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Aristotle
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Aristotle
Greek philosopher
Greek Aristoteles
born 384 bc, Stagira, Chalcidice, Greece
died 322, Chalcis, Euboea
Overview
Greek philosopher and scientist whose thought determined the course of
Western intellectual history for two millenia.
He was the son of the court physician to Amyntas III, grandfather of
Alexander the Great. In 367 he became a student at the Academy of Plato
in Athens; he remained there for 20 years. After Plato’s death in
348/347, he returned to Macedonia, where he became tutor to the young
Alexander. In 335 he founded his own school in Athens, the Lyceum. His
intellectual range was vast, covering most of the sciences and many of
the arts. He worked in physics, chemistry, biology, zoology, and botany;
in psychology, political theory, and ethics; in logic and metaphysics;
and in history, literary theory, and rhetoric. He invented the study of
formal logic, devising for it a finished system, known as syllogistic,
that was considered the sum of the discipline until the 19th century;
his work in zoology, both observational and theoretical, also was not
surpassed until the 19th century. His ethical and political theory,
especially his conception of the ethical virtues and of human
flourishing (“happiness”), continue to exert great influence in
philosophical debate. He wrote prolifically; his major surviving works
include the Organon, De Anima (“On the Soul”), Physics, Metaphysics,
Nicomachean Ethics, Eudemian Ethics, Magna Moralia, Politics, Rhetoric,
and Poetics, as well as other works on natural history and science. See
also teleology.
Main
ancient Greek philosopher and scientist, one of the greatest
intellectual figures of Western history. He was the author of a
philosophical and scientific system that became the framework and
vehicle for both Christian Scholasticism and medieval Islamic
philosophy. Even after the intellectual revolutions of the Renaissance,
the Reformation, and the Enlightenment, Aristotelian concepts remained
embedded in Western thinking.
Aristotle’s intellectual range was vast, covering most of the
sciences and many of the arts, including biology, botany, chemistry,
ethics, history, logic, metaphysics, rhetoric, philosophy of mind,
philosophy of science, physics, poetics, political theory, psychology,
and zoology. He was the founder of formal logic, devising for it a
finished system that for centuries was regarded as the sum of the
discipline; and he pioneered the study of zoology, both observational
and theoretical, in which some of his work remained unsurpassed until
the 19th century. But he is, of course, most outstanding as a
philosopher. His writings in ethics and political theory as well as in
metaphysics and the philosophy of science continue to be studied, and
his work remains a powerful current in contemporary philosophical
debate.
This article deals with Aristotle’s life and thought. For the later
development of Aristotelian philosophy, see Aristotelianism. For
treatment of Aristotelianism in the full context of Western philosophy,
see philosophy, Western.
Life » The Academy
Aristotle was born on the Chalcidic peninsula of Macedonia, in northern
Greece. His father, Nicomachus, was the physician of Amyntas III
(reigned c. 393–c. 370 bc), king of Macedonia and grandfather of
Alexander the Great (reigned 336–323 bc). After his father’s death in
367, Aristotle migrated to Athens, where he joined the Academy of Plato
(c. 428–c. 348 bc). He remained there for 20 years as Plato’s pupil and
colleague.
Many of Plato’s later dialogues date from these decades, and they may
reflect Aristotle’s contributions to philosophical debate at the
Academy. Some of Aristotle’s writings also belong to this period, though
mostly they survive only in fragments. Like his master, Aristotle wrote
initially in dialogue form, and his early ideas show a strong Platonic
influence. His dialogue Eudemus, for example, reflects the Platonic view
of the soul as imprisoned in the body and as capable of a happier life
only when the body has been left behind. According to Aristotle, the
dead are more blessed and happier than the living, and to die is to
return to one’s real home.
Another youthful work, the Protrepticus (“Exhortation”), has been
reconstructed by modern scholars from quotations in various works from
late antiquity. Everyone must do philosophy, Aristotle claims, because
even arguing against the practice of philosophy is itself a form of
philosophizing. The best form of philosophy is the contemplation of the
universe of nature; it is for this purpose that God made human beings
and gave them a godlike intellect. All else—strength, beauty, power, and
honour—is worthless.
It is possible that two of Aristotle’s surviving works on logic and
disputation, the Topics and the Sophistical Refutations, belong to this
early period. The former demonstrates how to construct arguments for a
position one has already decided to adopt; the latter shows how to
detect weaknesses in the arguments of others. Although neither work
amounts to a systematic treatise on formal logic, Aristotle can justly
say, at the end of the Sophistical Refutations, that he has invented the
discipline of logic—nothing at all existed when he started.
During Aristotle’s residence at the Academy, King Philip II of
Macedonia (reigned 359–336 bc) waged war on a number of Greek
city-states. The Athenians defended their independence only
half-heartedly, and, after a series of humiliating concessions, they
allowed Philip to become, by 338, master of the Greek world. It cannot
have been an easy time to be a Macedonian resident in Athens.
Within the Academy, however, relations seem to have remained cordial.
Aristotle always acknowledged a great debt to Plato; he took a large
part of his philosophical agenda from Plato, and his teaching is more
often a modification than a repudiation of Plato’s doctrines. Already,
however, Aristotle was beginning to distance himself from Plato’s theory
of Forms, or Ideas (eidos; see form). (The word Form, when used to refer
to Forms as Plato conceived them, is often capitalized in the scholarly
literature; when used to refer to forms as Aristotle conceived them, it
is conventionally lowercased.) Plato had held that, in addition to
particular things, there exists a suprasensible realm of Forms, which
are immutable and everlasting. This realm, he maintained, makes
particular things intelligible by accounting for their common natures: a
thing is a horse, for example, by virtue of the fact that it shares in,
or imitates, the Form of “Horse.” In a lost work, On Ideas, Aristotle
maintains that the arguments of Plato’s central dialogues establish only
that there are, in addition to particulars, certain common objects of
the sciences. In his surviving works as well, Aristotle often takes
issue with the theory of Forms, sometimes politely and sometimes
contemptuously. In his Metaphysics he argues that the theory fails to
solve the problems it was meant to address. It does not confer
intelligibility on particulars, because immutable and everlasting Forms
cannot explain how particulars come into existence and undergo change.
All the theory does, according to Aristotle, is introduce new entities
equal in number to the entities to be explained—as if one could solve a
problem by doubling it.(See below Doctrines: Physics and metaphysics:
Form.)
Life » Travels
When Plato died about 348, his nephew Speusippus became head of the
Academy, and Aristotle left Athens. He migrated to Assus, a city on the
northwestern coast of Anatolia (in present-day Turkey), where Hermias, a
graduate of the Academy, was ruler. Aristotle became a close friend of
Hermias and eventually married his ward Pythias. Aristotle helped
Hermias to negotiate an alliance with Macedonia, which angered the
Persian king, who had Hermias treacherously arrested and put to death.
Aristotle saluted Hermias’s memory in Ode to Virtue, his only surviving
poem.
While in Assus and during the subsequent few years when he lived in
the city of Mytilene on the island of Lesbos, Aristotle carried out
extensive scientific research, particularly in zoology and marine
biology. This work was summarized in a book later known, misleadingly,
as The History of Animals, to which Aristotle added two short treatises,
On the Parts of Animals and On the Generation of Animals. Although
Aristotle did not claim to have founded the science of zoology, his
detailed observations of a wide variety of organisms were quite without
precedent. He—or one of his research assistants—must have been gifted
with remarkably acute eyesight, since some of the features of insects
that he accurately reports were not again observed until the invention
of the microscope in the 17th century.
The scope of Aristotle’s scientific research is astonishing. Much of
it is concerned with the classification of animals into genus and
species; more than 500 species figure in his treatises, many of them
described in detail. The myriad items of information about the anatomy,
diet, habitat, modes of copulation, and reproductive systems of mammals,
reptiles, fish, and insects are a melange of minute investigation and
vestiges of superstition. In some cases his unlikely stories about rare
species of fish were proved accurate many centuries later. In other
places he states clearly and fairly a biological problem that took
millennia to solve, such as the nature of embryonic development.
Despite an admixture of the fabulous, Aristotle’s biological works
must be regarded as a stupendous achievement. His inquiries were
conducted in a genuinely scientific spirit, and he was always ready to
confess ignorance where evidence was insufficient. Whenever there is a
conflict between theory and observation, one must trust observation, he
insisted, and theories are to be trusted only if their results conform
with the observed phenomena.
About eight years after the death of Hermias, in 343 or 342,
Aristotle was summoned by Philip II to the Macedonian capital at Pella
to act as tutor to Philip’s 13-year-old son, the future Alexander the
Great. Little is known of the content of Aristotle’s instruction;
although the Rhetoric to Alexander was included in the Aristotelian
corpus for centuries, it is now commonly regarded as a forgery. By 326
Alexander had made himself master of an empire that stretched from the
Danube to the Indus and included Libya and Egypt. Ancient sources report
that during his campaigns Alexander arranged for biological specimens to
be sent to his tutor from all parts of Greece and Asia Minor.
Life » The Lyceum
While Alexander was conquering Asia, Aristotle, now 50 years old, was in
Athens. Just outside the city boundary, he established his own school in
a gymnasium known as the Lyceum. He built a substantial library and
gathered around him a group of brilliant research students, called
“peripatetics” from the name of the cloister (peripatos) in which they
walked and held their discussions. The Lyceum was not a private club
like the Academy; many of the lectures there were open to the general
public and given free of charge.
Most of Aristotle’s surviving works, with the exception of the
zoological treatises, probably belong to this second Athenian sojourn.
There is no certainty about their chronological order, and indeed it is
probable that the main treatises—on physics, metaphysics, psychology,
ethics, and politics—were constantly rewritten and updated. Every
proposition of Aristotle is fertile of ideas and full of energy, though
his prose is commonly neither lucid nor elegant.
Aristotle’s works, though not as polished as Plato’s, are systematic
in a way that Plato’s never were. Plato’s dialogues shift constantly
from one topic to another, always (from a modern perspective) crossing
the boundaries between different philosophical or scientific
disciplines. Indeed, there was no such thing as an intellectual
discipline until Aristotle invented the notion during his Lyceum period.
Aristotle divided the sciences into three kinds: productive,
practical, and theoretical. The productive sciences, naturally enough,
are those that have a product. They include not only engineering and
architecture, which have products like bridges and houses, but also
disciplines such as strategy and rhetoric, where the product is
something less concrete, such as victory on the battlefield or in the
courts. The practical sciences, most notably ethics and politics, are
those that guide behaviour. The theoretical sciences are those that have
no product and no practical goal but in which information and
understanding are sought for their own sake.
During Aristotle’s years at the Lyceum, his relationship with his
former pupil Alexander apparently cooled. Alexander became more and more
megalomaniac, finally proclaiming himself divine and demanding that
Greeks prostrate themselves before him in adoration. Opposition to this
demand was led by Aristotle’s nephew Callisthenes (c. 360–327 bc), who
had been appointed historian of Alexander’s Asiatic expedition on
Aristotle’s recommendation. For his heroism Callisthenes was falsely
implicated in a plot and executed.
When Alexander died in 323, democratic Athens became uncomfortable
for Macedonians, even those who were anti-imperialist. Saying that he
did not wish the city that had executed Socrates “to sin twice against
philosophy,” Aristotle fled to Chalcis, where he died the following
year. His will, which survives, makes thoughtful provision for a large
number of friends and dependents. To Theophrastus (c. 372–c. 287 bc),
his successor as head of the Lyceum, he left his library, including his
own writings, which were vast. Aristotle’s surviving works amount to
about one million words, though they probably represent only about
one-fifth of his total output.
Writings
Aristotle’s writings fall into two groups: those that were published by
him but are now almost entirely lost, and those that were not intended
for publication but were collected and preserved by others. The first
group consists mainly of popular works; the second group comprises
treatises that Aristotle used in his teaching.
Writings » Lost works
The lost works include poetry, letters, and essays as well as dialogues
in the Platonic manner. To judge by surviving fragments, their content
often differed widely from the doctrines of the surviving treatises. The
commentator Alexander of Aphrodisias (born c. 200) suggested that
Aristotle’s works may express two truths: an “exoteric” truth for public
consumption and an “esoteric” truth reserved for students in the Lyceum.
Most contemporary scholars, however, believe that the popular writings
reflect not Aristotle’s public views but rather an early stage of his
intellectual development.
Writings » Extant works
The works that have been preserved derive from manuscripts left by
Aristotle on his death. According to ancient tradition—passed on by
Plutarch (ad 46–c. 119) and Strabo (c. 64 bc–ad 23?)—the writings of
Aristotle and Theophrastus were bequeathed to Neleus of Scepsis, whose
heirs hid them in a cellar to prevent their being confiscated for the
library of the kings of Pergamum (in present-day Turkey). Later,
according to this tradition, the books were purchased by a collector and
taken to Athens, where they were commandeered by the Roman commander
Sulla when he conquered the city in 86 bc. Taken to Rome, they were
edited and published there about 60 bc by Andronicus of Rhodes, the last
head of the Lyceum. Although many elements of this story are
implausible, it is still widely accepted that Andronicus edited
Aristotle’s texts and published them with the titles and in the form and
order that are familiar today.
Doctrines » Logic » Syllogistic
Aristotle’s claim to be the founder of logic rests primarily on the
Categories, the De interpretatione, and the Prior Analytics, which deal
respectively with words, propositions, and syllogisms. These works,
along with the Topics, the Sophistical Refutations, and a treatise on
scientific method, the Posterior Analytics, were grouped together in a
collection known as the Organon, or “tool” of thought.
The Prior Analytics is devoted to the theory of the syllogism, a
central method of inference that can be illustrated by familiar examples
such as the following:
Every Greek is human. Every human is mortal. Therefore, every Greek
is mortal.
Aristotle discusses the various forms that syllogisms can take and
identifies which forms constitute reliable inferences. The example above
contains three propositions in the indicative mood, which Aristotle
calls “propositions.” (Roughly speaking, a proposition is a proposition
considered solely with respect to its logical features.) The third
proposition, the one beginning with “therefore,” Aristotle calls the
conclusion of the syllogism. The other two propositions may be called
premises, though Aristotle does not consistently use any particular
technical term to distinguish them.
The propositions in the example above begin with the word every;
Aristotle calls such propositions “universal.” (In English, universal
propositions can be expressed by using all rather than every; thus,
Every Greek is human is equivalent to All Greeks are human.) Universal
propositions may be affirmative, as in this example, or negative, as in
No Greek is a horse. Universal propositions differ from “particular”
propositions, such as Some Greek is bearded (a particular affirmative)
and Some Greek is not bearded (a particular negative). In the Middle
Ages it became customary to call the difference between universal and
particular propositions a difference of “quantity” and the difference
between affirmative and negative propositions a difference of “quality.”
In propositions of all these kinds, Aristotle says, something is
predicated of something else. The items that enter into predications
Aristotle calls “terms.” It is a feature of terms, as conceived by
Aristotle, that they can figure either as predicates or as subjects of
predication. This means that they can play three distinct roles in a
syllogism. The term that is the predicate of the conclusion is the
“major” term; the term of which the major term is predicated in the
conclusion is the “minor” term; and the term that appears in each of the
premises is the “middle” term.
In addition to inventing this technical vocabulary, Aristotle
introduced the practice of using schematic letters to identify
particular patterns of argument, a device that is essential for the
systematic study of inference and that is ubiquitous in modern
mathematical logic. Thus, the pattern of argument exhibited in the
example above can be represented in the schematic proposition:
If A belongs to every B, and B belongs to every C, A belongs to every
C.
Because propositions may differ in quantity and quality, and because
the middle term may occupy several different places in the premises,
many different patterns of syllogistic inference are possible.
Additional examples are the following:
Every Greek is human. No human is immortal. Therefore, no Greek is
immortal.
Some animal is a dog. Some dog is white. Therefore, every animal is
white.
From late antiquity, triads of these different kinds were called
“moods” of the syllogism. The two moods illustrated above exhibit an
important difference: the first is a valid argument, and the second is
an invalid argument, having true premises and a false conclusion. An
argument is valid only if its form is such that it will never lead from
true premises to a false conclusion. Aristotle sought to determine which
forms result in valid inferences. He set out a number of rules giving
necessary conditions for the validity of a syllogism, such as the
following:
At least one premise must be universal.
At least one premise must be affirmative.
If either premise is negative, the conclusion must be negative.
Aristotle’s syllogistic is a remarkable achievement: it is a
systematic formulation of an important part of logic. From roughly the
Renaissance until the early 19th century, it was widely believed that
syllogistic was the whole of logic. But in fact it is only a fragment.
It does not deal, for example, with inferences that depend on words such
as and, or, and if…then, which, instead of attaching to nouns, link
whole propositions together.
Doctrines » Logic » Syllogistic
Aristotle’s claim to be the founder of logic rests primarily on the
Categories, the De interpretatione, and the Prior Analytics, which deal
respectively with words, propositions, and syllogisms. These works,
along with the Topics, the Sophistical Refutations, and a treatise on
scientific method, the Posterior Analytics, were grouped together in a
collection known as the Organon, or “tool” of thought.
