-~.

-~
Introduction to
Theory and Criticism

In recent decades, theory and criticism have grown ever more prominent in
literary and cultural studies, treated less as aids to the study of literature and
culture than as ends in themselves. As Jonathan Culler notes in Framing the
Sign: Criticism and Its Institution,s (J 988), "F'ormerly the history of criticism
was part of the history of literature (the story of changing conceptions of
literature advanced by great writers), but, . , now the history of literature is
part of the history of criticism." This dramatic reversal, which occurred grad-
ually over the course of the twentieth century, means that the history of
criticism and theory increasingly provjdcs the general framework for studying
literature and culture in colleges and universities. Some literary scholars and
writers deplore the shift toward theory, regarding it as a turn away from
literature and its central concerns, These "antitheorists," as they are called,
advocate a return to studying literature for itself-yet however refreshing
this position may at first appear, it has problems: it itself presupposes a
definition of literature, and it promotes a certain way of scrutinil.ing Htera-
ture ("for itself"). In other words, the antitheory position turns out to rely
on unexamined-and debatable-theories of Hterature and criticism. WhIt
theory demonstrates, in this case and in others, is that there is no position
free of theory, not even the one called "common sense."
The history of theory and criticism from ancient times to the present is one
of contending ideas and opinions about such apparently self-cvjdent topics as
"literature" and "interpretation." Historically, interpretation has been con-
ceptualized in a number of different ways: as, for example, objectivc textual
analysis or moral assessment or emotional response or literary evaluation or
cultural critique. The same is also true of literature. which has been defined
in tenns of its ability to represent reaHty, or to express its author's inner
being, or to teach moraHty, or to cleanse our emotions, to name only a few
eommon but conflicting formulations. The history of criticism and theory
contains many such arguments. Taken together, the antitheorists themselves
adhere to very different, often contradictory understandings of literature
and interpretation. Such conflict points to the vitality, the excitement, and
the complexity of the field of theory and criticism, whose expansive universe
of perennial issues and problems engages ideas not only about literature. lan-
guage, interpretation, genre, style, meaning, and tradition but also about
subjectivity, ethnicity. race, gender, class, culture, nationality, ideology,
institutions, and historical periods. In this anthology, students new to literary
and cultural studies will discover a wide-ranging interdisciplinary and com-
:2 / )"TRODUCTION TO TIIEORY AND CRITICISM

parative field whose practitioners examine, formulate, and a.ssess all manner
of theories and problems related to the study of literature and culture.
In addition, students new to criticism and theory will eneounter a rieh
array of technical tcrms and conccpts, critical approaches and schools, and
literary and cultural theories and theorists. From signifier to deconstructioa
to cultmal studies, from Kant to Foucault, the field of theory and criticism
is marked by a multitude of signposts sometimes unfamiliar to even the most
widelv read students. In this introduction as well as in the headnotes to each
auth;r, we help students make sense of this complex but rewarding field. We
begin the introduction by surveying an array of notable answers to two cen-
tral questions-what is interpretation? and what is Iiterature?-in order to
establish our bearings. Shifting direction, we then survey the historical devel-
opment of theory and eriticism, from the classical to the Romantic, after
which we provide brief overviews of major schools and movements of the
last century. Along the way, we discuss many of the theorists in this anthol-
ogy, explain perennial problems and issues, define key concepts and terms,
and illuminate the underlying structure of the field of theory and criticism,
including its most significant conflicts.

WHAT IS INTERPRETATION?

Within the field of theory and criticism, various terms and concepts are
applied to the encounter between the reader and the text. This transaction,
which we will provisionally call "reading" or "interpretation," typically in-
volves such activities as personal response, appreciation, evaluation, histori-
cal reception, explication, exegesis, and critique. Not surprisingly, the master
words iaterpretation and reading are themselves debatable. In fact, in choos-
ing a term or terms to characterize the encounter between text and reader,
one takes a specilic theoretical position regarding the exact nature of reading
and inl erpretHtion.
Consider a few such keywords. Whereas explicatiun and exegesis stress the
objective labor of deciphering a text in a methodical way (line by line, in the
case of a short poem), persunal response and appreciation emphasize the
intimate, casual, and subjective aspects of reading. Critique and historical
reception, in tum, aeeentuate the distances in values and time between the
interpreter and the work. An exegesis of a text is not the same as an appre-
ciation or a critique. Exegesis presumes a dense and enigmatic text in need
of elaborate explanation; appreciation implies a reader-friendly work just
waiting to be enjoyed here and now; and critique presupposes a hidden set
of questionable or dangerous premises and values undergirding a complex
document. In the case of exegesis an interpreler needs to be a knowledgeable
puzzle solver; appreciation positions the reader as an eager and sympathetic
hedonist; and critique calls for a critic at once suspicious and ethical, com-
mitted to a set of values different from, or directly opposed to, those
expressed ill the text. In depicting the critical eneounter, theories of reading
and interpretation invariably assign characteristics to texts and alloeate par-
ticular roles and tasks to readers.
MallY of the selections in this anthology differ markedly in how they char-
 INTRODUCTION ro THEORY AND CRH1C1SM I 3

acterin' interpretation and reading. For instance, Friedrich Schleiermacher

draws a detailed account of interpretation both as historically informed
grammatical explication and as psyehological identification with the author.
His view contrasts with the perspective of Fredric Jameson, who advocates
an elaborate thrcc-phase process of interpretation focused specifically on
ideology critique of social contradictions, class antagonisms, and historical
stages of social development manifested in texts. And Paul de Man instead
pictures reading as a mode of exegesis wherein the reader's rewriting or re-
staging of the text replaces the original with an interpretive allegory: reading
fur him unavoidably becomes "misreading." That highly competent theorists
can propose completely different models of reading fut:\ls continut:\d theoret-
ical debate about interpretation.
One of the most familiar ways of reading is the mode of textual analysis
developed by the New Critics, particularly Cleanth Brooks. During the mid-
twentieth century, the New Criticism became the dominant critical practice
in North American and British universities, and it remains influential today,
especially in the introductory literature classroom. To interpret as a New
Critic is to demonstrate through multiple (re)readings of poctic texts thc
intricacy of artistic forms. "Meaning" is found neither in a simple paraphrase
of the text, nor in propositions extracted from it, but in carefully orchestrated
and unified textual elements (for cxample, imagcs, tropes, tones, and sym-
boIs). The literary work is (pre)conceivcd as an autonomous, highly coherent,
dramatic artifact (a "well-wrought urn") separate from and above the life of
the author and reader as well as separate from its social context and from
everyday language. Textual inconsistencies are harmonized by being valor-
ized as literary ambiguities, paradoxcs, or ironies.
Yet there are problems with this seemingly sensible method. Various the-
orists have complained that it posits an overly aestheticized, narrow theory
of meaning. The "c1osc reading" or "practical criticism" advocated rules out
a great deal, including personal response, authorial intention, propositional
meaning, social and historical context, and ideology. It values retrospective
analysis rather tban the risky ongoing experience or actual process of trying
to make sense of a work. It privileges freestanding spatial form over temporal
flow and critical distance over the rcadcr's pcrsonal participation. It makcs
textual unity mandatory, finessing gaps and loose ends. It favors well-made
and compact rather than sprawling works and genres. The famous reading
practice of New Criticism is a calculated emptying out of literary interpre-
tation in order to highlight intrinsic artistic craft and form while ruling out
such extrinsic mutters us morality, psychology, and politics.
Even without sampling further the many theories of reading and interpre-
tation presented in this anthology, we can readily see that there are no easy
answers to the question "what is interpretation?" Ncw Criticism has been
singled out \0 demonstrate how a practice of reading might be questioned,
but many of the other theories in this anthology could have served equally
well. The problematic of interpretation/reading continues to be a major pre-
occupation in the field of criticism and theory. All who think critically have
an opportunity to engage various theories of reading and to formulate their
own views.
4 f INTIIOLlUCTlON TO THEORY AND CRITICISM

WHAT IS LITEHATURE?

