Now that we have defined these terms, let us discuss what kind of process the arrangement of incidents must be, since this is the first and most important element of tragedy. We have posited that tragedy is the imitation of a complete and whole action having a proper magnitude. [Aristotle defines these terms, ‘whole’ meaning having a beginning, middle, and end . . . magnitude implies the proper arrangement of sufficiently significant elements necessary for beauty, and Aristotle’s example is that neither very small nor very large animals can be beautiful. Leaving behind ants and elephants, Aristotle moves to the proper magnitude of time: a play’s duration should be such that it can remain in one’s memory; the time an audience spends watching it should roughly duplicate the time the play’s actions would take to unfold in the real world.]
Book Nine
It is apparent from what we have said that it is not the function of the poet to narrate events that have actually happened, but rather, events such as might occur and have the capability of occurring in accordance with the laws of probability or necessity. For the historian and the poet do not differ by their writing in prose or verse. [. . .] The difference, rather, lies in the fact that the historian narrates events that have actually happened, whereas the poet writes about things as they might possibly occur. Poetry, therefore, is more philosophical and more significant than history, for poetry is more concerned with the universal, and history more with the individual. [. . .]
Book Thirteen
What goals poets must aim at, which difficulties they must be wary of when constructing their plots, and how the proper function of tragedy is accomplished are matters we should discuss [. . .]
Since the plots of the best tragedies must be complex, not simple, and the plot of a tragedy must be an imitation of pitiable and fearful incidents (for this is the specific nature of the imitation under discussion), it is clear, first of all, that unqualifiedly good human beings must not appear to fall from good fortune to bad; for that is neither pitiable nor fearful; it is, rather, repellent. Nor must an extremely evil man appear to move from bad fortune to good fortune for that is the most untragic situation of all because it has none of the necessary requirements of tragedy; it both violates our human sympathy and contains nothing of the pitiable or fearful in it. Furthermore, a villainous man should not appear to fall from good fortune to bad. [. . .] What is left, after our considerations, is someone in between these extremes. This would be a person who is neither perfect in virtue and justice, nor one who falls into misfortune through vice and depravity; but rather, one who succumbs through some miscalculation. He must also be a person who enjoys great reputation and good fortune. [. . .]
Book 14
Pity and fear can arise from the spectacle and also from the very structure of the plot, which is the superior way and shows the better poet. The poet should construct the plot so that even if the action is not performed before spectators, one who merely hears the incidents that have occurred both shudders and feels pity from the way they turn out. That is why anyone who hears the plot of the Oedipus would experience. [. . .] Those who use the spectacle to create not the fearful but only the monstrous have no share in the creation of tragedy. [. . .]
Let us try to understand what type of occurrences appear to be terrifying and pitiable. It is indeed, necessary that any such action occur either between those who are friends or enemies to each other, or between those who have no relationship, whatsoever, to each other. [Aristotle here explains why relationships between enemies and between strangers cannot by terrifying and pitiable.] But whenever the tragic incidents occur in situations involving strong ties of affection—for example, if a brother kills or intends ot kill a brother or a son a father or a mother a son or a son a mother or commits some equally terrible act—there will be something pitiable. [And if this happens through erroneous assumptions but still knowingly, it is terrible and elicits fear as well as pity.]
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