The Prior Analytics is devoted to the theory of the syllogism, a
central method of inference that can be illustrated by familiar examples
such as the following:
Every Greek is human. Every human is mortal. Therefore, every Greek
is mortal.
Aristotle discusses the various forms that syllogisms can take and
identifies which forms constitute reliable inferences. The example above
contains three propositions in the indicative mood, which Aristotle
calls “propositions.” (Roughly speaking, a proposition is a proposition
considered solely with respect to its logical features.) The third
proposition, the one beginning with “therefore,” Aristotle calls the
conclusion of the syllogism. The other two propositions may be called
premises, though Aristotle does not consistently use any particular
technical term to distinguish them.
The propositions in the example above begin with the word every;
Aristotle calls such propositions “universal.” (In English, universal
propositions can be expressed by using all rather than every; thus,
Every Greek is human is equivalent to All Greeks are human.) Universal
propositions may be affirmative, as in this example, or negative, as in
No Greek is a horse. Universal propositions differ from “particular”
propositions, such as Some Greek is bearded (a particular affirmative)
and Some Greek is not bearded (a particular negative). In the Middle
Ages it became customary to call the difference between universal and
particular propositions a difference of “quantity” and the difference
between affirmative and negative propositions a difference of “quality.”
In propositions of all these kinds, Aristotle says, something is
predicated of something else. The items that enter into predications
Aristotle calls “terms.” It is a feature of terms, as conceived by
Aristotle, that they can figure either as predicates or as subjects of
predication. This means that they can play three distinct roles in a
syllogism. The term that is the predicate of the conclusion is the
“major” term; the term of which the major term is predicated in the
conclusion is the “minor” term; and the term that appears in each of the
premises is the “middle” term.
In addition to inventing this technical vocabulary, Aristotle
introduced the practice of using schematic letters to identify
particular patterns of argument, a device that is essential for the
systematic study of inference and that is ubiquitous in modern
mathematical logic. Thus, the pattern of argument exhibited in the
example above can be represented in the schematic proposition:
If A belongs to every B, and B belongs to every C, A belongs to every
C.
Because propositions may differ in quantity and quality, and because
the middle term may occupy several different places in the premises,
many different patterns of syllogistic inference are possible.
Additional examples are the following:
Every Greek is human. No human is immortal. Therefore, no Greek is
immortal.
Some animal is a dog. Some dog is white. Therefore, every animal is
white.
From late antiquity, triads of these different kinds were called
“moods” of the syllogism. The two moods illustrated above exhibit an
important difference: the first is a valid argument, and the second is
an invalid argument, having true premises and a false conclusion. An
argument is valid only if its form is such that it will never lead from
true premises to a false conclusion. Aristotle sought to determine which
forms result in valid inferences. He set out a number of rules giving
necessary conditions for the validity of a syllogism, such as the
following:
At least one premise must be universal.
At least one premise must be affirmative.
If either premise is negative, the conclusion must be negative.
Aristotle’s syllogistic is a remarkable achievement: it is a
systematic formulation of an important part of logic. From roughly the
Renaissance until the early 19th century, it was widely believed that
syllogistic was the whole of logic. But in fact it is only a fragment.
It does not deal, for example, with inferences that depend on words such
as and, or, and if…then, which, instead of attaching to nouns, link
whole propositions together.
Doctrines » Logic » Propositions and categories
Aristotle’s writings show that even he realized that there is more to
logic than syllogistic. The De interpretatione, like the Prior
Analytics, deals mainly with general propositions beginning with Every,
No, or Some. But its main concern is not to link these propositions to
each other in syllogisms but to explore the relations of compatibility
and incompatibility between them. Every swan is white and No swan is
white clearly cannot both be true; Aristotle calls such pairs of
propositions “contraries.” They can, however, both be false, if—as is
the case—some swans are white and some are not. Every swan is white and
Some swan is not white, like the former pair, cannot both be true,
but—on the assumption that there are such things as swans—they cannot
both be false either. If one of them is true, the other is false; and if
one of them is false, the other is true. Aristotle calls such pairs of
propositions “contradictories.”
The propositions that enter into syllogisms are all general
propositions, whether universal or particular; that is to say, none of
them is a proposition about an individual, containing a proper name,
such as the proposition Socrates is wise. To find a systematic treatment
of singular propositions, one must turn to the Categories. This treatise
begins by dividing the “things that are said” (the expressions of
speech) into those that are simple and those that are complex. Examples
of complex sayings are A man runs, A woman speaks, and An ox drinks;
simple sayings are the particular words that enter into such complexes:
man, runs, woman, speaks, and so on. Only complex sayings can be
statements, true or false; simple sayings are neither true nor false.
The Categories identifies 10 different ways in which simple expressions
may signify; these are the categories that give the treatise its name.
To introduce the categories, Aristotle employs a heterogeneous set of
expressions, including nouns (e.g., substance), verbs (e.g., wearing),
and interrogatives (e.g., where? or how big?). By the Middle Ages it had
become customary to refer to each category by a more or less abstract
noun: substance, quantity, quality, relation, place, time, posture,
vesture, activity, and passivity.
The categories are intended as a classification of both the kinds of
expression that may function as a predicate in a proposition and of the
kinds of extralinguistic entity such expressions may signify. One might
say of Socrates, for example, that he was human (substance), that he was
five feet tall (quantity), that he was wise (quality), that he was older
than Plato (relation), and that he lived in Athens (place) in the 5th
century bc (time). On a particular occasion, his friends might have said
of him that he was sitting (posture), wearing a cloak (vesture), cutting
a piece of cloth (activity), or being warmed by the sun (passivity).
If one follows Aristotle’s lead, one will easily be able to classify
the predicates in propositions such as Socrates is potbellied and
Socrates is wiser than Meletus. But what about the term Socrates in
propositions such as Socrates is human? What category does it belong to?
Aristotle answers the question by making a distinction between “first
substance” and “second substance.” In Socrates is human, Socrates refers
to a first substance—an individual—and human to a second substance—a
species or kind. Thus, the proposition predicates the species human of
an individual, Socrates.(See below Physics and metaphysics: Form.)
Aristotle’s logical writings contain two different conceptions of the
structure of a proposition and the nature of its parts. One conception
can trace its ancestry to Plato’s dialogue the Sophist. In that work
Plato introduces a distinction between nouns and verbs, a verb being the
sign of an action and a noun being the sign of an agent of an action. A
proposition, he claims, must consist of at least one noun and at least
one verb; two nouns in succession or two verbs in succession—as in lion
stag and walks runs—will never make a proposition. The simplest kind of
proposition is something like A man learns or Theaetetus flies, and only
something with this kind of structure can be true or false. It is this
conception of a proposition as constructed from two quite heterogeneous
elements that is to the fore in the Categories and the De
interpretatione, and it is also paramount in modern logic.
In the syllogistic of the Prior Analytics, in contrast, the
proposition is conceived in quite a different way. The basic elements
out of which it is constructed are terms, which are not heterogeneous
like nouns and verbs but can occur indifferently, without change of
meaning, as either subjects or predicates. One flaw in the doctrine of
terms is that it fosters confusion between signs and what they signify.
In the proposition Every human is mortal, for example, is mortal
predicated of humans or of human? It is important to distinguish between
use and mention—between the use of a word to talk about what it
signifies and the mention of a word to talk about the word itself. This
distinction was not always easy to make in ancient Greek, because the
language lacked quotation marks. There is no doubt that Aristotle
sometimes fell into confusion between use and mention; the wonder is
that, given his dysfunctional doctrine of terms, he did not do so more
often.
Doctrines » Physics and metaphysics
Aristotle divided the theoretical sciences into three groups: physics,
mathematics, and theology. Physics as he understood it was equivalent to
what would now be called “natural philosophy,” or the study of nature
(physis; see also nature, philosophy of); in this sense it encompasses
not only the modern field of physics but also biology, chemistry,
geology, psychology, and even meteorology. Metaphysics, however, is
notably absent from Aristotle’s classification; indeed, he never uses
the word, which first appears in the posthumous catalog of his writings
as a name for the works listed after the Physics. He does, however,
recognize the branch of philosophy now called metaphysics: he calls it
“first philosophy” and defines it as the discipline that studies “being
as being.”
Aristotle’s contributions to the physical sciences are less
impressive than his researches in the life sciences. In works such as On
Generation and Corruption and On the Heavens, he presented a
world-picture that included many features inherited from his
pre-Socratic predecessors. From Empedocles (c. 490–430 bc) he adopted
the view that the universe is ultimately composed of different
combinations of the four fundamental elements of earth, water, air, and
fire. Each element is characterized by the possession of a unique pair
of the four elementary qualities of heat, cold, wetness, and dryness:
earth is cold and dry, water is cold and wet, air is hot and wet, and
fire is hot and dry. Each element has a natural place in an ordered
cosmos, and each has an innate tendency to move toward this natural
place. Thus, earthy solids naturally fall, while fire, unless prevented,
rises ever higher. Other motions of the elements are possible but are
“violent.” (A relic of Aristotle’s distinction is preserved in the
modern-day contrast between natural and violent death.)
Aristotle’s vision of the cosmos also owes much to Plato’s dialogue
Timaeus. As in that work, the Earth is at the centre of the universe,
and around it the Moon, the Sun, and the other planets revolve in a
succession of concentric crystalline spheres. The heavenly bodies are
not compounds of the four terrestrial elements but are made up of a
superior fifth element, or “quintessence.” In addition, the heavenly
bodies have souls, or supernatural intellects, which guide them in their
travels through the cosmos.
Even the best of Aristotle’s scientific work has now only a
historical interest. The abiding value of treatises such as the Physics
lies not in their particular scientific assertions but in their
philosophical analyses of some of the concepts that pervade the physics
of different eras—concepts such as place, time, causation, and
determinism.
Doctrines » Physics and metaphysics » Place
Every body appears to be in some place, and every body (at least in
principle) can move from one place to another. The same place can be
occupied at different times by different bodies, as a flask can contain
first wine and then air. So a place cannot be identical to the body that
occupies it. What, then, is place? According to Aristotle, the place of
a thing is the first motionless boundary of whatever body is containing
it. Thus, the place of a pint of wine is the inner surface of the flask
containing it—provided the flask is stationary. But suppose the flask is
in motion, perhaps on a punt floating down a river. Then the wine will
be moving too, from place to place, and its place must be given by
specifying its position relative to the motionless river banks.
As is clear from this example, for Aristotle a thing is not only in
the place defined by its immediate container but also in whatever
contains that container. Thus, all human beings are not only on the
Earth but also in the universe; the universe is the place that is common
to everything. But the universe itself is not in a place at all, since
it has no container outside it. Thus, it is clear that place as
described by Aristotle is quite different from space as conceived by
Isaac Newton (1643–1727)—as an infinite extension or cosmic grid (see
cosmos). Newtonian space would exist whether or not the material
universe had been created. For Aristotle, if there were no bodies, there
would be no place. Aristotle does, however, allow for the existence of a
vacuum, or “void,” but only if it is contained by actually existing
bodies.
Doctrines » Physics and metaphysics » The continuum
Spacial extension, motion, and time are often thought of as continua—as
wholes made up of a series of smaller parts. Aristotle develops a subtle
analysis of the nature of such continuous quantities. Two entities are
continuous, he says, when there is only a single common boundary between
them. On the basis of this definition, he seeks to show that a continuum
cannot be composed of indivisible atoms. A line, for example, cannot be
composed of points that lack magnitude. Since a point has no parts, it
cannot have a boundary distinct from itself; two points, therefore,
cannot be either adjacent or continuous. Between any two points on a
continuous line there will always be other points on the same line.
Similar reasoning, Aristotle says, applies to time and to motion.
Time cannot be composed of indivisible moments, because between any two
moments there is always a period of time. Likewise, an atom of motion
would in fact have to be an atom of rest. Moments or points that were
indivisible would lack magnitude, and zero magnitude, however often
repeated, can never add up to any magnitude.
Any magnitude, then, is infinitely divisible. But this means
“unendingly divisible,” not “divisible into infinitely many parts.”
However often a magnitude has been divided, it can always be divided
further. It is infinitely divisible in the sense that there is no end to
its divisibility. The continuum does not have an infinite number of
parts; indeed, Aristotle regarded the idea of an actually infinite
number as incoherent. The infinite, he says, has only a “potential”
existence.
Doctrines » Physics and metaphysics » Motion
Motion (kinesis) was for Aristotle a broad term, encompassing changes in
several different categories. A paradigm of his theory of motion, which
appeals to the key notions of actuality and potentiality, is local
motion, or movement from place to place. If a body X is to move from
point A to point B, it must be able to do so: when it is at A it is only
potentially at B. When this potentiality has been realized, then X is at
B. But it is then at rest and not in motion. So motion from A to B is
not simply the actualization of a potential at A for being at B. Is it
then a partial actualization of that potentiality? That will not do
either, because a body stationary at the midpoint between A and B might
be said to have partially actualized that potentiality. One must say
that motion is an actualization of a potentiality that is still being
actualized. In the Physics Aristotle accordingly defines motion as “the
actuality of what is in potentiality, insofar as it is in potentiality.”
Motion is a continuum: a mere series of positions between A and B is
not a motion from A to B. If X is to move from A to B, however, it must
pass through any intermediate point between A and B. But passing through
a point is not the same as being located at that point. Aristotle argues
that whatever is in motion has already been in motion. If X, traveling
from A to B, passes through the intermediate point K, it must have
already passed through an earlier point J, intermediate between A and K.
But however short the distance between A and J, that too is divisible,
and so on ad infinitum. At any point at which X is moving, therefore,
there will be an earlier point at which it was already moving. It
follows that there is no such thing as a first instant of motion.
Doctrines » Physics and metaphysics » Time
For Aristotle, extension, motion, and time are three fundamental
continua in an intimate and ordered relation to each other. Local motion
derives its continuity from the continuity of extension, and time
derives its continuity from the continuity of motion. Time, Aristotle
says, is the number of motion with respect to before and after. Where
there is no motion, there is no time. This does not imply that time is
identical with motion: motions are motions of particular things, and
different kinds of changes are motions of different kinds, but time is
universal and uniform. Motions, again, may be faster or slower; not so
time. Indeed, it is by the time they take that the speed of motions is
determined. Nonetheless, Aristotle says, “we perceive motion and time
together.” One observes how much time has passed by observing the
process of some change. In particular, for Aristotle, the days, months,
and years are measured by observing the Sun, the Moon, and the stars
upon their celestial travels.
The part of a journey that is nearer its starting point comes before
the part that is nearer its end. The spatial relation of nearer and
farther underpins the relation of before and after in motion, and the
relation of before and after in motion underpins the relation of earlier
and later in time. Thus, on Aristotle’s view, temporal order is
ultimately derived from the spatial ordering of stretches of motion.
Doctrines » Physics and metaphysics » Matter
Change, for Aristotle, can take place in many different categories.
Local motion, as noted above, is change in the category of place. Change
in the category of quantity is growth (or shrinkage), and change in the
category of quality (e.g., of colour) is what Aristotle calls
“alteration.” Change in the category of substance, however—a change of
one kind of thing into another—is very special. When a substance
undergoes a change of quantity or quality, the same substance remains
throughout. But does anything persist when one kind of thing turns into
another? Aristotle’s answer is yes: matter. He says,
By matter, I mean what in itself is neither of any kind nor of any
size nor describable by any of the categories of being. For it is
something of which all these things are predicated, and therefore its
essence is different from that of all the predicates.
An entity that is not of any kind, size, or shape and of which
nothing at all can be said may seem highly mysterious, but this is not
what Aristotle has in mind. His ultimate matter (he sometimes calls it
“prime matter”) is not in itself of any kind. It is not in itself of any
particular size, because it can grow or shrink; it is not in itself
water or steam, because it is both of these in turn. But this does not
mean that there is any time at which it is not of any size or any time
at which it is neither water nor steam nor anything else.
Ordinary life provides many examples of pieces of matter changing
from one kind to another. A bottle containing a pint of cream may be
found, after shaking, to contain not cream but butter. The stuff that
comes out of the bottle is the same as the stuff that went into it;
nothing has been added and nothing taken away. But what comes out is
different in kind from what went in. It is from cases such as this that
the Aristotelian notion of matter is derived.
Doctrines » Physics and metaphysics » Form
Although Aristotle’s system makes room for forms, they differ
significantly from Forms as Plato conceived them. For Aristotle, the
form of a particular thing is not separate (chorista) from the thing
itself—any form is the form of some thing. In Aristotle’s physics, form
is always paired with matter, and the paradigm examples of forms are
those of material substances.
Aristotle distinguishes between “substantial” and “accidental” forms.