Another major question-"what is literature?"-can be, and regularly is,

answered by associating literature with such key terms as representation,
expression, knowledge, poetic or rhetorical language, genre, text, or discourse.
In our ordinary understanding, literature represents life; it holds up, as it
were, a mirror to nature and is thus "mimetic." The expressive theory of
literature, which regards literature as stemming from the author's inner
being, similarly depends on a notion of mirroring, though here literature
reflects the inner soul rather than the external world of the ",riter. The didac-
tic theory, which sees literature as a source of knowledge, insight, wisdom,
and perhaps prophecy, is compatible with both the mimetic and the expres-
sive theory: literature can depict external and internal realities while at the
same time disseminating valuable knowledge and clarifying emotions. The
dominant view of literature as both mimetic and didactic, still alive today,
arose with the ancient Greeks and was challenged by the Romantics and
then the moderns. Though the theory of literature--or "poetics," as it is
sometimes called-has been a contested topic throughout history, the debate
has been especially fierce in modern and contemporary times.
Modern theorists often insist that the language of literature, unlike that
of newspapers and sdence, foregrounds poetic effects (particularly tropes
and figures) that range from alliteration, assonanee, metaphor, and paradox
to rhythm and rhyme. In this "formalist" theory of literature or poetics, nei-
ther depiction of external or internal reality nor knowledge about e"istence
or refined emotion distinguishes literature from ordinary and scientific dis-
course: instead, "literariness" (or "poeticity") renders literature distinclive
and special. The theory first emerged during the nineteenth century when
poets such as Edgar Allan Poe and Gerard Manley Hopkins started e"vloring,
sometimes extravagantly, the constituent materials of literature (especially
sound effects), turning away from the notion of literature as simply a reliable
recorder of nature or source of morality. A similar transformation followed
in the visual arts; the postimpressionist painters focused on paint textures,
brush strokes, and color intensities rather than seeking photographic reali-
ties. Writers and theorists at the time often felt that to justify literature hy
pointing to its aeeuracy and realism was to put it in competition with the
scienees, social sciences, journalism, and photography-a competitioo they
believed it could not ",in. Conversely, by emphasizing the literariness of lit-
erature, thev would accord it a distinctive and elevated aesthetic status over
competing domains and fields, ensuring its survival and dignity in ehalleng-
ing times. Sueh a formalist theory of literature prevailed in the early and
mid-twentieth century among Anglo-American New Critics and Slavic
formalists, many of whom are represented in this anthology.
A well-known heuristie device conveniently summarizes all the accounts
of literature discussed up to this point. Developed by M. H. Abrams in The
i\firror ami the Lamp: Romantic Theory and the Critical Tradition (1953),
Ihis study aid pietures the literary "work" at the center of a triangular struc-
ture; the outer three points arc occupied by the "universe," the "artist," and
the "audience," Mimetic theory emphasi7:es the relations between the work
and the universe; expressive theory foregrounds the link between work and
 INTRODUCTION TO THEORY AND CRITICISM 5

UNrvERSE
i
WORK
~
ARTIST ""
AUDIENCE

artist; didactic theory highlights the tie between work amI audiencc. For-
malist theory focuses on the work itself; as we have just seen, it character-
istically deemphasizcs connections between the text and the universe, artist,
or audience. Until the early Romantic era, literary theory dealt largely with
the poem's rclationship to the universe and the audience; in the nineteenth
century it focused on the artist: and in the twentieth century it turncd to the
work itself. Most theories of criticism and literature, argue~ Abrams, juggle
these four major clements and orientations, tending to prhilege one.
This classifIcation scheme and its lessons have proven useful, espccially
in illustrating basic theoretical orientations and in delineating broad histor-
ical trends. But the famous diagram has limitations, as any theorist will tell
you. Perhaps the most serious is that it stops with modernism: it predates
the appearance of such influential postmodern theoretical movements as
structuralism, poststructuralism, feminism, postcolonial theory, and cultural
studies. Abrams maps out a progression from mimesis and didacticism to
expressionism to formalism, but recent theory and criticism of literature have
moved on to cultural critique. In the process, theorists have focused in turn
on the imitation of reality and its lessons, on inner truths and visions, on
poetic techniques and their orchestrations, and on sodohistorical and politi-
cal representations and their values. Tn this historical development the "old"
problems recede from view but never disappear; instcad, they undergo recon-
figuration and occupy new conceptual relations.
Consider, for instance, tbe structuralist or semiotic theory of literature
that fIts all literary texts' into genre classifications. Accordiu'g to this per-
spective, a genre is defined hy arhitrary sets of conventions, such as those
governing the haiku-a poem of seventeen syllables in three lines of fIve,
seven, and five syllahlcs. respectively. These conventions distance literary
writing from ordinary reality, evcn when thc conventions are calculated to
give the appearance of direct reportage. In seeing literature as genre con-
sisting of complex sets of codcs, the structuralist retains the formalist view
of literature as a separate mode of discourse that follows its own artistic rules
but adds the key sociological concept of convention. Because conventions
are not only literary but also linguistic and cultural, literature and society
are reconnected through discourse.
Poststructuralist and deconstruetive accounts of literature go one step
further by problematizing the notion of mirroring, which, as we have seen.
undergirds expressive, didactic, and mimetic theories of literature. They do
so through a close and technically complex examination of the workings of
language-seen as distant and different from reality, for it necessarily con-
tains distorting rhetorical and genre devices. Language is not a simple
transparent medium. Any usc oflanguage, no matter how typical or everyday,
employs some combination of historical conventions and fIgurative devices,
6 I 1"1" RODUCTION TO THEORY AND CRITICISM

