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Old 06-17-02, 11:49 PM
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I hope no one gets mad at me for posing this question as I am sure it has been asked before and certainly debated upon:

I don't know which console to buy??? I was thinking PS2 just because of Metal Gear Solid. I have seen and played a snipet of that game and absolutely love it. I always had nintendo systems but felt that they where way too kiddie until I saw that it had Residental Evil which looks amazing and I have seen that new preview for that cool looking horror game, Requiem something?

Is Gamecube going to continue to have more adult themed games?

Thanks a bunch.
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Old 06-17-02, 11:53 PM
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Old 06-17-02, 11:54 PM
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Buh bye.
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Old 06-17-02, 11:55 PM
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DUDE BOOT!!!! I made you a Other Parkie!!!
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Old 06-17-02, 11:59 PM
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Originally posted by joltaddict
DUDE BOOT!!!! I made you a Other Parkie!!!
Really? Damn, I missed that. Heading there now.
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Old 06-18-02, 12:00 AM
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Old 06-18-02, 12:03 AM
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Get a machine excelling continuously under burdensome extremes.
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Old 06-18-02, 12:04 AM
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I hope no one gets mad at me for posing this question as I am sure it has been asked before and certainly debated upon:

I don't know which console to buy??? I was thinking PS2 just because of Metal Gear Solid. I have seen and played a snipet of that game and absolutely love it. I always had nintendo systems but felt that they where way too kiddie until I saw that it had Residental Evil which looks amazing and I have seen that new preview for that cool looking horror game, Requiem something?

Is Gamecube going to continue to have more adult themed games?

Thanks a bunch.
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Old 06-18-02, 12:05 AM
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zooroaster,hope the following info helps you out. Sorry for the other guys in here,some people don't know how to help somebody out

Alright...the thing about PS2 is that it's got lots of games,and the graphics look superb....but,you need memory cards for it. Same thing with the XBOX,except I've heard that the controller is a bit weird,and xbox doesn't have near as many games as ps2(not even 1/3 as many) if you want the system and games right now,ps2 gives you a better selection but later on down the line I'm sure xbox will have lots of games too. Don't forget to figure in online play as well. If you want to see what other people think of them,head on over to and type in xbox or playstation 2.
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Old 06-18-02, 12:05 AM
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Puff puff give
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Old 06-18-02, 12:09 AM
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Originally posted by cozmo
zooroaster,hope the following info helps you out. Sorry for the other guys in here,some people don't know how to help somebody out
Try to keep up.
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Old 06-18-02, 12:12 AM
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The only thing you're missing is the old rusted out appliance in the front yard. You're right, though, we're not in color here in Arkansas yet.

That's a fine lookin' piggy there, though. Squeel for me piggy. Squeeeeeeeeeel!!!
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Old 06-18-02, 12:13 AM
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I wanna see how many cut and pastes this dude can do before the [BANNED] comes down. 3 so far. Anyone want money on double digits?
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Old 06-18-02, 12:21 AM
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THERE was no hope for him this time: it was the third stroke. Night after night I had passed the house (it was vacation time) and studied the lighted square of window: and night after night I had found it lighted in the same way, faintly and evenly. If he was dead, I thought, I would see the reflection of candles on the darkened blind for I knew that two candles must be set at the head of a corpse. He had often said to me: "I am not long for this world," and I had thought his words idle. Now I knew they were true. Every night as I gazed up at the window I said softly to myself the word paralysis. It had always sounded strangely in my ears, like the word gnomon in the Euclid and the word simony in the Catechism. But now it sounded to me like the name of some maleficent and sinful being. It filled me with fear, and yet I longed to be nearer to it and to look upon its deadly work.

Old Cotter was sitting at the fire, smoking, when I came downstairs to supper. While my aunt was ladling out my stirabout he said, as if returning to some former remark of his:

"No, I wouldn't say he was exactly... but there was something queer... there was something uncanny about him. I'll tell you my opinion...."

He began to puff at his pipe, no doubt arranging his opinion in his mind. Tiresome old fool! When we knew him first he used to be rather interesting, talking of faints and worms; but I soon grew tired of him and his endless stories about the distillery.

"I have my own theory about it," he said. "I think it was one of those ... peculiar cases .... But it's hard to say...."

He began to puff again at his pipe without giving us his theory. My uncle saw me staring and said to me:

"Well, so your old friend is gone, you'll be sorry to hear."

"Who?" said I.

"Father Flynn."

"Is he dead?"

"Mr. Cotter here has just told us. He was passing by the house."