A substantial form is a second substance (species or kind) considered as
a universal; the predicate human, for example, is universal as well as
substantial. Thus, Socrates is human may be described as predicating a
second substance of a first substance (Socrates) or as predicating a
substantial form of a first substance. Whereas substantial forms
correspond to the category of substance, accidental forms correspond to
categories other than substance; they are nonsubstantial categories
considered as universals. Socrates is wise, for example, may be
described as predicating a quality (wise) of a first substance or as
predicating an accidental form of a first substance. Aristotle calls
such forms “accidental” because they may undergo change, or be gained or
lost, without thereby changing the first substance into something else
or causing it to cease to exist. Substantial forms, in contrast, cannot
be gained or lost without changing the nature of the substance of which
they are predicated. In the propositions above, wise is an accidental
form and human a substantial form; Socrates could survive the loss of
the former but not the loss of the latter.
When a thing comes into being, neither its matter nor its form is
created. When one manufactures a bronze sphere, for example, what comes
into existence is not the bronze or the spherical shape but the shaped
bronze. Similarly in the case of the human Socrates. But the fact that
the forms of things are not created does not mean that they must exist
independently of matter, outside space and time, as Plato maintained.
The bronze sphere derives its shape not from an ideal Sphere but from
its maker, who introduces form into the appropriate matter in the
process of his work. Likewise, Socrates’ humanity derives not from an
ideal Human but from his parents, who introduce form into the
appropriate matter when they conceive him.
Thus, Aristotle reverses the question asked by Plato: “What is it
that two human beings have in common that makes them both human?” He
asks instead, “What makes two human beings two humans rather than one?”
And his answer is that what makes Socrates distinct from his friend
Callias is not their substantial form, which is the same, nor their
accidental forms, which may be the same or different, but their matter.
Matter, not form, is the principle of individuation.
Doctrines » Physics and metaphysics » Causation
In several places Aristotle distinguishes four types of cause, or
explanation. First, he says, there is that of which and out of which a
thing is made, such as the bronze of a statue. This is called the
material cause. Second, there is the form or pattern of a thing, which
may be expressed in its definition; Aristotle’s example is the
proportion of the length of two strings in a lyre, which is the formal
cause of one note’s being the octave of another. The third type of cause
is the origin of a change or state of rest in something; this is often
called the “efficient cause.” Aristotle gives as examples a person
reaching a decision, a father begetting a child, a sculptor carving a
statue, and a doctor healing a patient. The fourth and last type of
cause is the end or goal of a thing—that for the sake of which a thing
is done. This is known as the “final cause.”
Although Aristotle gives mathematical examples of formal causes, the
forms whose causation interests him most are the substantial forms of
living beings. In these cases substantial form is the structure or
organization of the being as a whole, as well as of its various parts;
it is this structure that explains the being’s life cycle and
characteristic activities. In these cases, in fact, formal and final
causes coincide, the mature realization of natural form being the end to
which the activities of the organism tend. The growth and development of
the various parts of a living being, such as the root of a tree or the
heart of a sheep, can be understood only as the actualization of a
certain structure for the purpose of performing a certain biological
function.
Doctrines » Physics and metaphysics » Being
For Aristotle, “being” is whatever is anything whatever. Whenever
Aristotle explains the meaning of being, he does so by explaining the
sense of the Greek verb to be. Being contains whatever items can be the
subjects of true propositions containing the word is, whether or not the
is is followed by a predicate. Thus, both Socrates is and Socrates is
wise say something about being. Every being in any category other than
substance is a property or a modification of substance. For this reason,
Aristotle says that the study of substance is the way to understand the
nature of being. The books of the Metaphysics in which he undertakes
this investigation, VII through IX, are among the most difficult of his
writings.
Aristotle gives two superficially conflicting accounts of the subject
matter of first philosophy. According to one account, it is the
discipline “which theorizes about being qua being, and the things which
belong to being taken in itself”; unlike the special sciences, it deals
with the most general features of beings, insofar as they are beings. On
the other account, first philosophy deals with a particular kind of
being, namely, divine, independent, and immutable substance; for this
reason he sometimes calls the discipline “theology.”
It is important to note that these accounts are not simply two
different descriptions of “being qua being.” There is, indeed, no such
thing as being qua being; there are only different ways of studying
being. When one studies human physiology, for example, one studies
humans qua animals—that is to say, one studies the structures and
functions that humans have in common with animals. But of course there
is no such entity as a “human qua animal.” Similarly, to study something
as a being is to study it in virtue of what it has in common with all
other things. To study the universe as being is to study it as a single
overarching system, embracing all the causes of things coming into being
and remaining in existence.
Doctrines » Physics and metaphysics » The unmoved mover
The way in which Aristotle seeks to show that the universe is a single
causal system is through an examination of the notion of movement, which
finds its culmination in Book XI of the Metaphysics. As noted above,
motion, for Aristotle, refers to change in any of several different
categories. Aristotle’s fundamental principle is that everything that is
in motion is moved by something else, and he offers a number of
(unconvincing) arguments to this effect. He then argues that there
cannot be an infinite series of moved movers. If it is true that when A
is in motion there must be some B that moves A, then if B is itself in
motion there must be some C moving B, and so on. This series cannot go
on forever, and so it must come to a halt in some X that is a cause of
motion but does not move itself—an unmoved mover.
Since the motion it causes is everlasting, this X must itself be an
eternal substance. It must lack matter, for it cannot come into
existence or go out of existence by turning into anything else. It must
also lack potentiality, for the mere power to cause motion would not
ensure the sempiternity of motion. It must, therefore, be pure actuality
(energeia). Although the revolving heavens, for Aristotle, lack the
possibility of substantial change, they possess potentiality, because
each heavenly body has the power to move elsewhere in its diurnal round.
Since these bodies are in motion, they need a mover, and this is a
motionless mover. Such a mover could not act as an efficient cause,
because that would involve a change in itself, but it can act as a final
cause—an object of love—because being loved does not involve any change
in the beloved. The stars and planets seek to imitate the perfection of
the unmoved mover by moving about the Earth in a circle, the most
perfect of shapes. For this to be the case, of course, the heavenly
bodies must have souls capable of feeling love for the unmoved mover.
“On such a principle,” Aristotle says, “depend the heavens and the world
of nature.”
Aristotle is prepared to call the unmoved mover “God.” The life of
God, he says, must be like the very best of human lives. The delight
that a human being takes in the sublimest moments of philosophical
contemplation is in God a perpetual state. What, Aristotle asks, does
God think of? He must think of something—otherwise, he is no better than
a sleeping human—and whatever he is thinking of, he must think of
eternally. Either he thinks about himself, or he thinks about something
else. But the value of a thought depends on the value of what it is a
thought of, so, if God were thinking of anything other than himself, he
would be somehow degraded. So he must be thinking of himself, the
supreme being, and his life is a thinking of thinking (noesis noeseos).
This conclusion has been much debated. Some have regarded it as a
sublime truth; others have thought it a piece of exquisite nonsense.
Among those who have taken the latter view, some have considered it the
supreme absurdity of Aristotle’s system, and others have held that
Aristotle himself intended it as a reductio ad absurdum. Whatever the
truth about the object of thought of the unmoved mover, it seems clear
that it does not include the contingent affairs of individual human
beings.
Thus, at the supreme point of Aristotle’s causal hierarchy stand the
heavenly movers, moved and unmoved, which are the final cause of all
generation and corruption. And this is why metaphysics can be called by
two such different names. When Aristotle says that first philosophy
studies the whole of being, he is describing it by indicating the field
it is to explain; when he says that it is the science of the divine, he
is describing it by indicating its ultimate principles of explanation.
Thus, first philosophy is both the science of being qua being and also
theology.
Doctrines » Philosophy of science
In his Posterior Analytics Aristotle applies the theory of the syllogism
to scientific and epistemological ends. Scientific knowledge, he urges,
must be built up out of demonstrations. A demonstration is a particular
kind of syllogism, one whose premises can be traced back to principles
that are true, necessary, universal, and immediately intuited. These
first, self-evident principles are related to the conclusions of science
as axioms are related to theorems: the axioms both necessitate and
explain the truths that constitute a science. The most important axioms,
Aristotle thought, would be those that define the proper subject matter
of a science (thus, among the axioms of geometry would be the definition
of a triangle). For this reason much of the second book of the Posterior
Analytics is devoted to definition.
The account of science in the Posterior Analytics is impressive, but
it bears no resemblance to any of Aristotle’s own scientific works.
Generations of scholars have tried in vain to find in his writings a
single instance of a demonstrative syllogism. Moreover, the whole
history of scientific endeavour contains no perfect instance of a
demonstrative science.
Doctrines » Philosophy of mind
Aristotle regarded psychology as a part of natural philosophy, and he
wrote much about the philosophy of mind. This material appears in his
ethical writings, in a systematic treatise on the nature of the soul (De
anima), and in a number of minor monographs on topics such as
sense-perception, memory, sleep, and dreams.
For Aristotle the biologist, the soul is not—as it was in some of
Plato’s writings—an exile from a better world ill-housed in a base body.
The soul’s very essence is defined by its relationship to an organic
structure. Not only humans but beasts and plants too have souls,
intrinsic principles of animal and vegetable life. A soul, Aristotle
says, is “the actuality of a body that has life,” where life means the
capacity for self-sustenance, growth, and reproduction. If one regards a
living substance as a composite of matter and form, then the soul is the
form of a natural—or, as Aristotle sometimes says, organic—body. An
organic body is a body that has organs—that is to say, parts that have
specific functions, such as the mouths of mammals and the roots of
trees.
The souls of living beings are ordered by Aristotle in a hierarchy.
Plants have a vegetative or nutritive soul, which consists of the powers
of growth, nutrition, and reproduction. Animals have, in addition, the
powers of perception and locomotion—they possess a sensitive soul, and
every animal has at least one sense-faculty, touch being the most
universal. Whatever can feel at all can feel pleasure; hence, animals,
which have senses, also have desires. Humans, in addition, have the
power of reason and thought (logismos kai dianoia), which may be called
a rational soul. The way in which Aristotle structured the soul and its
faculties influenced not only philosophy but also science for nearly two
millennia.
Aristotle’s theoretical concept of soul differs from that of Plato
before him and René Descartes (1596–1650) after him. A soul, for him, is
not an interior immaterial agent acting on a body. Soul and body are no
more distinct from each other than the impress of a seal is distinct
from the wax on which it is impressed. The parts of the soul, moreover,
are faculties, which are distinguished from each other by their
operations and their objects. The power of growth is distinct from the
power of sensation because growing and feeling are two different
activities, and the sense of sight differs from the sense of hearing not
because eyes are different from ears but because colours are different
from sounds.
The objects of sense come in two kinds: those that are proper to
particular senses, such as colour, sound, taste, and smell, and those
that are perceptible by more than one sense, such as motion, number,
shape, and size. One can tell, for example, whether something is moving
either by watching it or by feeling it, and so motion is a “common
sensible.” Although there is no special organ for detecting common
sensibles, there is a faculty that Aristotle calls a “central sense.”
When one encounters a horse, for example, one may see, hear, feel, and
smell it; it is the central sense that unifies these sensations into
perceptions of a single object (though the knowledge that this object is
a horse is, for Aristotle, a function of intellect rather than sense).
Besides the five senses and the central sense, Aristotle recognizes
other faculties that later came to be grouped together as the “inner
senses,” notably imagination and memory. Even at the purely
philosophical level, however, Aristotle’s accounts of the inner senses
are unrewarding.
At the same level within the hierarchy as the senses, which are
cognitive faculties, there is also an affective faculty, which is the
locus of spontaneous feeling. This is a part of the soul that is
basically irrational but is capable of being controlled by reason. It is
the locus of desire and passion; when brought under the sway of reason,
it is the seat of the moral virtues, such as courage and temperance. The
highest level of the soul is occupied by mind or reason, the locus of
thought and understanding. Thought differs from sense-perception and is
the prerogative, on earth, of human beings. Thought, like sensation, is
a matter of making judgments; but sensation concerns particulars, while
intellectual knowledge is of universals. Reasoning may be practical or
theoretical, and, accordingly, Aristotle distinguishes between a
deliberative and a speculative faculty.
In a notoriously difficult passage of De anima, Aristotle introduces
a further distinction between two kinds of mind: one passive, which can
“become all things,” and one active, which can “make all things.” The
active mind, he says, is “separable, impassible, and unmixed.” In
antiquity and the Middle Ages, this passage was the subject of sharply
different interpretations. Some—particularly among Arab
commentators—identified the separable active agent with God or with some
other superhuman intelligence. Others—particularly among Latin
commentators—took Aristotle to be identifying two different faculties
within the human mind: an active intellect, which formed concepts, and a
passive intellect, which was a storehouse of ideas and beliefs.
If the second interpretation is correct, then Aristotle is here
recognizing a part of the human soul that is separable from the body and
immortal. Here and elsewhere there is detectable in Aristotle, in
addition to his standard biological notion of the soul, a residue of a
Platonic vision according to which the intellect is a distinct entity
separable from the body. No one has produced a wholly satisfactory
reconciliation between the biological and the transcendent strains in
Aristotle’s thought.
Doctrines » Ethics
The surviving works of Aristotle include three treatises on moral
philosophy: the Nicomachean Ethics in 10 books, the Eudemian Ethics in 7
books, and the Magna moralia (Latin: “Great Ethics”). The Nicomachean
Ethics is generally regarded as the most important of the three; it
consists of a series of short treatises, possibly brought together by
Aristotle’s son Nicomachus. In the 19th century the Eudemian Ethics was
often suspected of being the work of Aristotle’s pupil Eudemus of
Rhodes, but there is no good reason to doubt its authenticity.
Interestingly, the Nicomachean Ethics and the Eudemian Ethics have three
books in common: books V, VI, and VII of the former are the same as
books IV, V, and VI of the latter. Although the question has been
disputed for centuries, it is most likely that the original home of the
common books was the Eudemian Ethics; it is also probable that Aristotle
used this work for a course on ethics that he taught at the Lyceum
during his mature period. The Magna moralia probably consists of notes
taken by an unknown student of such a course.
Doctrines » Ethics » Happiness
Aristotle’s approach to ethics is teleological. If life is to be worth
living, he argues, it must surely be for the sake of something that is
an end in itself—i.e., desirable for its own sake. If there is any
single thing that is the highest human good, therefore, it must be
desirable for its own sake, and all other goods must be desirable for
the sake of it. One popular conception of the highest human good is
pleasure—the pleasures of food, drink, and sex, combined with aesthetic
and intellectual pleasures. Other people prefer a life of virtuous
action in the political sphere. A third possible candidate for the
highest human good is scientific or philosophical contemplation.
Aristotle thus reduces the answers to the question “What is a good
life?” to a short list of three: the philosophical life, the political
life, and the voluptuary life. This triad provides the key to his
ethical inquiry.
“Happiness,” the term that Aristotle uses to designate the highest
human good, is the usual translation of the Greek eudaimonia. Although
it is impossible to abandon the English term at this stage of history,
it should be borne in mind that what Aristotle means by eudaimonia is
something more like well-being or flourishing than any feeling of
contentment. Aristotle argues, in fact, that happiness is activity of
the rational soul in accordance with virtue. Human beings must have a
function, because particular types of humans (e.g., sculptors) do, as do
the parts and organs of individual human beings. This function must be
unique to humans; thus, it cannot consist of growth and nourishment, for
this is shared by plants, or the life of the senses, for this is shared
by animals. It must therefore involve the peculiarly human faculty of
reason. The highest human good is the same as good human functioning,
and good human functioning is the same as the good exercise of the
faculty of reason—that is to say, the activity of rational soul in
accordance with virtue. There are two kinds of virtue: moral and
intellectual. Moral virtues are exemplified by courage, temperance, and
liberality; the key intellectual virtues are wisdom, which governs
ethical behaviour, and understanding, which is expressed in scientific
endeavour and contemplation.
Doctrines » Ethics » Virtue
People’s virtues are a subset of their good qualities. They are not
innate, like eyesight, but are acquired by practice and lost by disuse.
They are abiding states, and they thus differ from momentary passions
such as anger and pity. Virtues are states of character that find
expression both in purpose and in action. Moral virtue is expressed in
good purpose—that is to say, in prescriptions for action in accordance
with a good plan of life. It is expressed also in actions that avoid
both excess and defect. A temperate person, for example, will avoid
eating or drinking too much, but he will also avoid eating or drinking
too little. Virtue chooses the mean, or middle ground, between excess
and defect. Besides purpose and action, virtue is also concerned with
feeling. One may, for example, be excessively concerned with sex or
insufficiently interested in it; the temperate person will take the
appropriate degree of interest and be neither lustful nor frigid.
While all the moral virtues are means of action and passion, it is
not the case that every kind of action and passion is capable of a
virtuous mean. There are some actions of which there is no right amount,
because any amount of them is too much; Aristotle gives murder and
adultery as examples. The virtues, besides being concerned with means of
action and passion, are themselves means in the sense that they occupy a
middle ground between two contrary vices. Thus, the virtue of courage is
flanked on one side by foolhardiness and on the other by cowardice.