which compromises its transparency. Moreover, language separates from

"reality" at the very basic level of the sign because, strictly speaking, words
are not things. The four letters b., i, r, d are not an actual feathered creature.
In linguistic terminology, neither signifiers (words) nor signifieds (concepts)
are referents (things). Because language consists of "floating signifiers" that
are detached from reality, it simulates or summons things as they are. Lan-
guage deals in effects rather than things. The gaps between signifiers, sig-
nifieds, and referents render the truthfulness and reliability of language
undecidable (a technical term from mathematics borrowed by poststructur-
alism). Language is thus, to employ technical deconstructive terms, text or
textuality, meaning a complex interweaving of self-referential, undecidable
relationships. In extreme forms, this challenging theory of literature as tex-
tuality views language as thoroughly divorced from reality; in more moderate
forms, language maintains a relation to reality, albeit a highly unstable one.
At st.ake is literature's ability to reHect reality or impart reliable knowledge-
and the uncertainty raises doubt.s about its t.rut.h claims and about earlier
theories of literature. This area of inquiry is commonly labeled the "crisis of
referencc" (or "referent.iality").
The dizzying deconstructive view of literature as text has heen opposed by
the widespread recent poststructuralist theoryofliterature as discourse , a term
associated with the influent.ial work of Michel Foucault. Discourse theorists
explicitly trace the language of literature t.o its source in the spoken language
of everyday social life. Conceived by its many advocates as anti-elitist, this
materialist theory of discourse-whether it stems from thc work of Foucault,
Mikhail M. Bakhtin. black aestheticians, New Hist.oricists, cultural material-
ist.s, queer theorists, psychoanalytic critics, or cultural st.udies scholars (all
allotted space in this anthology and discussed later in t.he int.roduct.ion)-
insists that language is uttered by embodied subjects situated historically in
contentious social spheres that are regulated by powerful institutions. Signif-
icantly, this theory of the social text-oflanguage use as dialogical-gives new
life to earlier views of literature as mimetic, expressive, and didactic.
Literature, according to these recent discourse theories, re-presents and
refracts reality. Indeed, language itself constitutes reality; it also produces
distortions. This is mimesis with a difference: literature represents reality;
but reality is grounded in convention, not nature, and it is subject to illusion.
Similarly, discourse theorists affirm that literature expresses the inner life of
authors, but life is understood to be a regulated social phenomenon that
differs with the time, location, and group of the author. In place of the
solitary poet giving unique expression to truths universal to all humankind,
we find in recent discourse theories an embattled "scriptor" creatively mixing
and matching cultural codes derived from her or his situation, community,
and tradition. In this account literature retains didactic as well as mimetic
and expressive powers. 1he knowledge it conveys is of the "cultural uncon-
scious"-that is, of the archive of historical words, symbols, codes, instincts,
wishes, and conflicts characteristic of a people and its era. To treat discourse
as social text pluralizes the theory of literature, making a single universal or
totaliZing theory of literature, good for all times and places, appear reductive.
Literatures replace literature.
Theories of literature and theories of reading have affinities with one
another. Here are four instances. First, the formalist idea of literature as a
 INTRODUCTION TO THEORY AND CRITICISYl I 7

well-made artistic object corresponds to the notion of reading as careful

explication and evaluation of dense poetic style. Second, when viewed as the
spiritual expression of a gifted seer, poetry elicits a biographical approach to
criticism focused on the poct's inncr development. Third, dense historical
symbolic works presuppose a theory of reading as exegesis or deciphennent.
Fourth, literature conceived as social text or discourse calls for cu Itural cri·
tique. \Vhile we can separate theories of literature from theories of interpre-
tation, they often work hand in hand.

CLASSICAL THEORY AND CRITICISM

Anthologies covering the history of theory and criticism usually begin with
the classical theorists, and rightly so, because their influence on its develop-
ment has continued up to the present. The most influential classical theorists
in \Vestern culture are Plato and Aristotle, followed distantly by I Iorace.
Recently, a renewed interest in rhetoric has brought Corgias, QUintilian, and
others into the picture-a change that illustrates the mutability of the canon
of theory. Taken together, the classical theorists represent a wide range of
opinions about literature and its significancc developed over a millennium
(from the fifth century B.G.E. to the fifth century To sample their
groundbreaking work, we will consider SOmC of their opinions on two leading.
often interrelated issues of their time: literary mimesis and didacticism.
On these two issues, Plato and his student Aristotle present the best·
known views. Both agree that mimesis (imitation or representation) is a key
feature of poetry, but they conceive of and evaluate it quite differently. Plato
has his spokesperson Socrates disapprove of poetry's imitation of reality on
the grounds that poetry cannot depict truth and leach morality and that it is
irrational-based on inspiration, not knowledge. As an idealist philosopher,
he locates reality in a transcendent world of eternal Forms or Ideas that only
reason can properly apprehend; this world is distinct from the illusory phe-
nomenal world of our senses, which poetry represents. For Plato, the mate·
rial world is at best an imperfect copy of the original transcendent world of
Ideas, and poetry is but a degraded copy of a copy. He concludes that poetic
representation threatens social stability by offering false images and unsuit-
able role models. In Republic, therefore. he has Socrales recommend that it
be banished from the ideal society, except perhaps that poetry which praises
the gods and avoids representing them in an unseemly fashion.
Plato takes this severe position in part because he is reacting against the
views of earlier sophists such as Corgias and Thrasymaehus. whom he rep-
resents as less concerned with truth tban with persuasion. They saw language
as not simply representing reatity but in effect producing reality by shap-
ing the beliefs of an audience. As a result, in oratory as well as in poetry,
what matters most is bringing a particular audience to holt! a specific point
of view, not imitating an absolute truth. Some sophists even boasted that
in a debate they could argue any side of an issue and win. Later rhetori-
cians such as Quintilian emphasiLed that the good orator was also a morally
good man, but truth and honesty apparently mattered little to fifth-century
Greek sophists, who significantly influenced the formation of Plato's ethical
position.
8 ! INTRODUCTION TO THEORY AND CRITICISM

Less transcendental than Plato and Socrates, and more concernetl with
truth than the sophists, Aristotle asserts that poetic imitation can reveal truth
precisely because it does not passively copy appearances: it is a more creative
act. Poetry in this view is an organized whole, whose parts are organically
related and subordinated to a single objective. Because be focuses on tragic
drama, Aristotle takes plot as tbe key example of the organization of poetry.
For him, plot is not a random sequence of incidents but a unified whole "'ith
a beginning, middle, and end structured by logleal necessity. Unlike history,
which is built on accidcntal details, poetry rises above the description of par-
ticulars to represent universal truths about nature. This new view of imitation
springs from Aristotle's belief that human beings have a natural instinct for
imitation, which is generally pleasurable and connected with learning.
Later developments in classical theory anti criticism build on the ground-
breaking work nf thc Greek rhetoricians, Plato, and Aristotle. Horace, a poet,
follows Aristotle in asserting that poets can and must imitate nature, adding
that it is also important for young poets to imitate great writers. As he
approves of poetic imitation, Horace stresses the importance of morality and
decorum, For him, the pleasures of imitation arc best yoked "ith moral
teaching: he declares that tbe primary function of poetry is to combine "plea-
sure witb usefulness," This famous Horatian maxim has exerted considerable
influence on all subsequent theorizing.