I knew that I was under observation so I continued eating as if the news had not interested me. My uncle explained to old Cotter.

"The youngster and he were great friends. The old chap taught him a great deal, mind you; and they say he had a great wish for him."

"God have mercy on his soul," said my aunt piously.

Old Cotter looked at me for a while. I felt that his little beady black eyes were examining me but I would not satisfy him by looking up from my plate. He returned to his pipe and finally spat rudely into the grate.

"I wouldn't like children of mine," he said, "to have too much to say to a man like that."

"How do you mean, Mr. Cotter?" asked my aunt.

"What I mean is," said old Cotter, "it's bad for children. My idea is: let a young lad run about and play with young lads of his own age and not be... Am I right, Jack?"

"That's my principle, too," said my uncle. "Let him learn to box his corner. That's what I'm always saying to that Rosicrucian there: take exercise. Why, when I was a nipper every morning of my life I had a cold bath, winter and summer. And that's what stands to me now. Education is all very fine and large.... Mr. Cotter might take a pick of that leg mutton," he added to my aunt.

"No, no, not for me," said old Cotter.

My aunt brought the dish from the safe and put it on the table.

"But why do you think it's not good for children, Mr. Cotter?" she asked.

"It's bad for children," said old Cotter, "because their mind are so impressionable. When children see things like that, you know, it has an effect...."

I crammed my mouth with stirabout for fear I might give utterance to my anger. Tiresome old red-nosed imbecile!

It was late when I fell asleep. Though I was angry with old Cotter for alluding to me as a child, I puzzled my head to extract meaning from his unfinished sentences. In the dark of my room I imagined that I saw again the heavy grey face of the paralytic. I drew the blankets over my head and tried to think of Christmas. But the grey face still followed me. It murmured, and I understood that it desired to confess something. I felt my soul receding into some pleasant and vicious region; and there again I found it waiting for me. It began to confess to me in a murmuring voice and I wondered why it smiled continually and why the lips were so moist with spittle. But then I remembered that it had died of paralysis and I felt that I too was smiling feebly as if to absolve the simoniac of his sin.

The next morning after breakfast I went down to look at the little house in Great Britain Street. It was an unassuming shop, registered under the vague name of Drapery . The drapery consisted mainly of children's bootees and umbrellas; and on ordinary days a notice used to hang in the window, saying: Umbrellas Re-covered . No notice was visible now for the shutters were up. A crape bouquet was tied to the doorknocker with ribbon. Two poor women and a telegram boy were reading the card pinned on the crape. I also approached and read:

July 1st, 1895
The Rev. James Flynn (formerly of S. Catherine's Church,
Meath Street), aged sixty-five years.
R. I. P.

The reading of the card persuaded me that he was dead and I was disturbed to find myself at check. Had he not been dead I would have gone into the little dark room behind the shop to find him sitting in his arm-chair by the fire, nearly smothered in his great-coat. Perhaps my aunt would have given me a packet of High Toast for him and this present would have roused him from his stupefied doze. It was always I who emptied the packet into his black snuff-box for his hands trembled too much to allow him to do this without spilling half the snuff about the floor. Even as he raised his large trembling hand to his nose little clouds of smoke dribbled through his fingers over the front of his coat. It may have been these constant showers of snuff which gave his ancient priestly garments their green faded look for the red handkerchief, blackened, as it always was, with the snuff-stains of a week, with which he tried to brush away the fallen grains, was quite inefficacious.

I wished to go in and look at him but I had not the courage to knock. I walked away slowly along the sunny side of the street, reading all the theatrical advertisements in the shop-windows as I went. I found it strange that neither I nor the day seemed in a mourning mood and I felt even annoyed at discovering in myself a sensation of freedom as if I had been freed from something by his death. I wondered at this for, as my uncle had said the night before, he had taught me a great deal. He had studied in the Irish college in Rome and he had taught me to pronounce Latin properly. He had told me stories about the catacombs and about Napoleon Bonaparte, and he had explained to me the meaning of the different ceremonies of the Mass and of the different vestments worn by the priest. Sometimes he had amused himself by putting difficult questions to me, asking me what one should do in certain circumstances or whether such and such sins were mortal or venial or only imperfections. His questions showed me how complex and mysterious were certain institutions of the Church which I had always regarded as the simplest acts. The duties of the priest towards the Eucharist and towards the secrecy of the confessional seemed so grave to me that I wondered how anybody had ever found in himself the courage to undertake them; and I was not surprised when he told me that the fathers of the Church had written books as thick as the Post Office Directory and as closely printed as the law notices in the newspaper, elucidating all these intricate questions. Often when I thought of this I could make no answer or only a very foolish and halting one upon which he used to smile and nod his head twice or thrice. Sometimes he used to put me through the responses of the Mass which he had made me learn by heart; and, as I pattered, he used to smile pensively and nod his head, now and then pushing huge pinches of snuff up each nostril alternately. When he smiled he used to uncover his big discoloured teeth and let his tongue lie upon his lower lip -- a habit which had made me feel uneasy in the beginning of our acquaintance before I knew him well.