Aristotle’s account of virtue as a mean is no truism. It is a
distinctive ethical theory that contrasts with other influential systems
of various kinds. It contrasts, on the one hand, with religious systems
that give a central role to the concept of a moral law, concentrating on
the prohibitive aspects of morality. It also differs from moral systems
such as utilitarianism that judge the rightness and wrongness of actions
in terms of their consequences. Unlike the utilitarian, Aristotle
believes that there are some kinds of action that are morally wrong in
principle.
The mean that is the mark of moral virtue is determined by the
intellectual virtue of wisdom. Wisdom is characteristically expressed in
the formulation of prescriptions for action—“practical syllogisms,” as
Aristotle calls them. A practical syllogism consists of a general recipe
for a good life, followed by an accurate description of the agent’s
actual circumstances and concluding with a decision about the
appropriate action to be carried out.
Wisdom, the intellectual virtue that is proper to practical reason,
is inseparably linked with the moral virtues of the affective part of
the soul. Only if an agent possesses moral virtue will he endorse an
appropriate recipe for a good life. Only if he is gifted with
intelligence will he make an accurate assessment of the circumstances in
which his decision is to be made. It is impossible, Aristotle says, to
be really good without wisdom or to be really wise without moral virtue.
Only when correct reasoning and right desire come together does truly
virtuous action result.
Virtuous action, then, is always the result of successful practical
reasoning. But practical reasoning may be defective in various ways.
Someone may operate from a vicious choice of lifestyle; a glutton, for
example, may plan his life around the project of always maximizing the
present pleasure. Aristotle calls such a person “intemperate.” Even
people who do not endorse such a hedonistic premise may, once in a
while, overindulge. This failure to apply to a particular occasion a
generally sound plan of life Aristotle calls “incontinence.”
Doctrines » Ethics » Action and contemplation
The pleasures that are the domain of temperance, intemperance, and
incontinence are the familiar bodily pleasures of food, drink, and sex.
In treating of pleasure, however, Aristotle explores a much wider field.
There are two classes of aesthetic pleasures: the pleasures of the
inferior senses of touch and taste, and the pleasures of the superior
senses of sight, hearing, and smell. Finally, at the top of the scale,
there are the pleasures of the mind.
Plato had posed the question of whether the best life consists in the
pursuit of pleasure or the exercise of the intellectual virtues.
Aristotle’s answer is that, properly understood, the two are not in
competition with each other. The exercise of the highest form of virtue
is the very same thing as the truest form of pleasure; each is identical
with the other and with happiness. The highest virtues are the
intellectual ones, and among them Aristotle distinguished between wisdom
and understanding. To the question of whether happiness is to be
identified with the pleasure of wisdom or with the pleasure of
understanding, Aristotle gives different answers in his main ethical
treatises. In the Nicomachean Ethics perfect happiness, though it
presupposes the moral virtues, is constituted solely by the activity of
philosophical contemplation, whereas in the Eudemian Ethics it consists
in the harmonious exercise of all the virtues, intellectual and moral.
The Eudemian ideal of happiness, given the role it assigns to
contemplation, to the moral virtues, and to pleasure, can claim to
combine the features of the traditional three lives—the life of the
philosopher, the life of the politician, and the life of the pleasure
seeker. The happy person will value contemplation above all, but part of
his happy life will consist in the exercise of moral virtues in the
political sphere and the enjoyment in moderation of the natural human
pleasures of body as well as of soul. But even in the Eudemian Ethics it
is “the service and contemplation of God” that sets the standard for the
appropriate exercise of the moral virtues, and in the Nicomachean Ethics
this contemplation is described as a superhuman activity of a divine
part of human nature. Aristotle’s final word on ethics is that, despite
being mortal, human beings must strive to make themselves immortal as
far as they can.
Doctrines » Political theory
Turning from the Ethics treatises to their sequel, the Politics, the
reader is brought down to earth. “Man is a political animal,” Aristotle
observes; human beings are creatures of flesh and blood, rubbing
shoulders with each other in cities and communities. Like his work in
zoology, Aristotle’s political studies combine observation and theory.
He and his students documented the constitutions of 158 states—one of
which, The Constitution of Athens, has survived on papyrus. The aim of
the Politics, Aristotle says, is to investigate, on the basis of the
constitutions collected, what makes for good government and what makes
for bad government and to identify the factors favourable or
unfavourable to the preservation of a constitution.
Aristotle asserts that all communities aim at some good. The state
(polis), by which he means a city-state such as Athens, is the highest
kind of community, aiming at the highest of goods. The most primitive
communities are families of men and women, masters and slaves. Families
combine to make a village, and several villages combine to make a state,
which is the first self-sufficient community. The state is no less
natural than the family; this is proved by the fact that human beings
have the power of speech, the purpose of which is “to set forth the
expedient and inexpedient, and therefore likewise the just and the
unjust.” The foundation of the state was the greatest of benefactions,
because only within a state can human beings fulfill their potential.
Government, Aristotle says, must be in the hands of one, of a few, or
of the many; and governments may govern for the general good or for the
good of the rulers. Government by a single person for the general good
is called “monarchy”; for private benefit, “tyranny.” Government by a
minority is “aristocracy” if it aims at the state’s best interest and
“oligarchy” if it benefits only the ruling minority. Popular government
in the common interest Aristotle calls “polity”; he reserves the word
“democracy” for anarchic mob rule.
If a community contains an individual or family of outstanding
excellence, then, Aristotle says, monarchy is the best constitution. But
such a case is very rare, and the risk of miscarriage is great, for
monarchy corrupts into tyranny, which is the worst constitution of all.
Aristocracy, in theory, is the next-best constitution after monarchy
(because the ruling minority will be the best-qualified to rule), but in
practice Aristotle preferred a kind of constitutional democracy, for
what he called “polity” is a state in which rich and poor respect each
other’s rights and the best-qualified citizens rule with the consent of
all.
Two elements of Aristotle’s teaching affected European political
institutions for many centuries: his justification of slavery and his
condemnation of usury. Some people, Aristotle says, think that the rule
of master over slave is contrary to nature and therefore unjust. But
they are quite wrong: a slave is someone who is by nature not his own
property but someone else’s. Aristotle agrees, however, that in practice
much slavery is unjust, and he speculates that, if nonliving machines
could be made to carry out menial tasks, there would be no need for
slaves as living tools. Nevertheless, some people are so inferior and
brutish that it is better for them to be controlled by a master than to
be left to their own devices.
Although not himself an aristocrat, Aristotle had an aristocratic
disdain for commerce. Our possessions, he says, have two uses, proper
and improper. Money too has a proper and an improper use; its proper use
is to be exchanged for goods and services, not to be lent out at
interest. Of all the methods of making money, “taking a breed from
barren metal” is the most unnatural.
Doctrines » Rhetoric and poetics
Rhetoric, for Aristotle, is a topic-neutral discipline that studies the
possible means of persuasion. In advising orators on how to exploit the
moods of their audience, Aristotle undertakes a systematic and often
insightful treatment of human emotion, dealing in turn with anger,
hatred, fear, shame, pity, indignation, envy, and jealousy—in each case
offering a definition of the emotion and a list of its objects and
causes.
The Poetics is much better known than the Rhetoric, though only the
first book of the former, a treatment of epic and tragic poetry,
survives. The book aims, among other things, to answer Plato’s
criticisms of representative art. According to the theory of Forms,
material objects are imperfect copies of original, real, Forms; artistic
representations of material objects are therefore only copies of copies,
at two removes from reality. Moreover, drama has a specially corrupting
effect, because it stimulates unworthy emotions in its audience. In
response, Aristotle insists that imitation, so far from being the
degrading activity that Plato describes, is something natural to humans
from childhood and is one of the characteristics that makes humans
superior to animals, since it vastly increases the scope of what they
may learn.
In order to answer Plato’s complaint that playwrights are only
imitators of everyday life, which is itself only an imitation of the
real world of Forms, Aristotle draws a contrast between poetry and
history. The poet’s job is to describe not something that has actually
happened but something that might well happen—that is to say, something
that is possible because it is necessary or likely. For this reason,
poetry is more philosophical and more important than history, for poetry
speaks of the universal, history of only the particular. Much of what
happens to people in everyday life is a matter of sheer accident; only
in fiction can one witness character and action work themselves out to
their natural consequences.
Far from debasing the emotions, as Plato thought, drama has a
beneficial effect on them. Tragedy, Aristotle says, must contain
episodes arousing pity and fear so as to achieve a “purification” of
these emotions. No one is quite sure exactly what Aristotle meant by
katharsis, or purification. But perhaps what he meant was that watching
tragedy helps people to put their own sorrows and worries in
perspective, because in it they observe how catastrophe can overtake
even people who are vastly their superiors.
Legacy
Since the Renaissance it has been traditional to regard the Academy and
the Lyceum as two opposite poles of philosophy. Plato is idealistic,
utopian, otherworldly; Aristotle is realistic, utilitarian,
commonsensical. (This viewpoint is reflected in the famous depiction of
Plato and Aristotle in Raphael’s Vatican fresco The School of Athens.)
In fact, however, the doctrines that Plato and Aristotle share are more
important than those that divide them. Many post-Renaissance historians
of ideas have been less perceptive than the commentators of late
antiquity, who saw it as their duty to construct a harmonious concord
between the two greatest philosophers of the known world.
By any reckoning, Aristotle’s intellectual achievement is stupendous.
He was the first genuine scientist in history. He was the first author
whose surviving works contain detailed and extensive observations of
natural phenomena, and he was the first philosopher to achieve a sound
grasp of the relationship between observation and theory in scientific
method. He identified the various scientific disciplines and explored
their relationships to each other. He was the first professor to
organize his lectures into courses and to assign them a place in a
syllabus. His Lyceum was the first research institute in which a number
of scholars and investigators joined in collaborative inquiry and
documentation. Finally, and not least important, he was the first person
in history to build up a research library, a systematic collection of
works to be used by his colleagues and to be handed on to posterity.
Millennia later, Plato and Aristotle still have a strong claim to
being the greatest philosophers who have ever lived. But if their
contribution to philosophy is equal, it was Aristotle who made the
greater contribution to the intellectual patrimony of the world. Not
only every philosopher but also every scientist is in his debt. He
deserves the title Dante gave him: “the master of those who know.”
Sir Anthony J.P. Kenny
Encyclopaedia Britannica
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Aristotle by Raphael
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POETICS
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Type of work: Philosophical essay
Author: Aristotle (384-322 B.C.)
First transcribed: Fourth century B.C.
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Although Aristotle's reputation as one of the greatest philosophers
of all time rests principally on his work in metaphysics, he nowhere
shows himself more the master of illuminating analysis and style than in
Poetics. The conception of tragedy which Aristotle developed in this
work has perpetuated the Greek ideal of drama through the ages.
Aristotle begins his essay with an exposition of the Greek idea that all
poetry, or art, is representative of life. This conception—that art is
imitative—is also to be found in Plato's Republic, a work in which
Plato, who was Aristotle's teacher, portrays Socrates as urging that
poets be banned from the ideal state, for, as imitators, they are too
far removed from reality to be worthy of attention. For the Greeks the
idea of poetry as imitative, or representational, was a natural one,
since, as a matter of fact, much Grecian art was representational in
content. Furthermore, "representation" meant not a literal copying of
physical objects, although it was sometimes that, but a new use of the
material presented by sense.
Aristotle's intention in Poetics is to analyze the essence of poetry and
to distinguish its various species. The word "poetry" is used in
translation as synonymous with "fine art." Among the arts mentioned by
Aristotle are epic poetry, tragedy, comedy, dithyrambic poetry, flute
playing, and lyre playing. These arts are all regarded as representative
of life, but they are distinguished from one another by their means and
their objects. The means include rhythm, language, and tune; but not all
the arts involve all three, nor are these means used in the same way.
For example, flute playing involves the use of rhythm and tune, but
dancing involves rhythm alone.
When living persons are represented, Aristotle writes, they are
represented as being better than, worse than, or the same as the
average. Tragedy presents men somewhat better than average, while comedy
presents men somewhat worse. This point alone offers strong evidence
against a narrow interpretation of Aristotle's conception of art, for if
men can be altered by the poet, made better or worse than in actual
life, then poetry is not a mere uncreative copying of nature.
Furthermore, a comment made later on in Poetics tells us that the poet
in representing life represents things as they are, as they seem to be,
or as they should be. This concept certainly allows the artist more
freedom than the word "imitation" suggests.
The origin of poetry is explained by Aristotle as the natural
consequence of man's love of imitation and of tune and rhythm. We enjoy
looking at accurate copies of things, he says, even when the things are
themselves repulsive, such as the lowest animals and corpses. The
philosopher accounts for this enjoyment by claiming that it is the
result of our love of learning; in seeing accurate copies, we learn
better what things are. This view is in opposition to Plato's idea that
art corrupts the mind since it presents copies of copies of reality
(physical objects being considered as mere copies of the universal
idea). Aristotle believed that universals, or characteristics, are to be
found only in things, while Plato thought that the universals had some
sort of separate existence.
Comedy represents inferior persons in that, laughable, they are a
species of the ugly. The comic character makes mistakes or is in some
way ugly, but not so seriously as to awaken pity or fear.
Epic poetry differs from tragedy in that it has a single meter and is
narrative in form. A further difference resulted from the Greek
convention that a tragedy encompass events taking place within a single
day, while the epic poem was unlimited in that respect.
Tragedy is defined by Aristotle as a representation of a heroic action
by means of language and spectacle so as to arouse pity and fear and
thus bring about a catharsis of those emotions. The release, or
catharsis, of the emotions of pity and fear is the most characteristic
feature of the Aristotelian conception of tragedy. According to
Aristotle, tragedy arouses the emotions by bringing a man somewhat
better than average into a reversal of fortune for which he is
responsible; then, through the downfall of the hero and the resolution
of the conflicts resulting from the hero's tragic flaw, the tragedy
achieves a purging of the emotions in the audience. The audience feels
pity in observing the tragic hero's misadventures because he is a
vulnerable human being suffering from unrecognized faults, and then fear
results from the realization that the hero is much like ourselves: We,
too, can err and suffer.
Aristotle defines "plot" as the arrangement of the events which make up
the play, "character" as that which determines the nature of the agents,
and "thought" as what is expressed in the speeches of the agents.
"Diction" is the manner of that expression. Plot is the most important
element in the tragedy, because a tragedy is a representation of action.
The characters exist for the sake of the action; the action does not
exist for the sake of the characters.
The two most important elements of the plot of a tragedy are "peripety,"
or reversal, and "discovery." By peripety, Aristotle meant a change of a
situation into its opposite state of fortune—in tragedy, a change from a
good state of affairs to a bad state of affairs. A discovery is a
revelation of a matter previously unknown. The most effective tragedy,
according to Aristotle, results from a plot which combines peripety and
discovery in a single action, as in Sophocles' Oedipus.
To modern readers Aristotle's definitions of the beginning, middle, and
end of a tragedy may seem either amusing or trivial, but they contain
important dramatic truths. Aristotle defines the beginning as that which
does not necessarily follow anything else but does necessarily give rise
to further action. The end necessarily follows from what has gone
before, but it does not necessarily lead to further events. The middle
follows the beginning and gives rise to the end.
The sense of Aristotle's definitions is found once we realize that the
important thing about the beginning of a play is not that it is the
start but that, relative to the audience's interest and curiosity, no
earlier event is needed and further events are demanded. Similarly, for
the ending, the closing events of a play should not be merely the last
events presented. They should appear necessary as a result of what has
already happened, and, furthermore, they should not give rise to new
problems which must be solved if the audience is to be satisfied.
Aristotle writes that anything that is beautiful not only must have
parts orderly arranged but also must have parts of a large enough, but
not too large, size. An animal a thousand miles long or something too
small to be seen cannot be beautiful. A play should be as long as
possible, allowing a change of fortune in a sequence of events ordered
in some apparently inevitable way, provided the play can be understood
as a whole.
In his conception of unity Aristotle emphasizes a point that continues
to be useful to all who compose or criticize works of art: if the
presence of a part makes no difference, it has no place in the work.
This idea, known as the "unity of action," had an enormous influence on
sixteenth and seventeenth century dramatists. Aristotle's emphasis on
the logical connection between events in a dramatic plot was extended to
a privileging of unities of time and place by Italian scholars. By the
early seventeenth century, dramatists in France had extrapolated
Aristotle's unity into a theory of three unities: of time, place, and
action. Playwrights such as Pierre Corneille and Jean Racine attempted
to adhere to these principles, confining the action of their plays to a
single day and setting while continuing to emphasize the logical
connection of events. (In England, this neoclassical approach was less
successful, despite the efforts of John Dryden and Ben Jonson.)