MEDIEVAL THEORY AND CRITICISM

Spanning the course of a millennium (from the fiftb through the fifteenth
century), medieval theory and criticism contain numerous documents
related to the practices of reading and interpretation, to the theory of lan-
guage, and to the nature and use of literature.
Much mcdieval literary theory evolved out of the interpretation of sacred
Scriptures. Drawing on the Neoplatonism of Plotinus and his disciple Pro-
clus, medieval writers explored how to read the Book of God's Word (the
Bible) as a diVinely authorized representation of the Book of God's Works
(nature). Hugh of St. Victor, for instance, describes interpretation as the
reflection, or imitation, of God's works in his words. I!or Hugh, the whole
visible world is a book wri tten by the finger of God. Thus in reading one
discovers not a pale imitation of nature, as Plato belicvcd, but the ways in
which reading a text and reading the world are parallel activities.
This medieval theory of hermeneutics (the art and science of interpreta-
tion) is grounded in Augustine's notion that human language is a divinely
ordaincd reflection of the Logos (the ';Yord of God), which is said to guar-
antee the unity of meaning in the Bible and the book of nature, even if that
meaning is not readily discernible. Language truthfully portrays the world as
it is, in spite of the confusion caused by the multiplication of tongues at
Babel. In other words, language is "transparent." According to Augustine,
language exists only to convey a meaning that preexists it; it cannot be reflex-
ive or pla}ful (as it may be in poetry); and it must efface itself in pointing to
the preexistent truth it represents.
Most medicval writers accepted the Augustinian theory of language, amI
they also shared Augustine's deep distrust of poetic fables and figurative
 hTROnI;CTlON TO TTlEORY MiD CRITICISM I 9

language. But they constantly faced serious theoretical contradictions. Try

as they might to assert the "truth" of language and the uselessness of poetic
nctions, medieval writers could not overlook the presence of both poetry and
fables in the master text of Christianity, the Bible. The most common if still
not entirely satisfactory response was to argue that the transcendental maj-
esty of God could he represented only indirectly, through poetic or figurative
language. In this view, the heroic songs and psalms of the Old Testament,
as well as Christ's parables in the New Testament, function as metaphoric
mediations, creating similitudes between this world and the next. Such simil-
itudes are necessary, Augustine argues, so that "by means of corporeal and
temporal things we may comprehend the eternal and spiritual." Ultimately,
the medieval defense of poetry was based on Macrohius's key distinction
between fables that "merely gratify the ear" and those that"encourage the
reader to good works."
[n exploring such issues, medieval writers relied primarily on the textual
techniques of exegesis. Particularly important were the exegetical genres of
the gloss and the commentary, derivcd from the works of ancient grammar-
ians and expanded for explication of the Bible, Glosses are elucidations of
individual words or phrases, written in the margins or between the lines of
a text; eommentaries are much more extensive textual expositions, appearing
at first as local and marginal remarks (like footnotes) but later produced as
freestanding continuous texts (see, for example, Bernardus Sylvestris's
twelfth-century Comment<lry on the First Six Books of Vir).1il's "Aeneid").
Known as the enarratio poetarum (exposition of the poets), these interpretive
genres shaped the basic approach to all authoritative texts, wbich were trans-
mitted in manuscripts filled with glosses and commentary that retained space
for future textual exegesis,
The dominant technique of medieval gloss and commentary is allegory, a
method of reading texts for their underlying esoteric meanings. Quintiliao's
definition of allegory as meaning "one thing in the words, another in the
senses" was the basis of all medieval definitions of allegory; but what was for
him a figure of speech became, wben combined with the Augustinian belief
that poetry is a revelation of an otherwise inaccessible transcendent world.
a critical tool to explain and coiltrol the dissemination of meanings in sacred
Scriptures. Only later would it become a literary genre. Following Quintilian,
medieval "'-Titers eventually e1a borated four levels of allegorical interpretation
to be used in the study of the Bible: the literal, or historical; the allegorical,
or spiritual; the tropolo?,ical, or moral; and the anagogical, or mysticaL In the
New Testament story of Christ's raising of Lazarus from the dead, for exam-
ple, the medieval exegete would recognize first that on the literal level. the
story is a record of an event that actually took place. On the allegorical level,
the story prefigures Christ's death, descent into hell, and resurrection. On
the tropological level, it represents the sacrament of Penance, whereby the
individual soul is raised from the death of sin. And on the anagogicallevel,
it portrays the resurrection of the body after the Last Judgment.
By the twelfth century, medieval writers had extended allegorical biblical
interpretation to the study of pagan mythologies and great classical works of
art, such as Virgil's epic poem, the Aeneid. Medieval Christians could not
literally accept pagan gods, nor could they simply read the stories as "fables,"
but they could see them as e"'Pressions of philosophical ideas. Eventually,
10 / INTlWOCCTlOi\ TO THEORY A!\O CRITICISM

allegorical interpretation was applied to contemporary writing, as in Dante's

own reading of his Divine Comedy in "Letter to Can Grande," Although it
slowly passed out of favor after the Middle Ages, alleil,orical interpretation
reemerged as a siil,nificant influence in the late twentieth century-especially
in the work of Northrop Frye and Fredric Jameson, both of whom developed
schemes for interpreting texts based on multiple levels of interpretation,
Medieval theory and criticism, significantly, concerns itself with prescrip-
tive poetics: that is, with how to "'Tite poetry. Inspired by Horace's Ars Poe-
tica, this pragmatic criticism synthesizes classical views on rhetoric,
grammar, and style, often taking the form of gUides to composition. Perhaps
the best-kno\\TI medieval Horatian critic is Geoffrey ofVinsauf, who adopts
and revises Horace's fundamental principle of decorum for a medieval audi-
ence. For Geoffrey, the poet's objective is not to invent new subject matter
but to develop new ways of treating traditional themes, In this regard, the
poet is like the medieval exegete, who preserves the past and develops intri-
cate ways of extending it,

RENAISSANCE AND NEOCLASSICAL THEORY AND

CRITICISM

While Renaissance and neoclassical literary theory and criticism display a

renewed interest in Greek and Latin classics, they also manifest a new con-
cern with vernacular languages and national literatures, Spanning the six-
teenth, seventeenth, and eighteenth centuries, the debate between the
ancients and the moderns began in Italy and extended throughout western
Europe, selling the framework for much of the theory and criticism of the
time-and addressing problems that are still with us today,
The defenders of the ancients directed attention to classical genres such
as tragiC drama and epic, holding them up as models for composition. At
first, the ideal was not just to imitate the genres of antiquity but to use their
languages, especially Latin. The argument for strictly adhering to classical
forms grew out of a unique synthesis of Aristotle's Poetics and Horace's ATS
Poetica. From the Poetics, Renaissance critics developed an appreciation for
isolating and distinguishing genres. which they tended to treat prescriptively
rather than descriptively. The most famous instance is the doctrine of the
"three unities" (action, place and time), which extrapolates from Aristotle's
notion of the unity of action to demand that dramas have not only one action
but also one setting and a brief span of fictional time (not exceeding one
day). Here Aristotle's original description of a body of preexisting Greek trag-
edies is turned into a set of rules for the writing of plays, This position, which
first emerged in the eommentaries on Aristotle hy the Italian Renaissance
critic Ludovko Castelvetro, found its most influential expression a century
later in the critical ~Titings of the neoclas.ical French dramati.t Pierre Cor
neille and the English poet John Dryden-both of whom in their creative
works were dedicated to their native languages and literatures and thus com-
bined modern and ancient perspectives.
Joined to the doctrine of the three unities was a special Horatian concern
with "verisimilitude." In practice, this meant depictinghistoncal realities and
facts and excluding fantastic beings and events (except those that could be
 INTRODUCTION TO THEORY AND CRITICISM I 11

explained by Christian beliefs, such as the actions of God and demons).