As I walked along in the sun I remembered old Cotter's words and tried to remember what had happened afterwards in the dream. I remembered that I had noticed long velvet curtains and a swinging lamp of antique fashion. I felt that I had been very far away, in some land where the customs were strange -- in Persia, I thought.... But I could not remember the end of the dream.

In the evening my aunt took me with her to visit the house of mourning. It was after sunset; but the window-panes of the houses that looked to the west reflected the tawny gold of a great bank of clouds. Nannie received us in the hall; and, as it would have been unseemly to have shouted at her, my aunt shook hands with her for all. The old woman pointed upwards interrogatively and, on my aunt's nodding, proceeded to toil up the narrow staircase before us, her bowed head being scarcely above the level of the banister-rail. At the first landing she stopped and beckoned us forward encouragingly towards the open door of the dead-room. My aunt went in and the old woman, seeing that I hesitated to enter, began to beckon to me again repeatedly with her hand.

I went in on tiptoe. The room through the lace end of the blind was suffused with dusky golden light amid which the candles looked like pale thin flames. He had been coffined. Nannie gave the lead and we three knelt down at the foot of the bed. I pretended to pray but I could not gather my thoughts because the old woman's mutterings distracted me. I noticed how clumsily her skirt was hooked at the back and how the heels of her cloth boots were trodden down all to one side. The fancy came to me that the old priest was smiling as he lay there in his coffin.

But no. When we rose and went up to the head of the bed I saw that he was not smiling. There he lay, solemn and copious, vested as for the altar, his large hands loosely retaining a chalice. His face was very truculent, grey and massive, with black cavernous nostrils and circled by a scanty white fur. There was a heavy odour in the room -- the flowers.

We crossed ourselves and came away. In the little room downstairs we found Eliza seated in his arm-chair in state. I groped my way towards my usual chair in the corner while Nannie went to the sideboard and brought out a decanter of sherry and some wine-glasses. She set these on the table and invited us to take a little glass of wine. Then, at her sister's bidding, she filled out the sherry into the glasses and passed them to us. She pressed me to take some cream crackers also but I declined because I thought I would make too much noise eating them. She seemed to be somewhat disappointed at my refusal and went over quietly to the sofa where she sat down behind her sister. No one spoke: we all gazed at the empty fireplace.

My aunt waited until Eliza sighed and then said:

"Ah, well, he's gone to a better world."

Eliza sighed again and bowed her head in assent. My aunt fingered the stem of her wine-glass before sipping a little.

"Did he... peacefully?" she asked.

"Oh, quite peacefully, ma'am," said Eliza. "You couldn't tell when the breath went out of him. He had a beautiful death, God be praised."

"And everything...?"

"Father O'Rourke was in with him a Tuesday and anointed him and prepared him and all."

"He knew then?"

"He was quite resigned."

"He looks quite resigned," said my aunt.

"That's what the woman we had in to wash him said. She said he just looked as if he was asleep, he looked that peaceful and resigned. No one would think he'd make such a beautiful corpse."

"Yes, indeed," said my aunt.

She sipped a little more from her glass and said:

"Well, Miss Flynn, at any rate it must be a great comfort for you to know that you did all you could for him. You were both very kind to him, I must say."

Eliza smoothed her dress over her knees.

"Ah, poor James!" she said. "God knows we done all we could, as poor as we are -- we wouldn't see him want anything while he was in it."

Nannie had leaned her head against the sofa-pillow and seemed about to fall asleep.

"There's poor Nannie," said Eliza, looking at her, "she's wore out. All the work we had, she and me, getting in the woman to wash him and then laying him out and then the coffin and then arranging about the Mass in the chapel. Only for Father O'Rourke I don't know what we'd done at all. It was him brought us all them flowers and them two candlesticks out of the chapel and wrote out the notice for the Freeman's General and took charge of all the papers for the cemetery and poor James's insurance."

"Wasn't that good of him?" said my aunt

Eliza closed her eyes and shook her head slowly.