According to Aristotle, a good tragedy should not show worthy men
passing from good fortune to bad, for that is neither fearful nor
pitiful but shocking. But even worse is to show bad men experiencing
good fortune, for such a situation irritates us without arousing pity
and fear. The tragic hero, consequently, should be a man better than
ourselves, but not perfect; and he should suffer from a flaw which shows
itself in some mistaken judgment or act resulting in his downfall. There
has been considerable discussion about the kind of flaw Aristotle meant,
but it seems clear from the examples he gives that the flaw should be
such that, given it, a man must inevitably defeat himself in action;
nevertheless, it is not inevitable that man have that flaw. All men are
vulnerable to the flaw, however; hence, the tragic hero arouses fear in
all those who see the resemblance between the hero's situation and their
own. The hero arouses pity because, as a human being, he cannot be
perfect like the gods; his end is bound to be tragic.
Aristotle concludes his Poetics with a careful discussion of diction and
thought, and of epic poetry. Among the sensible comments he makes is one
to the effect that what is believable though not possible is better in a
play than an event which is possible but not believable. Throughout the
Poetics, Aristotle offers remarkably clear analyses of what Greek
tragedy actually was and of what, according to Aristotle, it ought to
be. He shows not only an adroit, analytical intellect but also an
understanding of the practical problems of the art of poetry; and he is
sophisticated enough to realize that most questions as to the value,
length, beauty, and other features of a work of art are settled relative
to the kind of audience the judge prefers.
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Poetics
Translated by S. H. Butcher
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Section 1
Part I
I propose to treat of Poetry in itself and of its various kinds,
noting the essential quality of each, to inquire into the structure of
the plot as requisite to a good poem; into the number and nature of the
parts of which a poem is composed; and similarly into whatever else
falls within the same inquiry. Following, then, the order of nature, let
us begin with the principles which come first.
Epic poetry and Tragedy, Comedy also and Dithyrambic poetry, and the
music of the flute and of the lyre in most of their forms, are all in
their general conception modes of imitation. They differ, however, from
one another in three respects- the medium, the objects, the manner or
mode of imitation, being in each case distinct.
For as there are persons who, by conscious art or mere habit, imitate
and represent various objects through the medium of color and form, or
again by the voice; so in the arts above mentioned, taken as a whole,
the imitation is produced by rhythm, language, or 'harmony,' either
singly or combined.
Thus in the music of the flute and of the lyre, 'harmony' and rhythm
alone are employed; also in other arts, such as that of the shepherd's
pipe, which are essentially similar to these. In dancing, rhythm alone
is used without 'harmony'; for even dancing imitates character, emotion,
and action, by rhythmical movement.
There is another art which imitates by means of language alone, and
that either in prose or verse- which verse, again, may either combine
different meters or consist of but one kind- but this has hitherto been
without a name. For there is no common term we could apply to the mimes
of Sophron and Xenarchus and the Socratic dialogues on the one hand;
and, on the other, to poetic imitations in iambic, elegiac, or any
similar meter. People do, indeed, add the word 'maker' or 'poet' to the
name of the meter, and speak of elegiac poets, or epic (that is,
hexameter) poets, as if it were not the imitation that makes the poet,
but the verse that entitles them all to the name. Even when a treatise
on medicine or natural science is brought out in verse, the name of poet
is by custom given to the author; and yet Homer and Empedocles have
nothing in common but the meter, so that it would be right to call the
one poet, the other physicist rather than poet. On the same principle,
even if a writer in his poetic imitation were to combine all meters, as
Chaeremon did in his Centaur, which is a medley composed of meters of
all kinds, we should bring him too under the general term poet.
So much then for these distinctions.
There are, again, some arts which employ all the means above mentioned-
namely, rhythm, tune, and meter. Such are Dithyrambic and Nomic poetry,
and also Tragedy and Comedy; but between them originally the difference
is, that in the first two cases these means are all employed in
combination, in the latter, now one means is employed, now another.
Such, then, are the differences of the arts with respect to the
medium of imitation
Part II
Since the objects of imitation are men in action, and these men must
be either of a higher or a lower type (for moral character mainly
answers to these divisions, goodness and badness being the
distinguishing marks of moral differences), it follows that we must
represent men either as better than in real life, or as worse, or as
they are. It is the same in painting. Polygnotus depicted men as nobler
than they are, Pauson as less noble, Dionysius drew them true to life.
Now it is evident that each of the modes of imitation above mentioned
will exhibit these differences, and become a distinct kind in imitating
objects that are thus distinct. Such diversities may be found even in
dancing, flute-playing, and lyre-playing. So again in language, whether
prose or verse unaccompanied by music. Homer, for example, makes men
better than they are; Cleophon as they are; Hegemon the Thasian, the
inventor of parodies, and Nicochares, the author of the Deiliad, worse
than they are. The same thing holds good of Dithyrambs and Nomes; here
too one may portray different types, as Timotheus and Philoxenus
differed in representing their Cyclopes. The same distinction marks off
Tragedy from Comedy; for Comedy aims at representing men as worse,
Tragedy as better than in actual life.
Part III
There is still a third difference- the manner in which each of these
objects may be imitated. For the medium being the same, and the objects
the same, the poet may imitate by narration- in which case he can either
take another personality as Homer does, or speak in his own person,
unchanged- or he may present all his characters as living and moving
before us.
These, then, as we said at the beginning, are the three differences
which distinguish artistic imitation- the medium, the objects, and the
manner. So that from one point of view, Sophocles is an imitator of the
same kind as Homer- for both imitate higher types of character; from
another point of view, of the same kind as Aristophanes- for both
imitate persons acting and doing. Hence, some say, the name of 'drama'
is given to such poems, as representing action. For the same reason the
Dorians claim the invention both of Tragedy and Comedy. The claim to
Comedy is put forward by the Megarians- not only by those of Greece
proper, who allege that it originated under their democracy, but also by
the Megarians of Sicily, for the poet Epicharmus, who is much earlier
than Chionides and Magnes, belonged to that country. Tragedy too is
claimed by certain Dorians of the Peloponnese. In each case they appeal
to the evidence of language. The outlying villages, they say, are by
them called komai, by the Athenians demoi: and they assume that
comedians were so named not from komazein, 'to revel,' but because they
wandered from village to village (kata komas), being excluded
contemptuously from the city. They add also that the Dorian word for
'doing' is dran, and the Athenian, prattein.
This may suffice as to the number and nature of the various modes of
imitation.
Part IV
Poetry in general seems to have sprung from two causes, each of them
lying deep in our nature. First, the instinct of imitation is implanted
in man from childhood, one difference between him and other animals
being that he is the most imitative of living creatures, and through
imitation learns his earliest lessons; and no less universal is the
pleasure felt in things imitated. We have evidence of this in the facts
of experience. Objects which in themselves we view with pain, we delight
to contemplate when reproduced with minute fidelity: such as the forms
of the most ignoble animals and of dead bodies. The cause of this again
is, that to learn gives the liveliest pleasure, not only to philosophers
but to men in general; whose capacity, however, of learning is more
limited. Thus the reason why men enjoy seeing a likeness is, that in
contemplating it they find themselves learning or inferring, and saying
perhaps, 'Ah, that is he.' For if you happen not to have seen the
original, the pleasure will be due not to the imitation as such, but to
the execution, the coloring, or some such other cause.
Imitation, then, is one instinct of our nature. Next, there is the
instinct for 'harmony' and rhythm, meters being manifestly sections of
rhythm. Persons, therefore, starting with this natural gift developed by
degrees their special aptitudes, till their rude improvisations gave
birth to Poetry.
Poetry now diverged in two directions, according to the individual
character of the writers. The graver spirits imitated noble actions, and
the actions of good men. The more trivial sort imitated the actions of
meaner persons, at first composing satires, as the former did hymns to
the gods and the praises of famous men. A poem of the satirical kind
cannot indeed be put down to any author earlier than Homer; though many
such writers probably there were. But from Homer onward, instances can
be cited- his own Margites, for example, and other similar compositions.
The appropriate meter was also here introduced; hence the measure is
still called the iambic or lampooning measure, being that in which
people lampooned one another. Thus the older poets were distinguished as
writers of heroic or of lampooning verse.
As, in the serious style, Homer is pre-eminent among poets, for he
alone combined dramatic form with excellence of imitation so he too
first laid down the main lines of comedy, by dramatizing the ludicrous
instead of writing personal satire. His Margites bears the same relation
to comedy that the Iliad and Odyssey do to tragedy. But when Tragedy and
Comedy came to light, the two classes of poets still followed their
natural bent: the lampooners became writers of Comedy, and the Epic
poets were succeeded by Tragedians, since the drama was a larger and
higher form of art.
Whether Tragedy has as yet perfected its proper types or not; and
whether it is to be judged in itself, or in relation also to the
audience- this raises another question. Be that as it may, Tragedy- as
also Comedy- was at first mere improvisation. The one originated with
the authors of the Dithyramb, the other with those of the phallic songs,
which are still in use in many of our cities. Tragedy advanced by slow
degrees; each new element that showed itself was in turn developed.
Having passed through many changes, it found its natural form, and there
it stopped.
Aeschylus first introduced a second actor; he diminished the
importance of the Chorus, and assigned the leading part to the dialogue.
Sophocles raised the number of actors to three, and added
scene-painting. Moreover, it was not till late that the short plot was
discarded for one of greater compass, and the grotesque diction of the
earlier satyric form for the stately manner of Tragedy. The iambic
measure then replaced the trochaic tetrameter, which was originally
employed when the poetry was of the satyric order, and had greater with
dancing. Once dialogue had come in, Nature herself discovered the
appropriate measure. For the iambic is, of all measures, the most
colloquial we see it in the fact that conversational speech runs into
iambic lines more frequently than into any other kind of verse; rarely
into hexameters, and only when we drop the colloquial intonation. The
additions to the number of 'episodes' or acts, and the other accessories
of which tradition tells, must be taken as already described; for to
discuss them in detail would, doubtless, be a large undertaking.
Part V
Comedy is, as we have said, an imitation of characters of a lower
type- not, however, in the full sense of the word bad, the ludicrous
being merely a subdivision of the ugly. It consists in some defect or
ugliness which is not painful or destructive. To take an obvious
example, the comic mask is ugly and distorted, but does not imply pain.
The successive changes through which Tragedy passed, and the authors
of these changes, are well known, whereas Comedy has had no history,
because it was not at first treated seriously. It was late before the
Archon granted a comic chorus to a poet; the performers were till then
voluntary. Comedy had already taken definite shape when comic poets,
distinctively so called, are heard of. Who furnished it with masks, or
prologues, or increased the number of actors- these and other similar
details remain unknown. As for the plot, it came originally from Sicily;
but of Athenian writers Crates was the first who abandoning the 'iambic'
or lampooning form, generalized his themes and plots.
Epic poetry agrees with Tragedy in so far as it is an imitation in
verse of characters of a higher type. They differ in that Epic poetry
admits but one kind of meter and is narrative in form. They differ,
again, in their length: for Tragedy endeavors, as far as possible, to
confine itself to a single revolution of the sun, or but slightly to
exceed this limit, whereas the Epic action has no limits of time. This,
then, is a second point of difference; though at first the same freedom
was admitted in Tragedy as in Epic poetry.
Of their constituent parts some are common to both, some peculiar to
Tragedy: whoever, therefore knows what is good or bad Tragedy, knows
also about Epic poetry. All the elements of an Epic poem are found in
Tragedy, but the elements of a Tragedy are not all found in the Epic
poem.
Part VI
Of the poetry which imitates in hexameter verse, and of Comedy, we
will speak hereafter. Let us now discuss Tragedy, resuming its formal
definition, as resulting from what has been already said.
Tragedy, then, is an imitation of an action that is serious,
complete, and of a certain magnitude; in language embellished with each
kind of artistic ornament, the several kinds being found in separate
parts of the play; in the form of action, not of narrative; through pity
and fear effecting the proper purgation of these emotions. By 'language
embellished,' I mean language into which rhythm, 'harmony' and song
enter. By 'the several kinds in separate parts,' I mean, that some parts
are rendered through the medium of verse alone, others again with the
aid of song.
Now as tragic imitation implies persons acting, it necessarily
follows in the first place, that Spectacular equipment will be a part of
Tragedy. Next, Song and Diction, for these are the media of imitation.
By 'Diction' I mean the mere metrical arrangement of the words: as for
'Song,' it is a term whose sense every one understands.
Again, Tragedy is the imitation of an action; and an action implies
personal agents, who necessarily possess certain distinctive qualities
both of character and thought; for it is by these that we qualify
actions themselves, and these- thought and character- are the two
natural causes from which actions spring, and on actions again all
success or failure depends. Hence, the Plot is the imitation of the
action- for by plot I here mean the arrangement of the incidents. By
Character I mean that in virtue of which we ascribe certain qualities to
the agents. Thought is required wherever a statement is proved, or, it
may be, a general truth enunciated. Every Tragedy, therefore, must have
six parts, which parts determine its quality- namely, Plot, Character,
Diction, Thought, Spectacle, Song. Two of the parts constitute the
medium of imitation, one the manner, and three the objects of imitation.
And these complete the fist. These elements have been employed, we may
say, by the poets to a man; in fact, every play contains Spectacular
elements as well as Character, Plot, Diction, Song, and Thought.
But most important of all is the structure of the incidents. For
Tragedy is an imitation, not of men, but of an action and of life, and
life consists in action, and its end is a mode of action, not a quality.
Now character determines men's qualities, but it is by their actions
that they are happy or the reverse. Dramatic action, therefore, is not
with a view to the representation of character: character comes in as
subsidiary to the actions. Hence the incidents and the plot are the end
of a tragedy; and the end is the chief thing of all. Again, without
action there cannot be a tragedy; there may be without character. The
tragedies of most of our modern poets fail in the rendering of
character; and of poets in general this is often true. It is the same in
painting; and here lies the difference between Zeuxis and Polygnotus.
Polygnotus delineates character well; the style of Zeuxis is devoid of
ethical quality. Again, if you string together a set of speeches
expressive of character, and well finished in point of diction and
thought, you will not produce the essential tragic effect nearly so well
as with a play which, however deficient in these respects, yet has a
plot and artistically constructed incidents. Besides which, the most
powerful elements of emotional interest in Tragedy- Peripeteia or
Reversal of the Situation, and Recognition scenes- are parts of the
plot. A further proof is, that novices in the art attain to finish of
diction and precision of portraiture before they can construct the plot.
It is the same with almost all the early poets.
The plot, then, is the first principle, and, as it were, the soul of
a tragedy; Character holds the second place. A similar fact is seen in
painting. The most beautiful colors, laid on confusedly, will not give
as much pleasure as the chalk outline of a portrait. Thus Tragedy is the
imitation of an action, and of the agents mainly with a view to the
action.
Third in order is Thought- that is, the faculty of saying what is
possible and pertinent in given circumstances. In the case of oratory,
this is the function of the political art and of the art of rhetoric:
and so indeed the older poets make their characters speak the language
of civic life; the poets of our time, the language of the rhetoricians.
Character is that which reveals moral purpose, showing what kind of
things a man chooses or avoids. Speeches, therefore, which do not make
this manifest, or in which the speaker does not choose or avoid anything
whatever, are not expressive of character. Thought, on the other hand,
is found where something is proved to be or not to be, or a general
maxim is enunciated.
Fourth among the elements enumerated comes Diction; by which I mean,
as has been already said, the expression of the meaning in words; and
its essence is the same both in verse and prose.
Of the remaining elements Song holds the chief place among the
embellishments
The Spectacle has, indeed, an emotional attraction of its own, but,
of all the parts, it is the least artistic, and connected least with the
art of poetry. For the power of Tragedy, we may be sure, is felt even
apart from representation and actors. Besides, the production of
spectacular effects depends more on the art of the stage machinist than
on that of the poet.
Part VII
These principles being established, let us now discuss the proper
structure of the Plot, since this is the first and most important thing
in Tragedy.
Now, according to our definition Tragedy is an imitation of an action
that is complete, and whole, and of a certain magnitude; for there may
be a whole that is wanting in magnitude. A whole is that which has a
beginning, a middle, and an end. A beginning is that which does not
itself follow anything by causal necessity, but after which something
naturally is or comes to be. An end, on the contrary, is that which
itself naturally follows some other thing, either by necessity, or as a
rule, but has nothing following it. A middle is that which follows
something as some other thing follows it. A well constructed plot,
therefore, must neither begin nor end at haphazard, but conform to these
principles.
Again, a beautiful object, whether it be a living organism or any
whole composed of parts, must not only have an orderly arrangement of
parts, but must also be of a certain magnitude; for beauty depends on
magnitude and order. Hence a very small animal organism cannot be
beautiful; for the view of it is confused, the object being seen in an
almost imperceptible moment of time. Nor, again, can one of vast size be
beautiful; for as the eye cannot take it all in at once, the unity and
sense of the whole is lost for the spectator; as for instance if there
were one a thousand miles long. As, therefore, in the case of animate
bodies and organisms a certain magnitude is necessary, and a magnitude
which may be easily embraced in one view; so in the plot, a certain
length is necessary, and a length which can be easily embraced by the
memory. The limit of length in relation to dramatic competition and
sensuous presentment is no part of artistic theory. For had it been the
rule for a hundred tragedies to compete together, the performance would
have been regulated by the water-clock- as indeed we are told was
formerly done. But the limit as fixed by the nature of the drama itself
is this: the greater the length, the more beautiful will the piece be by
reason of its size, provided that the whole be perspicuous. And to
define the matter roughly, we may say that the proper magnitude is
comprised within such limits, that the sequence of events, according to
the law of probability or necessity, will admit of a change from bad
fortune to good, or from good fortune to bad.