Gritics often pointed to significant passages in Horace that stressed the
importance of decorum and of copying the techniques and strategies of one's
accomplished literary predecessors. The general sense was that by imitating
classics, modern Renaissance and neoclassical writers were also imitating
nature. This position was strongly advocated by the Italian critic Julius Cae"
sar Scaliger and was later summed up memorably in one of the many vvitty
neoclassical couplets of Alexander Pope's Essay on Criticism. Pope notes that
the YOllthful poet Virgil scorned to represent anything except nature when
hI! set out to write his epic, the Aeneid: "But when t'examine ev'ry Part he
came, I Nature and Homer were, he found, the same." Pope concludes from
Virgil's example, "Learn hence for Ancient Rules a just Esteem; I To copy
Nature is to copy Them."
In contrast to the ancients, the moderns not only appreciated but cham-
pioned new literary forms that departed from the various classical genres.
One among many examples is Giambattista Giraldi's defense of the new
Renaissanl'e romantic epic, epitomized by Ludovico Ariosto's Orlando Furi-
050 and later by Edmund Spenser's Faerie Queene. Critics of these long
poems pointed out that they lacked unity and verisimilitude and that they
deviated markedly from the classical epic, but Giraldi praised the variety of
Mosto's poem as well as its "marvelous" incidents, claiming that it consti-
tuted a new genre not subject to classical rules. In a parallel move, Giacopo
Mazzoni supported Dante's dream allegory in the Di.ine Comedy, stressing
the importance of purely imaginary imitation. Informing both Mazzoni's
and Giraldi's arguments is a view of the poet's creative powers as unbounded.
Sit Philip Sidney captured the essence of this position, which set the stage
for Shakespeare, when he stated, "Nature never set forth the earth in so
rich tapestry as divers poets have done. neither with pleasant rivers, fruit-
ful trees, sweet smelling Howers, nor whatsoever else may make the too
much loved earth more lovely. Her world is hrazen, the poets only deliver a
golden."
With this defense of the unfettered powers of the poet also came a defense
of the use of vernacular languages in place of Latin. Critics and poets began
to believe that they could rival the great literary achievements of Greece and
Rome with their respective native languages. This trend began as early as
Dante, whose Divine Comedy was composed in Italian, but in the Renais-
sance it spread across western Europe. 'The Italian language was defended
by Giraldi and Mazzoni, the French language hy Joachim du Bellay and
Pierre de Ronsard, and the English language by Sidney and George Putten-
ham. The tum to the vernacular reHected the growing national conscious-
ness of the time and an increasing preoccupation with distinct national
literary traditions.

ROMANTIC THEORY AND CRITICISM

The Romantic movement in the arts developed in the latter half of the eigh-
teenth century, inspired in part by the American and French Revolutions,
and flourished in the early nineteenth century, spreading throughout Europe
and the New World. Although it manifests a variety of forms in specifiC social
12 I h:TRODUCnON TO THEORY AND CRITICISM

and historical contexts, the major characteristic of Romanticism is arguably

its focus on the individual. Romantic theory was significantly influem:ed by
the philosopher Immanuel Kant's attention to the ways in which subjectivity
determines our apprehension of the world. It was also influenced hy the
developing regard for individual sensibility and originality, a concern first
memorably manifested during the mid-eighteenth century in the critical
work of the poet Edward Young.
In Romantic theory and criticism, emphasis on the individual led to an
unprecedented focus on poetry as the personal expression of the poet-a de-
velopment that aimed to counter the decorum, traditionalism, and preoc-
cupation with genre characteristic of neoclassicism. Romantic poets such as
Johann \Volfgang von Goethe, VVilliam Wordsworth. and Percy Bysshe Shel-
ley all saw their art as intimately bound up with their personal impressions,
moods, feelings, and sentiments, while Romantic critics such as Schleier-
macher called for readers' sympathetic identification with the author.
In discussions of poetry, Romantics frequently drew attention to how the
imagination transforms and synthesizes discrete sense perceptions, creating
unique organic poems. Perhaps the most celebrated instance of this focus
appears in Biographia Literaria, where Samuel Taylor Coleridge claims that
the poet "diffuses a tone and spirit of unity, that blends, and (as it were)
fuses, each into each, by that synthetic and magical power, to which we have
exclusively appropriated the name of imagination." This Romantic view of
the poem as an organic form developed by the individual imagination was
contrary to the neoclassical dictatc that artists must imitate previous works
of art and foUow the rules of their genre. As e.xemplifIed by Coleridge, Eliz-
abcth Robinson Montagu, and others, it led to a renewed appreciation of the
unique creative genius of Shakespeare, whose unusual and irregular plays
were often criticized by neoclassical theorists for ignoring the unities of
action, time, and place. Later the Romantic concept of organi" form, shorn
of theorizing about the author, would inspire early-twenticth-eentury for-
malist theories of intricate poetic structure and coherence.
The Romantic fascination with the synthesizing power of the imagination
paralleled an abiding concern with the symbol, displayed most famously in
the writings of Coleridge and Ralph Waldo Emerson. For the Romantics,
the poetic symbol magically expressed universal ideas through particular con-
crete details, images, and metaphors. Unlike allegory, which they widely con-
demned as a mechanical imposition of meaning and morality onto poetry,
the poetic symbol manifesteu its meaning organically, providing acsthctic
pleasure and beauty as well as moral truth. According to Friedrich van Schil-
ler, the process of reading a poem was an experience of "play"-a serious
play that reconciled the particular and the general and brought an uplifting
sense of freedom to the reader and the poet, saving them from the alienation
and despair of the modern world. For the Romantics, poetry-through the
symbol-humanized an increasingly dehumanized world.
The genre of choice during the Romantic era was the lyric poem, which
displaced the epic poem favored by neoclassical writers (longer Romantic
poems tended to be arrangements of lyric pieces, as in Wordsworth's Pre-
lude). Of all the available genres, the lyric poem was best suited for the
expression of individual emotion. Not uncommonly, the lyric appeared as a
"fragment," a technique that further stressed the break with neoclassicism,
 INTRODCCTION TO THEORY AND CRITICISM / 13