"Ah, there's no friends like the old friends," she said, "when all is said and done, no friends that a body can trust."

"Indeed, that's true," said my aunt. "And I'm sure now that he's gone to his eternal reward he won't forget you and all your kindness to him."

"Ah, poor James!" said Eliza. "He was no great trouble to us. You wouldn't hear him in the house any more than now. Still, I know he's gone and all to that...."

"It's when it's all over that you'll miss him," said my aunt.

"I know that," said Eliza. "I won't be bringing him in his cup of beef-tea any more, nor you, ma'am, sending him his snuff. Ah, poor James!"

She stopped, as if she were communing with the past and then said shrewdly:

"Mind you, I noticed there was something queer coming over him latterly. Whenever I'd bring in his soup to him there I'd find him with his breviary fallen to the floor, lying back in the chair and his mouth open."

She laid a finger against her nose and frowned: then she continued:

"But still and all he kept on saying that before the summer was over he'd go out for a drive one fine day just to see the old house again where we were all born down in Irishtown and take me and Nannie with him. If we could only get one of them new-fangled carriages that makes no noise that Father O'Rourke told him about, them with the rheumatic wheels, for the day cheap -- he said, at Johnny Rush's over the way there and drive out the three of us together of a Sunday evening. He had his mind set on that.... Poor James!"

"The Lord have mercy on his soul!" said my aunt.

Eliza took out her handkerchief and wiped her eyes with it. Then she put it back again in her pocket and gazed into the empty grate for some time without speaking.

"He was too scrupulous always," she said. "The duties of the priesthood was too much for him. And then his life was, you might say, crossed."

"Yes," said my aunt. "He was a disappointed man. You could see that."

A silence took possession of the little room and, under cover of it, I approached the table and tasted my sherry and then returned quietly to my chair in the corner. Eliza seemed to have fallen into a deep revery. We waited respectfully for her to break the silence: and after a long pause she said slowly:

"It was that chalice he broke.... That was the beginning of it. Of course, they say it was all right, that it contained nothing, I mean. But still.... They say it was the boy's fault. But poor James was so nervous, God be merciful to him!"

"And was that it?" said my aunt. "I heard something...."

Eliza nodded.

"That affected his mind," she said. "After that he began to mope by himself, talking to no one and wandering about by himself. So one night he was wanted for to go on a call and they couldn't find him anywhere. They looked high up and low down; and still they couldn't see a sight of him anywhere. So then the clerk suggested to try the chapel. So then they got the keys and opened the chapel and the clerk and Father O'Rourke and another priest that was there brought in a light for to look for him.... And what do you think but there he was, sitting up by himself in the dark in his confession-box, wide-awake and laughing-like softly to himself?"

She stopped suddenly as if to listen. I too listened; but there was no sound in the house: and I knew that the old priest was lying still in his coffin as we had seen him, solemn and truculent in death, an idle chalice on his breast.

Eliza resumed:

"Wide-awake and laughing-like to himself.... So then, of course, when they saw that, that made them think that there was something gone wrong with him...."
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Old 06-18-02, 12:24 AM
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Originally posted by joltaddict
I wanna see how many cut and pastes this dude can do before the [BANNED] comes down. 3 so far. Anyone want money on double digits?
The BANNED shall be swift and unforgiving. Static's gonna Cling all over this one.

<small>i have no idea what that means,<small>
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Old 06-18-02, 12:26 AM
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Originally posted by Boot

The BANNED shall be swift and unforgiving.
As [BANNED]s are wont to be!

I dunno either.
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Old 06-18-02, 12:29 AM
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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


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

medium of imitation



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.



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




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


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.



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


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.



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


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.



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.



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.



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.



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.



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


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




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.



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.



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.



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


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




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.



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


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.



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

the end.

There are four kinds of Tragedy: the Complex, depending entirely

on Reversal of the Situation and Recognition; the Pathetic (where

the motive is passion)- such as the tragedies on Ajax and Ixion; the

Ethical (where the motives are ethical)- such as the Phthiotides and

the Peleus. The fourth kind is the Simple. [We here exclude the purely

spectacular element], exemplified by the Phorcides, the Prometheus,

and scenes laid in Hades. The poet should 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


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.



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


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.



Language in general includes the following parts: Letter,

Syllable, Connecting Word, Noun, Verb, Inflection or Case, Sentence or


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.



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.



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


Epicharen eidon Marathonade badizonta,

I saw Epichares walking to Marathon,


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




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.



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


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




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


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




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....

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