Part VIII
Unity of plot does not, as some persons think, consist in the unity
of the hero. For infinitely various are the incidents in one man's life
which cannot be reduced to unity; and so, too, there are many actions of
one man out of which we cannot make one action. Hence the error, as it
appears, of all poets who have composed a Heracleid, a Theseid, or other
poems of the kind. They imagine that as Heracles was one man, the story
of Heracles must also be a unity. But Homer, as in all else he is of
surpassing merit, here too- whether from art or natural genius- seems to
have happily discerned the truth. In composing the Odyssey he did not
include all the adventures of Odysseus- such as his wound on Parnassus,
or his feigned madness at the mustering of the host- incidents between
which there was no necessary or probable connection: but he made the
Odyssey, and likewise the Iliad, to center round an action that in our
sense of the word is one. As therefore, in the other imitative arts, the
imitation is one when the object imitated is one, so the plot, being an
imitation of an action, must imitate one action and that a whole, the
structural union of the parts being such that, if any one of them is
displaced or removed, the whole will be disjointed and disturbed. For a
thing whose presence or absence makes no visible difference, is not an
organic part of the whole.
Part IX
It is, moreover, evident from what has been said, that it is not the
function of the poet to relate what has happened, but what may happen-
what is possible according to the law of probability or necessity. The
poet and the historian differ not by writing in verse or in prose. The
work of Herodotus might be put into verse, and it would still be a
species of history, with meter no less than without it. The true
difference is that one relates what has happened, the other what may
happen. Poetry, therefore, is a more philosophical and a higher thing
than history: for poetry tends to express the universal, history the
particular. By the universal I mean how a person of a certain type on
occasion speak or act, according to the law of probability or necessity;
and it is this universality at which poetry aims in the names she
attaches to the personages. The particular is- for example- what
Alcibiades did or suffered. In Comedy this is already apparent: for here
the poet first constructs the plot on the lines of probability, and then
inserts characteristic names- unlike the lampooners who write about
particular individuals. But tragedians still keep to real names, the
reason being that what is possible is credible: what has not happened we
do not at once feel sure to be possible; but what has happened is
manifestly possible: otherwise it would not have happened. Still there
are even some tragedies in which there are only one or two well-known
names, the rest being fictitious. In others, none are well known- as in
Agathon's Antheus, where incidents and names alike are fictitious, and
yet they give none the less pleasure. We must not, therefore, at all
costs keep to the received legends, which are the usual subjects of
Tragedy. Indeed, it would be absurd to attempt it; for even subjects
that are known are known only to a few, and yet give pleasure to all. It
clearly follows that the poet or 'maker' should be the maker of plots
rather than of verses; since he is a poet because he imitates, and what
he imitates are actions. And even if he chances to take a historical
subject, he is none the less a poet; for there is no reason why some
events that have actually happened should not conform to the law of the
probable and possible, and in virtue of that quality in them he is their
poet or maker.
Of all plots and actions the episodic are the worst. I call a plot
'episodic' in which the episodes or acts succeed one another without
probable or necessary sequence. Bad poets compose such pieces by their
own fault, good poets, to please the players; for, as they write show
pieces for competition, they stretch the plot beyond its capacity, and
are often forced to break the natural continuity.
But again, Tragedy is an imitation not only of a complete action, but
of events inspiring fear or pity. Such an effect is best produced when
the events come on us by surprise; and the effect is heightened when, at
the same time, they follows as cause and effect. The tragic wonder will
then be greater than if they happened of themselves or by accident; for
even coincidences are most striking when they have an air of design. We
may instance the statue of Mitys at Argos, which fell upon his murderer
while he was a spectator at a festival, and killed him. Such events seem
not to be due to mere chance. Plots, therefore, constructed on these
principles are necessarily the best.
Part X
Plots are either Simple or Complex, for the actions in real life, of
which the plots are an imitation, obviously show a similar distinction.
An action which is one and continuous in the sense above defined, I call
Simple, when the change of fortune takes place without Reversal of the
Situation and without Recognition
A Complex action is one in which the change is accompanied by such
Reversal, or by Recognition, or by both. These last should arise from
the internal structure of the plot, so that what follows should be the
necessary or probable result of the preceding action. It makes all the
difference whether any given event is a case of propter hoc or post hoc.
Part XI
Reversal of the Situation is a change by which the action veers round
to its opposite, subject always to our rule of probability or necessity.
Thus in the Oedipus, the messenger comes to cheer Oedipus and free him
from his alarms about his mother, but by revealing who he is, he
produces the opposite effect. Again in the Lynceus, Lynceus is being led
away to his death, and Danaus goes with him, meaning to slay him; but
the outcome of the preceding incidents is that Danaus is killed and
Lynceus saved.
Recognition, as the name indicates, is a change from ignorance to
knowledge, producing love or hate between the persons destined by the
poet for good or bad fortune. The best form of recognition is coincident
with a Reversal of the Situation, as in the Oedipus. There are indeed
other forms. Even inanimate things of the most trivial kind may in a
sense be objects of recognition. Again, we may recognize or discover
whether a person has done a thing or not. But the recognition which is
most intimately connected with the plot and action is, as we have said,
the recognition of persons. This recognition, combined with Reversal,
will produce either pity or fear; and actions producing these effects
are those which, by our definition, Tragedy represents. Moreover, it is
upon such situations that the issues of good or bad fortune will depend.
Recognition, then, being between persons, it may happen that one person
only is recognized by the other- when the latter is already known- or it
may be necessary that the recognition should be on both sides. Thus
Iphigenia is revealed to Orestes by the sending of the letter; but
another act of recognition is required to make Orestes known to
Iphigenia.
Two parts, then, of the Plot- Reversal of the Situation and
Recognition- turn upon surprises. A third part is the Scene of
Suffering. The Scene of Suffering is a destructive or painful action,
such as death on the stage, bodily agony, wounds, and the like.
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Section 2
Part XII
The parts of Tragedy which must be treated as elements of the whole
have been already mentioned. We now come to the quantitative parts- the
separate parts into which Tragedy is divided- namely, Prologue, Episode,
Exode, Choric song; this last being divided into Parode and Stasimon.
These are common to all plays: peculiar to some are the songs of actors
from the stage and the Commoi.
The Prologue is that entire part of a tragedy which precedes the
Parode of the Chorus. The Episode is that entire part of a tragedy which
is between complete choric songs. The Exode is that entire part of a
tragedy which has no choric song after it. Of the Choric part the Parode
is the first undivided utterance of the Chorus: the Stasimon is a Choric
ode without anapaests or trochaic tetrameters: the Commos is a joint
lamentation of Chorus and actors. The parts of Tragedy which must be
treated as elements of the whole have been already mentioned. The
quantitative parts- the separate parts into which it is divided- are
here enumerated.
Part XIII
As the sequel to what has already been said, we must proceed to
consider what the poet should aim at, and what he should avoid, in
constructing his plots; and by what means the specific effect of Tragedy
will be produced.
A perfect tragedy should, as we have seen, be arranged not on the
simple but on the complex plan. It should, moreover, imitate actions
which excite pity and fear, this being the distinctive mark of tragic
imitation. It follows plainly, in the first place, that the change of
fortune presented must not be the spectacle of a virtuous man brought
from prosperity to adversity: for this moves neither pity nor fear; it
merely shocks us. Nor, again, that of a bad man passing from adversity
to prosperity: for nothing can be more alien to the spirit of Tragedy;
it possesses no single tragic quality; it neither satisfies the moral
sense nor calls forth pity or fear. Nor, again, should the downfall of
the utter villain be exhibited. A plot of this kind would, doubtless,
satisfy the moral sense, but it would inspire neither pity nor fear; for
pity is aroused by unmerited misfortune, fear by the misfortune of a man
like ourselves. Such an event, therefore, will be neither pitiful nor
terrible. There remains, then, the character between these two extremes-
that of a man who is not eminently good and just, yet whose misfortune
is brought about not by vice or depravity, but by some error or frailty.
He must be one who is highly renowned and prosperous- a personage like
Oedipus, Thyestes, or other illustrious men of such families.
A well-constructed plot should, therefore, be single in its issue,
rather than double as some maintain. The change of fortune should be not
from bad to good, but, reversely, from good to bad. It should come about
as the result not of vice, but of some great error or frailty, in a
character either such as we have described, or better rather than worse.
The practice of the stage bears out our view. At first the poets
recounted any legend that came in their way. Now, the best tragedies are
founded on the story of a few houses- on the fortunes of Alcmaeon,
Oedipus, Orestes, Meleager, Thyestes, Telephus, and those others who
have done or suffered something terrible. A tragedy, then, to be perfect
according to the rules of art should be of this construction. Hence they
are in error who censure Euripides just because he follows this
principle in his plays, many of which end unhappily. It is, as we have
said, the right ending. The best proof is that on the stage and in
dramatic competition, such plays, if well worked out, are the most
tragic in effect; and Euripides, faulty though he may be in the general
management of his subject, yet is felt to be the most tragic of the
poets.
In the second rank comes the kind of tragedy which some place first.
Like the Odyssey, it has a double thread of plot, and also an opposite
catastrophe for the good and for the bad. It is accounted the best
because of the weakness of the spectators; for the poet is guided in
what he writes by the wishes of his audience. The pleasure, however,
thence derived is not the true tragic pleasure. It is proper rather to
Comedy, where those who, in the piece, are the deadliest enemies- like
Orestes and Aegisthus- quit the stage as friends at the close, and no
one slays or is slain.
Part XIV
Fear and pity may be aroused by spectacular means; but they may also
result from the inner structure of the piece, which is the better way,
and indicates a superior poet. For the plot ought to be so constructed
that, even without the aid of the eye, he who hears the tale told will
thrill with horror and melt to pity at what takes Place. This is the
impression we should receive from hearing the story of the Oedipus. But
to produce this effect by the mere spectacle is a less artistic method,
and dependent on extraneous aids. Those who employ spectacular means to
create a sense not of the terrible but only of the monstrous, are
strangers to the purpose of Tragedy; for we must not demand of Tragedy
any and every kind of pleasure, but only that which is proper to it. And
since the pleasure which the poet should afford is that which comes from
pity and fear through imitation, it is evident that this quality must be
impressed upon the incidents.
Let us then determine what are the circumstances which strike us as
terrible or pitiful.
Actions capable of this effect must happen between persons who are
either friends or enemies or indifferent to one another. If an enemy
kills an enemy, there is nothing to excite pity either in the act or the
intention- except so far as the suffering in itself is pitiful. So again
with indifferent persons. But when the tragic incident occurs between
those who are near or dear to one another- if, for example, a brother
kills, or intends to kill, a brother, a son his father, a mother her
son, a son his mother, or any other deed of the kind is done- these are
the situations to be looked for by the poet. He may not indeed destroy
the framework of the received legends- the fact, for instance, that
Clytemnestra was slain by Orestes and Eriphyle by Alcmaeon- but he ought
to show of his own, and skilfully handle the traditional. material. Let
us explain more clearly what is meant by skilful handling.
The action may be done consciously and with knowledge of the persons,
in the manner of the older poets. It is thus too that Euripides makes
Medea slay her children. Or, again, the deed of horror may be done, but
done in ignorance, and the tie of kinship or friendship be discovered
afterwards. The Oedipus of Sophocles is an example. Here, indeed, the
incident is outside the drama proper; but cases occur where it falls
within the action of the play: one may cite the Alcmaeon of Astydamas,
or Telegonus in the Wounded Odysseus. Again, there is a third case- [to
be about to act with knowledge of the persons and then not to act. The
fourth case] is when some one is about to do an irreparable deed through
ignorance, and makes the discovery before it is done. These are the only
possible ways. For the deed must either be done or not done- and that
wittingly or unwittingly. But of all these ways, to be about to act
knowing the persons, and then not to act, is the worst. It is shocking
without being tragic, for no disaster follows It is, therefore, never,
or very rarely, found in poetry. One instance, however, is in the
Antigone, where Haemon threatens to kill Creon. The next and better way
is that the deed should be perpetrated. Still better, that it should be
perpetrated in ignorance, and the discovery made afterwards. There is
then nothing to shock us, while the discovery produces a startling
effect. The last case is the best, as when in the Cresphontes Merope is
about to slay her son, but, recognizing who he is, spares his life. So
in the Iphigenia, the sister recognizes the brother just in time. Again
in the Helle, the son recognizes the mother when on the point of giving
her up. This, then, is why a few families only, as has been already
observed, furnish the subjects of tragedy. It was not art, but happy
chance, that led the poets in search of subjects to impress the tragic
quality upon their plots. They are compelled, therefore, to have
recourse to those houses whose history contains moving incidents like
these.
Enough has now been said concerning the structure of the incidents,
and the right kind of plot.
Part XV
In respect of Character there are four things to be aimed at. First,
and most important, it must be good. Now any speech or action that
manifests moral purpose of any kind will be expressive of character: the
character will be good if the purpose is good. This rule is relative to
each class. Even a woman may be good, and also a slave; though the woman
may be said to be an inferior being, and the slave quite worthless. The
second thing to aim at is propriety. There is a type of manly valor; but
valor in a woman, or unscrupulous cleverness is inappropriate. Thirdly,
character must be true to life: for this is a distinct thing from
goodness and propriety, as here described. The fourth point is
consistency: for though the subject of the imitation, who suggested the
type, be inconsistent, still he must be consistently inconsistent. As an
example of motiveless degradation of character, we have Menelaus in the
Orestes; of character indecorous and inappropriate, the lament of
Odysseus in the Scylla, and the speech of Melanippe; of inconsistency,
the Iphigenia at Aulis- for Iphigenia the suppliant in no way resembles
her later self.
As in the structure of the plot, so too in the portraiture of
character, the poet should always aim either at the necessary or the
probable. Thus a person of a given character should speak or act in a
given way, by the rule either of necessity or of probability; just as
this event should follow that by necessary or probable sequence. It is
therefore evident that the unraveling of the plot, no less than the
complication, must arise out of the plot itself, it must not be brought
about by the Deus ex Machina- as in the Medea, or in the return of the
Greeks in the Iliad. The Deus ex Machina should be employed only for
events external to the drama- for antecedent or subsequent events, which
lie beyond the range of human knowledge, and which require to be
reported or foretold; for to the gods we ascribe the power of seeing all
things. Within the action there must be nothing irrational. If the
irrational cannot be excluded, it should be outside the scope of the
tragedy. Such is the irrational element the Oedipus of Sophocles.
Again, since Tragedy is an imitation of persons who are above the
common level, the example of good portrait painters should be followed.
They, while reproducing the distinctive form of the original, make a
likeness which is true to life and yet more beautiful. So too the poet,
in representing men who are irascible or indolent, or have other defects
of character, should preserve the type and yet ennoble it. In this way
Achilles is portrayed by Agathon and Homer.
These then are rules the poet should observe. Nor should he neglect
those appeals to the senses, which, though not among the essentials, are
the concomitants of poetry; for here too there is much room for error.
But of this enough has been said in our published treatises.
Part XVI
What Recognition is has been already explained. We will now enumerate
its kinds.
First, the least artistic form, which, from poverty of wit, is most
commonly employed- recognition by signs. Of these some are congenital-
such as 'the spear which the earth-born race bear on their bodies,' or
the stars introduced by Carcinus in his Thyestes. Others are acquired
after birth; and of these some are bodily marks, as scars; some external
tokens, as necklaces, or the little ark in the Tyro by which the
discovery is effected. Even these admit of more or less skilful
treatment. Thus in the recognition of Odysseus by his scar, the
discovery is made in one way by the nurse, in another by the swineherds.
The use of tokens for the express purpose of proof- and, indeed, any
formal proof with or without tokens- is a less artistic mode of
recognition. A better kind is that which comes about by a turn of
incident, as in the Bath Scene in the Odyssey.
Next come the recognitions invented at will by the poet, and on that
account wanting in art. For example, Orestes in the Iphigenia reveals
the fact that he is Orestes. She, indeed, makes herself known by the
letter; but he, by speaking himself, and saying what the poet, not what
the plot requires. This, therefore, is nearly allied to the fault above
mentioned- for Orestes might as well have brought tokens with him.
Another similar instance is the 'voice of the shuttle' in the Tereus of
Sophocles.
The third kind depends on memory when the sight of some object
awakens a feeling: as in the Cyprians of Dicaeogenes, where the hero
breaks into tears on seeing the picture; or again in the Lay of
Alcinous, where Odysseus, hearing the minstrel play the lyre, recalls
the past and weeps; and hence the recognition.