which valued unity, wholeness, and rational design. Many lyrics aimed to
~ttain a sublimity associated 'With robust imaginative grandeur, infinity, irra-
tionality, and fear and terror. which was achieved less through sophisticated
style and rhetoric (as in the classical \\riter Longinus, the earliest theorist of
the sublime) than by the force of individual genius.
'The long struggle of the novel to be regarded as a serious literary form as
yet had little effect on theory and criticism, though this genre (especially the
GiJthic novel) thrived during the Romantic period. The classical hierarchy
of literary genres-epic followed by tragic drama and then by lyric poetry-
left little room for the humble and prosaic novel until Victorian times. And
Still today the novel cedes pride of place in literary history to epic poetry and
tragic drama, though perhaps no longer to lyric poetry.
,. A final significant trait of Romantic theory was an emphasis on historical
stages of development. The changing social, political, and economic condi-
tions around them prompted many thinkers to ponder literarY and cultural
history. ]n theory and criticism, such attention led to repeated attempts-
p}''1ean-Jacques Rousseau, G. \V. F. Hegel, Thomas Love Peacock, Ger-
maine de Stael, and others..--·to correlate specific forms of literature and the
arts to specific historical periods. Often, poetry was identified-as it had
earlier been by Giambattista Vico-with "primitive" forms of society, in
which people were purportedly less rational and more intuitive. This concern
with the dynamics of history was to have a significant impaet on the inHu-
I~tial work of Rarl Marx.

f~' MARXIS;\1

From ancient times, literature and the arts have portrayed. and criticism and
theory have discussed, differenees in people's social class and history. But
with the spread and maturation of capitalism through its various stages, eco-
nomic and other disparities have more Visibly polarized wealthy and poor
classes, city residents and ghetto dwellers, inhabitants of the first and third
worlds, whites and people of color, men and Women. Class formations, class
consciousness, and class tensions form part of the historical experience of
modernization. and theory and criticism have been grappling with these and
related issues for several centuries now.
Many of the current concepts, terms, and issues related to social class
derive from Marxist criticism, a diverse and influential sourCe for literary and
cultural theory that stems from the work of the nineteenth-century German
philosopher and economist Karl Marx. One of its grounding concepts is
Marx's theory of "modes of production!' According to Marx, human history
is' divided into seven successive historical modes of production-tribal
hordes, Neolithic kinship societies, oriental despotism, ancient slavcholding
societies, feudalism. capitalism, and communism. Class conflict within a
specific mode of production follows a basic overall pattern. The capitalist or
bourgeois mode of our time has been characterized mainly by the conflict
between the industrial working class (the proletariat, or labor) and the own-
ers and manipulators of the means of production (the bourgeoisie). Other
classes, including the unemployed and criminals (the lumpenproletariat) as
!)1iell as the dwindling aristocracy, watch this conflict from the historical side-
14 i INTRODUCTION TO THEORY Al'D CRlTIClSM

lines. Sooner or later, Marx predicted, international labor will win and the
communist mode of production will emerge triumphant, eventually leading
to a society free from rampant inequalities, el,:ploitation, and class struggle.
According to Marxist theory, the socioeconomic elements of society con-
stitute its hase (or foundation), while its cultural spheres-specifically its
politics, law, religion, philosophy, and arts-compose its superstructure. Ide-
ology consists of the ideas, beliefs, forms, and values of the ruling class that
circulate through all the cultural spheres. Members of the working class who
ascribe to bourgeois ideas and values exhibit "false consciousness," since
such values ignore the socioeconomic realities of their own working-class
lives. Hegemony designates the continuous ideological domination of all
classes by the ruling class through such nonviolent stabilizing and
consensus-building institutions as church, school, family, the media, the
mainstream arts, trade unions, business interests, and technoscientifieestab·
lishments. These institutions are what the celebrated Marxist theorist Louis
Althusser calls "Ideological State Apparatuses" (ISAs): they manage social
instability and conflict to impose and maintain begemonic order, wnrking
for the most part outside of official state power.
Culture and the arts in the Marxist view are neither innocent entertain-
ment nor independent of social forces; they playa significant role in trans-
mitting ideology and shoring up the hegemonic order. This is not to say that
artists and intellectuals are merely mouthpieces of the dominant social class,
because many explicitly protest the ruling systems and implicitly address
their contradictions and shortcomings. The ideological orientations of a lit-
erary work Can be quite complicated: a text often contains mLxed and con-
tradictory messages that reflect its broad social milieu rather than its author's
personal philosophy. From a Marxist perspective, artistic works frequently
present fugitive. alternative, and counterhegemonic images sometimes sug-
gesting liberatory possibilities and lending them a socially critical undertone.
Viewed from the vanta!\e point of stylistics (the hranch of linguistics that
analyzes literary style). the conflicts of elasses and groups in society produce
what Bakhtin famously called "heteroglossia"-that is, the complex stratifi·
cation of a language like English into different dialects, generational slangs,
professional argots, speech genres, group codes, literary genres, and class
mannerisms, lvlany novels (for example, James Joyce's Ulysses) incorporate
such social conflicts in the form of hetcroglot discoursc, a carnivalization of
different languages that revolt against official style.
With the rise of consumer and multinational capitalism, many have found
Karl Marx's concepts of the commodity, c01nffWdity fetishism, and commo-
dijl.caticm increasingly useful for undcrstanding culture and society, and thus
the terms often appear in the writin!\s of contemporary critics and theorists.
Commodities are goods or scrvices produced primarily for monetary
exchange and profit-a carpcnter may, for example, build a table to sell, not
to use. For him, or her, this commodity has exchange value, not lise value.
Labor itself has come to be bought and sold in a money economy; rather
than being applied by isolated workers to the production of goods for per-
sonal use, it is more typically used in the service of aoother to earn and then
exchan!\e money for items necessary for subsistence. The fetishism of the
commodity describes both our fascination as we stand before a glittering
array of products in a store and our forgetting the paid labor of workers that
 INTRODLCTlON TO THEORY AND CRITICISM I ]5

went into the products. This displacement of use value from the commod-
ity-its transformation into cash exchange-results in the alienation of
workers from their own labor: carpenters in the factory Care little about the
tables they assemble. Moreover, the extraction of profit by owners from their
workers' labor results in exploitation, which is a key element of all commodity
exchange. The term commodification names this whole acceleratingphenom-
enon of producing goods and services not for their use value but their
exchange value, a phenomenon that threatens to permeate every sphere of
life in our time. Marxist critics complain that commodification promotes
reification, the tendency to view people and buman relations as things or
objects with price lags. In the arts, for instance, commodification leads artists
to hawk their works anxiously to gain profits in an impersonal, competitive
market, and it has positioned critics as the hired advisers to moneyed col-
lectors. Observing this process, theorists have begun to wonder if criticism
and the arts Can any longer possess a socially critical dimension.
Indeed, contemporary Marxist critics amI cultural studies scholars (who
are indebted to Marxism) increasingly worry about the co-optation by the
market (and the media) of every form of resistance, ranging across the arts
and popular culture. If outrageous radical vanguard movements such as sur-
realism and punk can become profitable commodities, is opposition to
hegemony possihle? The agencies of commodification and hegemonic incor-
poration threaten to defuse the radical force of all subversive artistic prac-
tices, transforming them into hot news stories and merchandise destined for
the market economy. Marxist criticism and cultural studies frequently aim
their critical inquiries at this system and its dynamics.