The fourth kind is by process of reasoning. Thus in the Choephori:
'Some one resembling me has come: no one resembles me but Orestes:
therefore Orestes has come.' Such too is the discovery made by Iphigenia
in the play of Polyidus the Sophist. It was a natural reflection for
Orestes to make, 'So I too must die at the altar like my sister.' So,
again, in the Tydeus of Theodectes, the father says, 'I came to find my
son, and I lose my own life.' So too in the Phineidae: the women, on
seeing the place, inferred their fate- 'Here we are doomed to die, for
here we were cast forth.' Again, there is a composite kind of
recognition involving false inference on the part of one of the
characters, as in the Odysseus Disguised as a Messenger. A said [that no
one else was able to bend the bow; ... hence B (the disguised Odysseus)
imagined that A would] recognize the bow which, in fact, he had not
seen; and to bring about a recognition by this means- the expectation
that A would recognize the bow- is false inference.
But, of all recognitions, the best is that which arises from the
incidents themselves, where the startling discovery is made by natural
means. Such is that in the Oedipus of Sophocles, and in the Iphigenia;
for it was natural that Iphigenia should wish to dispatch a letter.
These recognitions alone dispense with the artificial aid of tokens or
amulets. Next come the recognitions by process of reasoning.
Part XVII
In constructing the plot and working it out with the proper diction,
the poet should place the scene, as far as possible, before his eyes. In
this way, seeing everything with the utmost vividness, as if he were a
spectator of the action, he will discover what is in keeping with it,
and be most unlikely to overlook inconsistencies. The need of such a
rule is shown by the fault found in Carcinus. Amphiaraus was on his way
from the temple. This fact escaped the observation of one who did not
see the situation. On the stage, however, the Piece failed, the audience
being offended at the oversight.
Again, the poet should work out his play, to the best of his power,
with appropriate gestures; for those who feel emotion are most
convincing through natural sympathy with the characters they represent;
and one who is agitated storms, one who is angry rages, with the most
lifelike reality. Hence poetry implies either a happy gift of nature or
a strain of madness. In the one case a man can take the mould of any
character; in the other, he is lifted out of his proper self.
As for the story, whether the poet takes it ready made or constructs
it for himself, he should first sketch its general outline, and then
fill in the episodes and amplify in detail. The general plan may be
illustrated by the Iphigenia. A young girl is sacrificed; she disappears
mysteriously from the eyes of those who sacrificed her; she is
transported to another country, where the custom is to offer up an
strangers to the goddess. To this ministry she is appointed. Some time
later her own brother chances to arrive. The fact that the oracle for
some reason ordered him to go there, is outside the general plan of the
play. The purpose, again, of his coming is outside the action proper.
However, he comes, he is seized, and, when on the point of being
sacrificed, reveals who he is. The mode of recognition may be either
that of Euripides or of Polyidus, in whose play he exclaims very
naturally: 'So it was not my sister only, but I too, who was doomed to
be sacrificed'; and by that remark he is saved.
After this, the names being once given, it remains to fill in the
episodes. We must see that they are relevant to the action. In the case
of Orestes, for example, there is the madness which led to his capture,
and his deliverance by means of the purificatory rite. In the drama, the
episodes are short, but it is these that give extension to Epic poetry.
Thus the story of the Odyssey can be stated briefly. A certain man is
absent from home for many years; he is jealously watched by Poseidon,
and left desolate. Meanwhile his home is in a wretched plight- suitors
are wasting his substance and plotting against his son. At length,
tempest-tost, he himself arrives; he makes certain persons acquainted
with him; he attacks the suitors with his own hand, and is himself
preserved while he destroys them. This is the essence of the plot; the
rest is episode.
Part XVIII
Every tragedy falls into two parts- Complication and Unraveling or
Denouement. Incidents extraneous to the action are frequently combined
with a portion of the action proper, to form the Complication; the rest
is the Unraveling. By the Complication I mean all that extends from the
beginning of the action to the part which marks the turning-point to
good or bad fortune. The Unraveling is that which extends from the
beginning of the change to the end. Thus, in the Lynceus of Theodectes,
the Complication consists of the incidents presupposed in the drama, the
seizure of the child, and then again ... [the Unraveling] extends from
the accusation of murder to
There are four kinds of Tragedy: the Complex, depending entirely on
Reversal of the Situation and Recognition; the Pathetic (where the
motive is passion)- such as the tragedies on Ajax and Ixion; the Ethical
(where the motives are ethical)- such as the Phthiotides and the Peleus.
The fourth kind is the Simple. [We here exclude the purely spectacular
element], exemplified by the Phorcides, the Prometheus, and scenes laid
in Hades. The poet should endeavor, if possible, to combine all poetic
elements; or failing that, the greatest number and those the most
important; the more so, in face of the caviling criticism of the day.
For whereas there have hitherto been good poets, each in his own branch,
the critics now expect one man to surpass all others in their several
lines of excellence.
In speaking of a tragedy as the same or different, the best test to
take is the plot. Identity exists where the Complication and Unraveling
are the same. Many poets tie the knot well, but unravel it Both arts,
however, should always be mastered.
Again, the poet should remember what has been often said, and not
make an Epic structure into a tragedy- by an Epic structure I mean one
with a multiplicity of plots- as if, for instance, you were to make a
tragedy out of the entire story of the Iliad. In the Epic poem, owing to
its length, each part assumes its proper magnitude. In the drama the
result is far from answering to the poet's expectation. The proof is
that the poets who have dramatized the whole story of the Fall of Troy,
instead of selecting portions, like Euripides; or who have taken the
whole tale of Niobe, and not a part of her story, like Aeschylus, either
fail utterly or meet with poor success on the stage. Even Agathon has
been known to fail from this one defect. In his Reversals of the
Situation, however, he shows a marvelous skill in the effort to hit the
popular taste- to produce a tragic effect that satisfies the moral
sense. This effect is produced when the clever rogue, like Sisyphus, is
outwitted, or the brave villain defeated. Such an event is probable in
Agathon's sense of the word: 'is probable,' he says, 'that many things
should happen contrary to probability.'
The Chorus too should be regarded as one of the actors; it should be
an integral part of the whole, and share in the action, in the manner
not of Euripides but of Sophocles. As for the later poets, their choral
songs pertain as little to the subject of the piece as to that of any
other tragedy. They are, therefore, sung as mere interludes- a practice
first begun by Agathon. Yet what difference is there between introducing
such choral interludes, and transferring a speech, or even a whole act,
from one play to another.
Part XIX
It remains to speak of Diction and Thought, the other parts of
Tragedy having been already discussed. concerning Thought, we may assume
what is said in the Rhetoric, to which inquiry the subject more strictly
belongs. Under Thought is included every effect which has to be produced
by speech, the subdivisions being: proof and refutation; the excitation
of the feelings, such as pity, fear, anger, and the like; the suggestion
of importance or its opposite. Now, it is evident that the dramatic
incidents must be treated from the same points of view as the dramatic
speeches, when the object is to evoke the sense of pity, fear,
importance, or probability. The only difference is that the incidents
should speak for themselves without verbal exposition; while effects
aimed at in should be produced by the speaker, and as a result of the
speech. For what were the business of a speaker, if the Thought were
revealed quite apart from what he says?
Next, as regards Diction. One branch of the inquiry treats of the
Modes of Utterance. But this province of knowledge belongs to the art of
Delivery and to the masters of that science. It includes, for instance-
what is a command, a prayer, a statement, a threat, a question, an
answer, and so forth. To know or not to know these things involves no
serious censure upon the poet's art. For who can admit the fault imputed
to Homer by Protagoras- that in the words, 'Sing, goddess, of the wrath,
he gives a command under the idea that he utters a prayer? For to tell
some one to do a thing or not to do it is, he says, a command. We may,
therefore, pass this over as an inquiry that belongs to another art, not
to poetry.
Part XX
Language in general includes the following parts: Letter, Syllable,
Connecting Word, Noun, Verb, Inflection or Case, Sentence or Phrase.
A Letter is an indivisible sound, yet not every such sound, but only
one which can form part of a group of sounds. For even brutes utter
indivisible sounds, none of which I call a letter. The sound I mean may
be either a vowel, a semivowel, or a mute. A vowel is that which without
impact of tongue or lip has an audible sound. A semivowel that which
with such impact has an audible sound, as S and R. A mute, that which
with such impact has by itself no sound, but joined to a vowel sound
becomes audible, as G and D. These are distinguished according to the
form assumed by the mouth and the place where they are produced;
according as they are aspirated or smooth, long or short; as they are
acute, grave, or of an intermediate tone; which inquiry belongs in
detail to the writers on meter.
A Syllable is a nonsignificant sound, composed of a mute and a vowel:
for GR without A is a syllable, as also with A- GRA. But the
investigation of these differences belongs also to metrical science.
A Connecting Word is a nonsignificant sound, which neither causes nor
hinders the union of many sounds into one significant sound; it may be
placed at either end or in the middle of a sentence. Or, a
nonsignificant sound, which out of several sounds, each of them
significant, is capable of forming one significant sound- as amphi, peri,
and the like. Or, a nonsignificant sound, which marks the beginning,
end, or division of a sentence; such, however, that it cannot correctly
stand by itself at the beginning of a sentence- as men, etoi, de.
A Noun is a composite significant sound, not marking time, of which
no part is in itself significant: for in double or compound words we do
not employ the separate parts as if each were in itself significant.
Thus in Theodorus, 'god-given,' the doron or 'gift' is not in itself
significant.
A Verb is a composite significant sound, marking time, in which, as
in the noun, no part is in itself significant. For 'man' or 'white' does
not express the idea of 'when'; but 'he walks' or 'he has walked' does
connote time, present or past.
Inflection belongs both to the noun and verb, and expresses either
the relation 'of,' 'to,' or the like; or that of number, whether one or
many, as 'man' or 'men'; or the modes or tones in actual delivery, e.g.,
a question or a command. 'Did he go?' and 'go' are verbal inflections of
this kind.
A Sentence or Phrase is a composite significant sound, some at least
of whose parts are in themselves significant; for not every such group
of words consists of verbs and nouns- 'the definition of man,' for
example- but it may dispense even with the verb. Still it will always
have some significant part, as 'in walking,' or 'Cleon son of Cleon.' A
sentence or phrase may form a unity in two ways- either as signifying
one thing, or as consisting of several parts linked together. Thus the
Iliad is one by the linking together of parts, the definition of man by
the unity of the thing signified.
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Section 3
Part XXI
Words are of two kinds, simple and double. By simple I mean those
composed of nonsignificant elements, such as ge, 'earth.' By double or
compound, those composed either of a significant and nonsignificant
element (though within the whole word no element is significant), or of
elements that are both significant. A word may likewise be triple,
quadruple, or multiple in form, like so many Massilian expressions,
e.g., 'Hermo-caico-xanthus [who prayed to Father Zeus].'
Every word is either current, or strange, or metaphorical, or
ornamental, or newly-coined, or lengthened, or contracted, or altered.
By a current or proper word I mean one which is in general use among
a people; by a strange word, one which is in use in another country.
Plainly, therefore, the same word may be at once strange and current,
but not in relation to the same people. The word sigynon, 'lance,' is to
the Cyprians a current term but to us a strange one.
Metaphor is the application of an alien name by transference either
from genus to species, or from species to genus, or from species to
species, or by analogy, that is, proportion. Thus from genus to species,
as: 'There lies my ship'; for lying at anchor is a species of lying.
From species to genus, as: 'Verily ten thousand noble deeds hath
Odysseus wrought'; for ten thousand is a species of large number, and is
here used for a large number generally. From species to species, as:
'With blade of bronze drew away the life,' and 'Cleft the water with the
vessel of unyielding bronze.' Here arusai, 'to draw away' is used for
tamein, 'to cleave,' and tamein, again for arusai- each being a species
of taking away. Analogy or proportion is when the second term is to the
first as the fourth to the third. We may then use the fourth for the
second, or the second for the fourth. Sometimes too we qualify the
metaphor by adding the term to which the proper word is relative. Thus
the cup is to Dionysus as the shield to Ares. The cup may, therefore, be
called 'the shield of Dionysus,' and the shield 'the cup of Ares.' Or,
again, as old age is to life, so is evening to day. Evening may
therefore be called, 'the old age of the day,' and old age, 'the evening
of life,' or, in the phrase of Empedocles, 'life's setting sun.' For
some of the terms of the proportion there is at times no word in
existence; still the metaphor may be used. For instance, to scatter seed
is called sowing: but the action of the sun in scattering his rays is
nameless. Still this process bears to the sun the same relation as
sowing to the seed. Hence the expression of the poet 'sowing the
god-created light.' There is another way in which this kind of metaphor
may be employed. We may apply an alien term, and then deny of that term
one of its proper attributes; as if we were to call the shield, not 'the
cup of Ares,' but 'the wineless cup'.
A newly-coined word is one which has never been even in local use,
but is adopted by the poet himself. Some such words there appear to be:
as ernyges, 'sprouters,' for kerata, 'horns'; and areter, 'supplicator',
for hiereus, 'priest.'
A word is lengthened when its own vowel is exchanged for a longer
one, or when a syllable is inserted. A word is contracted when some part
of it is removed. Instances of lengthening are: poleos for poleos,
Peleiadeo for Peleidou; of contraction: kri, do, and ops, as in mia
ginetai amphoteron ops, 'the appearance of both is one.'
An altered word is one in which part of the ordinary form is left
unchanged, and part is recast: as in dexiteron kata mazon, 'on the right
breast,' dexiteron is for dexion.
Nouns in themselves are either masculine, feminine, or neuter.
Masculine are such as end in N, R, S, or in some letter compounded with
S- these being two, PS and X. Feminine, such as end in vowels that are
always long, namely E and O, and- of vowels that admit of lengthening-
those in A. Thus the number of letters in which nouns masculine and
feminine end is the same; for PS and X are equivalent to endings in S.
No noun ends in a mute or a vowel short by nature. Three only end in I-
meli, 'honey'; kommi, 'gum'; peperi, 'pepper'; five end in U. Neuter
nouns end in these two latter vowels; also in N and S.
Part XXII
The perfection of style is to be clear without being mean. The
clearest style is that which uses only current or proper words; at the
same time it is mean- witness the poetry of Cleophon and of Sthenelus.
That diction, on the other hand, is lofty and raised above the
commonplace which employs unusual words. By unusual, I mean strange (or
rare) words, metaphorical, lengthened- anything, in short, that differs
from the normal idiom. Yet a style wholly composed of such words is
either a riddle or a jargon; a riddle, if it consists of metaphors; a
jargon, if it consists of strange (or rare) words. For the essence of a
riddle is to express true facts under impossible combinations. Now this
cannot be done by any arrangement of ordinary words, but by the use of
metaphor it can. Such is the riddle: 'A man I saw who on another man had
glued the bronze by aid of fire,' and others of the same kind. A diction
that is made up of strange (or rare) terms is a jargon. A certain
infusion, therefore, of these elements is necessary to style; for the
strange (or rare) word, the metaphorical, the ornamental, and the other
kinds above mentioned, will raise it above the commonplace and mean,
while the use of proper words will make it perspicuous. But nothing
contributes more to produce a cleanness of diction that is remote from
commonness than the lengthening, contraction, and alteration of words.
For by deviating in exceptional cases from the normal idiom, the
language will gain distinction; while, at the same time, the partial
conformity with usage will give perspicuity. The critics, therefore, are
in error who censure these licenses of speech, and hold the author up to
ridicule. Thus Eucleides, the elder, declared that it would be an easy
matter to be a poet if you might lengthen syllables at will. He
caricatured the practice in the very form of his diction, as in the
verse:
"Epicharen eidon Marathonade badizonta,
"I saw Epichares walking to Marathon, "
or,
"ouk an g'eramenos ton ekeinou elleboron.
"Not if you desire his hellebore. "
To employ such license at all obtrusively is, no doubt, grotesque;
but in any mode of poetic diction there must be moderation. Even
metaphors, strange (or rare) words, or any similar forms of speech,
would produce the like effect if used without propriety and with the
express purpose of being ludicrous. How great a difference is made by
the appropriate use of lengthening, may be seen in Epic poetry by the
insertion of ordinary forms in the verse. So, again, if we take a
strange (or rare) word, a metaphor, or any similar mode of expression,
and replace it by the current or proper term, the truth of our
observation will be manifest. For example, Aeschylus and Euripides each
composed the same iambic line. But the alteration of a single word by
Euripides, who employed the rarer term instead of the ordinary one,
makes one verse appear beautiful and the other trivial. Aeschylus in his
Philoctetes says:
"phagedaina d'he mou sarkas esthiei podos.
"The tumor which is eating the flesh of my foot. "
Euripides substitutes thoinatai, 'feasts on,' for esthiei, 'feeds
on.' Again, in the line,
"nun de m'eon oligos te kai outidanos kai aeikes,
"Yet a small man, worthless and unseemly, "
the difference will be felt if we substitute the common words,
"nun de m'eon mikros te kai asthenikos kai aeides.
"Yet a little fellow, weak and ugly. "
Or, if for the line,
"diphron aeikelion katatheis oligen te trapezan,
"Setting an unseemly couch and a meager table, "
we read,
"diphron mochtheron katatheis mikran te trapezan.
"Setting a wretched couch and a puny table. "
Or, for eiones booosin, 'the sea shores roar,' eiones krazousin, 'the
sea shores screech.'
Again, Ariphrades ridiculed the tragedians for using phrases which no
one would employ in ordinary speech: for example, domaton apo, 'from the
house away,' instead of apo domaton, 'away from the house;' sethen, ego
de nin, 'to thee, and I to him;' Achilleos peri, 'Achilles about,'
instead of peri Achilleos, 'about Achilles;' and the like. It is
precisely because such phrases are not part of the current idiom that
they give distinction to the style. This, however, he failed to see.
It is a great matter to observe propriety in these several modes of
expression, as also in compound words, strange (or rare) words, and so
forth. But the greatest thing by far is to have a command of metaphor.
This alone cannot be imparted by another; it is the mark of genius, for
to make good metaphors implies an eye for resemblances.
Of the various kinds of words, the compound are best adapted to
dithyrambs, rare words to heroic poetry, metaphors to iambic. In heroic
poetry, indeed, all these varieties are serviceable. But in iambic
verse, which reproduces, as far as may be, familiar speech, the most
appropriate words are those which are found even in prose. These are the
current or proper, the metaphorical, the ornamental.
Concerning Tragedy and imitation by means of action this may suffice.
Part XXIII
As to that poetic imitation which is narrative in form and employs a
single meter, the plot manifestly ought, as in a tragedy, to be
constructed on dramatic principles. It should have for its subject a
single action, whole and complete, with a beginning, a middle, and an
end. It will thus resemble a living organism in all its unity, and
produce the pleasure proper to it. It will differ in structure from
historical compositions, which of necessity present not a single action,
but a single period, and all that happened within that period to one
person or to many, little connected together as the events may be. For
as the sea-fight at Salamis and the battle with the Carthaginians in
Sicily took place at the same time, but did not tend to any one result,
so in the sequence of events, one thing sometimes follows another, and
yet no single result is thereby produced. Such is the practice, we may
say, of most poets. Here again, then, as has been already observed, the
transcendent excellence of Homer is manifest. He never attempts to make
the whole war of Troy the subject of his poem, though that war had a
beginning and an end. It would have been too vast a theme, and not
easily embraced in a single view. If, again, he had kept it within
moderate limits, it must have been over-complicated by the variety of
the incidents. As it is, he detaches a single portion, and admits as
episodes many events from the general story of the war- such as the
Catalogue of the ships and others- thus diversifying the poem. All other
poets take a single hero, a single period, or an action single indeed,
but with a multiplicity of parts. Thus did the author of the Cypria and
of the Little Iliad. For this reason the Iliad and the Odyssey each
furnish the subject of one tragedy, or, at most, of two; while the
Cypria supplies materials for many, and the Little Iliad for eight- the
Award of the Arms, the Philoctetes, the Neoptolemus, the Eurypylus, the
Mendicant Odysseus, the Laconian Women, the Fall of Ilium, the Departure
of the Fleet.
Part XXIV
Again, Epic poetry must have as many kinds as Tragedy: it must be
simple, or complex, or 'ethical,'or 'pathetic.' The parts also, with the
exception of song and spectacle, are the same; for it requires Reversals
of the Situation, Recognitions, and Scenes of Suffering. Moreover, the
thoughts and the diction must be artistic. In all these respects Homer
is our earliest and sufficient model. Indeed each of his poems has a
twofold character. The Iliad is at once simple and 'pathetic,' and the
Odyssey complex (for Recognition scenes run through it), and at the same
time 'ethical.' Moreover, in diction and thought they are supreme.
Epic poetry differs from Tragedy in the scale on which it is
constructed, and in its meter. As regards scale or length, we have
already laid down an adequate limit: the beginning and the end must be
capable of being brought within a single view. This condition will be
satisfied by poems on a smaller scale than the old epics, and answering
in length to the group of tragedies presented at a single sitting.
Epic poetry has, however, a great- a special- capacity for enlarging
its dimensions, and we can see the reason. In Tragedy we cannot imitate
several lines of actions carried on at one and the same time; we must
confine ourselves to the action on the stage and the part taken by the
players. But in Epic poetry, owing to the narrative form, many events
simultaneously transacted can be presented; and these, if relevant to
the subject, add mass and dignity to the poem. The Epic has here an
advantage, and one that conduces to grandeur of effect, to diverting the
mind of the hearer, and relieving the story with varying episodes. For
sameness of incident soon produces satiety, and makes tragedies fail on
the stage.
As for the meter, the heroic measure has proved its fitness by
hexameter test of experience. If a narrative poem in any other meter or
in many meters were now composed, it would be found incongruous. For of
all measures the heroic is the stateliest and the most massive; and
hence it most readily admits rare words and metaphors, which is another
point in which the narrative form of imitation stands alone. On the
other hand, the iambic and the trochaic tetrameter are stirring
measures, the latter being akin to dancing, the former expressive of
action. Still more absurd would it be to mix together different meters,
as was done by Chaeremon. Hence no one has ever composed a poem on a
great scale in any other than heroic verse. Nature herself, as we have
said, teaches the choice of the proper measure.
Homer, admirable in all respects, has the special merit of being the
only poet who rightly appreciates the part he should take himself. The
poet should speak as little as possible in his own person, for it is not
this that makes him an imitator. Other poets appear themselves upon the
scene throughout, and imitate but little and rarely. Homer, after a few
prefatory words, at once brings in a man, or woman, or other personage;
none of them wanting in characteristic qualities, but each with a
character of his own.
The element of the wonderful is required in Tragedy. The irrational,
on which the wonderful depends for its chief effects, has wider scope in
Epic poetry, because there the person acting is not seen. Thus, the
pursuit of Hector would be ludicrous if placed upon the stage- the
Greeks standing still and not joining in the pursuit, and Achilles
waving them back. But in the Epic poem the absurdity passes unnoticed.
Now the wonderful is pleasing, as may be inferred from the fact that
every one tells a story with some addition of his knowing that his
hearers like it. It is Homer who has chiefly taught other poets the art
of telling lies skilfully. The secret of it lies in a fallacy For,
assuming that if one thing is or becomes, a second is or becomes, men
imagine that, if the second is, the first likewise is or becomes. But
this is a false inference. Hence, where the first thing is untrue, it is
quite unnecessary, provided the second be true, to add that the first is
or has become. For the mind, knowing the second to be true, falsely
infers the truth of the first. There is an example of this in the Bath
Scene of the Odyssey.
Accordingly, the poet should prefer probable impossibilities to
improbable possibilities. The tragic plot must not be composed of
irrational parts. Everything irrational should, if possible, be
excluded; or, at all events, it should lie outside the action of the
play (as, in the Oedipus, the hero's ignorance as to the manner of
Laius' death); not within the drama- as in the Electra, the messenger's
account of the Pythian games; or, as in the Mysians, the man who has
come from Tegea to Mysia and is still speechless. The plea that
otherwise the plot would have been ruined, is ridiculous; such a plot
should not in the first instance be constructed. But once the irrational
has been introduced and an air of likelihood imparted to it, we must
accept it in spite of the absurdity. Take even the irrational incidents
in the Odyssey, where Odysseus is left upon the shore of Ithaca. How
intolerable even these might have been would be apparent if an inferior
poet were to treat the subject. As it is, the absurdity is veiled by the
poetic charm with which the poet invests it.
The diction should be elaborated in the pauses of the action, where
there is no expression of character or thought. For, conversely,
character and thought are merely obscured by a diction that is
over-brilliant
Part XXV
With respect to critical difficulties and their solutions, the number
and nature of the sources from which they may be drawn may be thus
exhibited.
The poet being an imitator, like a painter or any other artist, must
of necessity imitate one of three objects- things as they were or are,
things as they are said or thought to be, or things as they ought to be.
The vehicle of expression is language- either current terms or, it may
be, rare words or metaphors. There are also many modifications of
language, which we concede to the poets. Add to this, that the standard
of correctness is not the same in poetry and politics, any more than in
poetry and any other art. Within the art of poetry itself there are two
kinds of faults- those which touch its essence, and those which are
accidental. If a poet has chosen to imitate something, [but has imitated
it incorrectly] through want of capacity, the error is inherent in the
poetry. But if the failure is due to a wrong choice- if he has
represented a horse as throwing out both his off legs at once, or
introduced technical inaccuracies in medicine, for example, or in any
other art- the error is not essential to the poetry. These are the
points of view from which we should consider and answer the objections
raised by the critics.
First as to matters which concern the poet's own art. If he describes
the impossible, he is guilty of an error; but the error may be
justified, if the end of the art be thereby attained (the end being that
already mentioned)- if, that is, the effect of this or any other part of
the poem is thus rendered more striking. A case in point is the pursuit
of Hector. if, however, the end might have been as well, or better,
attained without violating the special rules of the poetic art, the
error is not justified: for every kind of error should, if possible, be
avoided.
Again, does the error touch the essentials of the poetic art, or some
accident of it? For example, not to know that a hind has no horns is a
less serious matter than to paint it inartistically.
Further, if it be objected that the description is not true to fact,
the poet may perhaps reply, 'But the objects are as they ought to be';
just as Sophocles said that he drew men as they ought to be; Euripides,
as they are. In this way the objection may be met. If, however, the
representation be of neither kind, the poet may answer, 'This is how men
say the thing is.' applies to tales about the gods. It may well be that
these stories are not higher than fact nor yet true to fact: they are,
very possibly, what Xenophanes says of them. But anyhow, 'this is what
is said.' Again, a description may be no better than the fact: 'Still,
it was the fact'; as in the passage about the arms: 'Upright upon their
butt-ends stood the spears.' This was the custom then, as it now is
among the Illyrians.
Again, in examining whether what has been said or done by some one is
poetically right or not, we must not look merely to the particular act
or saying, and ask whether it is poetically good or bad. We must also
consider by whom it is said or done, to whom, when, by what means, or
for what end; whether, for instance, it be to secure a greater good, or
avert a greater evil.
Other difficulties may be resolved by due regard to the usage of
language. We may note a rare word, as in oureas men proton, 'the mules
first [he killed],' where the poet perhaps employs oureas not in the
sense of mules, but of sentinels. So, again, of Dolon: 'ill-favored
indeed he was to look upon.' It is not meant that his body was
ill-shaped but that his face was ugly; for the Cretans use the word
eueides, 'well-flavored' to denote a fair face. Again, zoroteron de
keraie, 'mix the drink livelier' does not mean 'mix it stronger' as for
hard drinkers, but 'mix it quicker.'
Sometimes an expression is metaphorical, as 'Now all gods and men
were sleeping through the night,' while at the same time the poet says:
'Often indeed as he turned his gaze to the Trojan plain, he marveled at
the sound of flutes and pipes.' 'All' is here used metaphorically for
'many,' all being a species of many. So in the verse, 'alone she hath no
part... , oie, 'alone' is metaphorical; for the best known may be called
the only one.
Again, the solution may depend upon accent or breathing. Thus Hippias
of Thasos solved the difficulties in the lines, didomen (didomen) de
hoi, and to men hou (ou) kataputhetai ombro.
Or again, the question may be solved by punctuation, as in
Empedocles: 'Of a sudden things became mortal that before had learnt to
be immortal, and things unmixed before mixed.'
Or again, by ambiguity of meaning, as parocheken de pleo nux, where
the word pleo is ambiguous.
Or by the usage of language. Thus any mixed drink is called oinos,
'wine'. Hence Ganymede is said 'to pour the wine to Zeus,' though the
gods do not drink wine. So too workers in iron are called chalkeas, or
'workers in bronze.' This, however, may also be taken as a metaphor.
Again, when a word seems to involve some inconsistency of meaning, we
should consider how many senses it may bear in the particular passage.
For example: 'there was stayed the spear of bronze'- we should ask in
how many ways we may take 'being checked there.' The true mode of
interpretation is the precise opposite of what Glaucon mentions.
Critics, he says, jump at certain groundless conclusions; they pass
adverse judgement and then proceed to reason on it; and, assuming that
the poet has said whatever they happen to think, find fault if a thing
is inconsistent with their own fancy.
The question about Icarius has been treated in this fashion. The
critics imagine he was a Lacedaemonian. They think it strange,
therefore, that Telemachus should not have met him when he went to
Lacedaemon. But the Cephallenian story may perhaps be the true one. They
allege that Odysseus took a wife from among themselves, and that her
father was Icadius, not Icarius. It is merely a mistake, then, that
gives plausibility to the objection.
In general, the impossible must be justified by reference to artistic
requirements, or to the higher reality, or to received opinion. With
respect to the requirements of art, a probable impossibility is to be
preferred to a thing improbable and yet possible. Again, it may be
impossible that there should be men such as Zeuxis painted. 'Yes,' we
say, 'but the impossible is the higher thing; for the ideal type must
surpass the realty.' To justify the irrational, we appeal to what is
commonly said to be. In addition to which, we urge that the irrational
sometimes does not violate reason; just as 'it is probable that a thing
may happen contrary to probability.'
Things that sound contradictory should be examined by the same rules
as in dialectical refutation- whether the same thing is meant, in the
same relation, and in the same sense. We should therefore solve the
question by reference to what the poet says himself, or to what is
tacitly assumed by a person of intelligence.
The element of the irrational, and, similarly, depravity of
character, are justly censured when there is no inner necessity for
introducing them. Such is the irrational element in the introduction of
Aegeus by Euripides and the badness of Menelaus in the Orestes.
Thus, there are five sources from which critical objections are
drawn. Things are censured either as impossible, or irrational, or
morally hurtful, or contradictory, or contrary to artistic correctness.
The answers should be sought under the twelve heads above mentioned.
Part XXVI
The question may be raised whether the Epic or Tragic mode of
imitation is the higher. If the more refined art is the higher, and the
more refined in every case is that which appeals to the better sort of
audience, the art which imitates anything and everything is manifestly
most unrefined. The audience is supposed to be too dull to comprehend
unless something of their own is thrown by the performers, who therefore
indulge in restless movements. Bad flute-players twist and twirl, if
they have to represent 'the quoit-throw,' or hustle the coryphaeus when
they perform the Scylla. Tragedy, it is said, has this same defect. We
may compare the opinion that the older actors entertained of their
successors. Mynniscus used to call Callippides 'ape' on account of the
extravagance of his action, and the same view was held of Pindarus.
Tragic art, then, as a whole, stands to Epic in the same relation as the
younger to the elder actors. So we are told that Epic poetry is
addressed to a cultivated audience, who do not need gesture; Tragedy, to
an inferior public. Being then unrefined, it is evidently the lower of
the two.
Now, in the first place, this censure attaches not to the poetic but
to the histrionic art; for gesticulation may be equally overdone in epic
recitation, as by Sosistratus, or in lyrical competition, as by
Mnasitheus the Opuntian. Next, all action is not to be condemned- any
more than all dancing- but only that of bad performers. Such was the
fault found in Callippides, as also in others of our own day, who are
censured for representing degraded women. Again, Tragedy like Epic
poetry produces its effect even without action; it reveals its power by
mere reading. If, then, in all other respects it is superior, this
fault, we say, is not inherent in it.
And superior it is, because it has an the epic elements- it may even
use the epic meter- with the music and spectacular effects as important
accessories; and these produce the most vivid of pleasures. Further, it
has vividness of impression in reading as well as in representation.
Moreover, the art attains its end within narrower limits for the
concentrated effect is more pleasurable than one which is spread over a
long time and so diluted. What, for example, would be the effect of the
Oedipus of Sophocles, if it were cast into a form as long as the Iliad?
Once more, the Epic imitation has less unity; as is shown by this, that
any Epic poem will furnish subjects for several tragedies. Thus if the
story adopted by the poet has a strict unity, it must either be
concisely told and appear truncated; or, if it conforms to the Epic
canon of length, it must seem weak and watery. [Such length implies some
loss of unity,] if, I mean, the poem is constructed out of several
actions, like the Iliad and the Odyssey, which have many such parts,
each with a certain magnitude of its own. Yet these poems are as perfect
as possible in structure; each is, in the highest degree attainable, an
imitation of a single action.
If, then, tragedy is superior to epic poetry in all these respects,
and, moreover, fulfills its specific function better as an art- for each
art ought to produce, not any chance pleasure, but the pleasure proper
to it, as already stated- it plainly follows that tragedy is the higher
art, as attaining its end more perfectly.
Thus much may suffice concerning Tragic and Epic poetry in general;
their several kinds and parts, with the number of each and their
differences; the causes that make a poem good or bad; the objections of
the critics and the answers to these objections....
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