PSYCHOANALYSIS

It is often said that Sigmund Freud discovered the unconscious, but it is

mbre accurate to say that he and other psychoanalysts mapped its spaces
and mechanisms. The findings of psychoanalysis have filtered into literary
and cultural criticism and theory, providing a battery of terms, concepts, and
problems that reach beyond those critics who describe themselves as psy-
choanalytic.
According to psychoanalysis, the human psyche consists of unconscious
and conscious spheres, with most of its contents lodged out of sight in the
unconscious and covered over by a relatively smaller and less dense con-
sciousness. The keys to the dark and inaccessible unconscious lie, psycho-
analysts say, in free association, fantasies, slips of the tongue (so-called
Freudian slips), and especially dreams, all of which reveal deeply buried.
repressed, and self-censored wishes. The techniques used to interpret such
unconscious materials, particularly dreams, have been useful to literary and
cultural critics as well as psychoanalysts, since they are all in the business
of deciphering cryptic symbolic texts.
The nightly formation of dreams, or the dream-work in Freudian termi-
nology, involves the censorship of unconscious wishes (frequently sexual)
that undergo four kinds of deliberate, positive distortion on their way to
consciousness: condensation, displacement, symbolization, and secondary
revision or elaboration. These unconscious processes explain why dreams
16 ! INTRODliCTfON TO THEORY AND eRn 1CISM

usually emerge as garhled "nonsense." The task of the psychoanalyst is, with
the help of the patient, to make sense of dream texts. Here, psychoanalysis
asserts that nonsense is meaningful and that distortion is inescapable and
creative. Both assertions are taken seriously by many critics and theorists as
they work to understand texts, especially since literary discourses are often
as seemingly nonsensical and distorted as dreams. Psychoanalytic decoding
of symbols has proved particularly illuminating to critics, notably those fol-
lowers of Carl Jung who have made inventories of archetypes-universal
symbols such as the garden and the desert, water and fire, the hero and the
monster, the river journey and the ordeal, hirth and death-that they believe
are stored in humanity's collective unconscious.
Many highly influential modem and postmodern theories of literature are
indebted to psychoanalysis and its foundational concept of the uneonscious.
Two examples of such psychopoetics-Harold Bloom's "anxiety of influence"
and French feminism's ecriture femini.ne-illustrate the richness and com-
plexity of psychoanalytic theories. According to Bloom, each major poet in
the Anglo-American tradition from the early Romantics to the late modern-
ists has suffered a devastating yet prodoctive anxiety of influence, as the
newcomer poet selects a role model both to imitate and to compete against,
wishing ultimately to emerge as a major poet who triumphs over (but tri-
umphs because of) the poetic precursor. Prior to the neoclassical and
Romantic perinds, literary influence was almost entirely beneficial (as in the
case, say, of Spenser's influence on Milton). With the rise of the subjective
lyric poem as a major genre, influence became baleful, involving the aspiring
poet's primal repression of the precursor plus a series of later psychological
defenses against this parent figure, including masochistic reversals, subli-
mations, introjections, regressions, and projections. These all entail what
Bloom calls "misprision" (mistaking, misreading, misinterpreting), the ines-
capable and necessary creative di.<tartion enacted unconscioLlsly in the new-
comer's poems in imitation of, and competitiun With, the loved but hated
precursor. Bloom's complex psychopoetics has been criticized for focusing
on competition instead of collahoration, for favoring canonical poets over
less well known poets, and for omitting nearly all writing by women, but
Bloom's critics have rarely questioned the usefulness of his theoretical
understanding of distortion or of unconscious repression, two key psycho-
analytical concepts \\1dely used in the field of theory and criticism.
The literary theory of ecriture feminine (feminine/female writing) derives
from the work of the eelebrated psychoanalyst Jacques Lacan, as creatively
revised by the French feminist Helene CixOLls. According to Lacan's chal-
lenging theory, an infant moves during its earliest psychosocial development
from an "Imaginary order"·-a mother-centered. nOllSubjugated. presym-
holic, pre-oedipal space ofhodily drives and rhythms (linked with the uncon-
SciOllS}--to a "Symbolic order" of separation between self and (m)other. of
law and patriarchal social codes, and of loss and associated desire (linked
with consciousness). Ecriture feminine is a radical, disruptive mode of "fem_
inine" writing that is opposed to patriarchal discourse with its rigid grammar.
boundaries, and categories; tapping into the Imaginary, it gives voice to the
uneomcious, the body, the nonsubjective, and polymorphous drives. Even
though such feminine writing can be produced by male as well as female
writers (for example, by Jean Genet and James Joyce), it is " psychopoetics
 INTRODUCTION TO THEORY AND CRITICISM f 17

positioned by Cixous explicitly against patriarchal values and practices.

In both the anxiety of iofluence and ecriture feminine, as in psychoanalysis
generally, Freud's theory of the "Oedipus complex" plays a key role. Accord-
ing to this theory, an infant must successfully complete various stages of
development (oral, anal, oedipal) to ensure later psychological well-being. In
the oedipal stage, the (male) child must separate from the mother and iden-
tify with the father on his way to entering the Symbolic order. The Oedipal
I;omplex is displayed by those males whose failure to negotiate tbe oedipal
stage of development leaves them deeply attached to their mothers and often
feeling rivalry with their fathers. Bloom's theory of the anxiety of influence
presents a parallel rivalry \\ith the father. And ecriture feminine is a feminist
effort to reconceive the pre-oedipal sphere as a highly positive source of
creativity and liberation, rather than simply an infantile domain of irrational
instincts that we must all abandon.
Perhaps the most famous contemporary re.ision of Freudian oedipal the-
ory appears in Gilles Deleuze and Felix Guattari's Marxist and psychoana-
lytical Anti-Oedipus, a book that criticizes many aspects of Freud's work-
notably, the bourgeois presupposition that the nuclear family is the universal
framework for all normal human development. According to Deleuze and
Guattari, Freudian theory subjugates the disruptive unconscious-with its
often antisocial desires and flows-to tbe hegemonic order of the patriarchal
family, the rule of law, and the capitalist economy. Freud's psychoanalysis,
focused as it is on the oedipal triangle, is unable to acknowledge the truly
complex nature of subjectivity, seen by Deleuze and Guattari as an open-
ended process of becoming in which multiple contradictory positions and
roles coexist and clash.

FORlvlALlSM

Formalist criticism rose to prominence in the early twentieth century, usually

defining itself in opposition to subjectivist theories of literature such as
Romanticism, which was perceived to be both solipsistic and relati.istic.
Formalist criticism is not interested in the feelings of poets, the individual
responses of readers, or representations of "reality"; instead, it attends to
artistic structure and form. The two best-known schools of formalist criticism
are Anglo-American New Criticism and Russian formalism.
As discussed above, New Critics approach literature-particularlypoetry-
as an autonomous entity. They focus on the form of the literary object, self-
consciously separating literary criticism from the study of sources, biography,
reception, social and historical contexts, politics, and other "extrinsic" mat-
ters. They advocate intrinsic analysis or "close reading" that avoids para-
phrase and thematic statements, examining instead the complex stylistic
orchestrations that compose poetry. Wbat New Critics seek in their studies
of poetic form is a set of "organic" relationships of literary elements (images,
symbols, tropes, features of genre and style, settings, and tones), whose over-
all unity often depends on ambiguity, paradox, or irony. This special state of
aesthetic suspension-reminiscent of Kant's earlier "purposiveness \\ithout
purpose" and Coleridge's "balance or reconciliation of opposite or discordant
qualities"-is for them a defining feature of poetry. It distinguishes the lit-
18 i INTRODUCTION TO THEORY AND CRITICISM

erary from the more ordinary uses of language found in journalism, everyday
speech, sdenlifie wriLing, and so on, where direct communication, not highly
"'TOught aesthetie form, is most important,
Similarly, Russian formalist critics such as Roman Jakohson and Boris
Eichenbaum distinguish between the literary and the nonliterary. They view
literature primarily as a verbal art, rather than as a reBection of reality or an
expression of emotions. Separating literary criticism from such fields as psy-
chology, sociology, and intellectual history, they focus on the distinguishing
features of literature, its "literariness." Wl1at most separates literature from
other modes of discourse is that it draws attention to its own medium, that
is, to a complex texture of formal devices and strategies that include versi-
fICation, style, and narrative structure. Whereas New Crities study the artful
convergence of elements in a literary structure, Russian formalists examine
the creative deviation of elements from the background of literary norms and
conventions.
The importance of formalism, especially the Anglo-American variety, can-
nOI he underestimated. Because it is the dominant mode of modern criticism
against which much later theory typically defines itself in whole or in part,
we will return to it later in this introduction.

READER-RESPONSE THEORY

Contemporary critical theory offers a rich panoply of types of readers-ideal

readers, superreaders, impli..d readers, virlual readers, real readers, historical
readers, resisting readers, critical readers, and more. Such terms are usually
found in reader-response theory and reception aesthetics, realms that focus
on theuries uf read..rs and meaning.
In reading a novel. one can sometimes extrapolate from it an implied
reader, a figure whom the text seems to be addressing and who occasionally
functions as a character in the work (for example, the characters to whom
Marlow tells his story in Joseph Conrad's Heart of Darkness). An implied
reader differs both from a virtual reader, to whom the text is vaguely
addressed by the author, and from a historical reader, who actually reads the
text at the lime of its publication. The hypothetical perfect decoder of the
work, who knows everything necessary to make sense uf it, is the ideal reader;
but the most original and innovative texts require a superreader. a special
ideal reader endowed not only wilh extensive linguistie and literary knowl-
edge but also with superior aesthetic sensibility. Both the critical and the
resisting reader, situated in definite historical moments and possessing
strong values and interests, fmd themselves opposing and interrogating texts
(imagine an average American today reading Hitler's Mein Kampf). Real
readers are people whose actual responses to novels, plays, poems, and other
texts have been recorded by theorists and, in some cases, analyzed for their
individual styles and for the personal psychological quirks that tbey reveal.
Theories of meaning accompany tbese accounts of various readers. Some
reader-response theories construe meaning as an entity located in the text
or in a paraphrase of the texl and thus view readers as discovering objective
lextual meanings. But other reader-response Iheories argue that insofar as
reading occurs through time and involves the continuous adjustment of per-
 INTRODUCTION TO THEORY AND CRITICISM 19

ceptions, ideas, feelings, and evaluations, the meaning of a work is the

moment-by-moment experience of it, not something separate or left over.
Meaning is therefore a process, not a product; it is an eveot, not a retro-
spective reconstruction or intellectual reformulation. This subjectivist theory
of meaning has several obvious limitations, howcver: it endorses the idea of
reading as private consumption, and it construes experience as a straightfor-
ward, unconditioned, and knowable process.
,Some reader-response theorists see meaning as a production dependent
on preexisting social codes ami protocols of interpretation. In this view, every
interpretive community--for example, psychoanalytical eritics-employs a
particular set of interpretive strategies for (re)writing (that is, producing)
texts and for constituting their properties, intentions, and meanings. Such
preestablished strategies determine the shape of meaning, which thus is nei-
ther prior to nor independent of the act of interpretation.
The New Critics approach meaning quite differently. Thcy warn against
the "heresy of paraphrase," emphasizjng that it is a mistake for a reader to
paraphrase a work's content in order to distill its propositional meaning.
Textual paraphrases usually end up being moral or utilitarian statements,
putting literature on a level and in competition with other disciplines such
as philosophy, religion, or politicS. By invoking the "affective fallacy" and
"intentional fallacy," two related and equally famous New Critical concepts,
they forbid us to locate meaning in the emotional responses of the reader or
in the intentions of the author, respectively. According to the New Critics,
the literary artifact does not need the support of such external agents if it is
well made. The sense of mean,jng becomes complex and abstract for these
formalists. On the one hand, it is a secondary, relatively unimportant feature
of literary structure; on the other, it is an aesthetic concept of organic unity
that reconciles textual incongruities in the name of irony, paradox, or ambi-
guity. New Criticism is most celebrated for telling us what meaning is not:
it is not propositional truth, nor the author's intention, nor a reader's
response.
To help clarify the concept, some theorists, such as E. D. Hirsch Jr., have
added the notion of significance. \Vhile significance changes, meaning does
nol. Here meaning is construed as a fixed, self-identical, reproducible object
derived from the author's intention. Significance, which builds on meaning,
adds the reader's personal associations, interests, values, and contexts. Over
time a text may come to have a different significance but not a different
meaning. The reader therefore operates on two levels, one subjective and
one objective, with the latter seen as higher.
Meaning is often understood as having multiple levels, with the reader
playing different roles as part of one complicated task. Consider approaches
as different as the medieval division of textual meaning into four levels (lit-
eral, allegorical, moral, mystical), which emphasizes the spiritual realm, and
Fredric Jameson's Marxist attention to three horizons of meaning (social
stratification, class struggle, mode of production), which aims to discover the
utopian elements of cultural texts. Such levels or horizons inevitahly are set
in hierarchies, a process that leads to disagreements among theorists as they
argue over which should take priority.
No eonl,.epts of meaning or notions of the reader and thc reading process
should he taken at face value hy students of theory. They should be thought
20 I INTRODUCTION TO THEORY AND CRITICISM

of as complex prohlematics perennially at issue, likely to crop up at any point

in discussions about criticism and interpretation.

STRUCTURALISM AND SEMIOTICS

Pioneering concepts and methods of structural lingUistics and anthropology

have strongly influenced how modern theory and criticism understand
cultural phenomena. Out of structuralist methodology has come the disci·
pline of semiotics or semiology, a field that studies sign systems, codes,
and conventions of all kinds, ranging from human to animal languages, the
language of fashion to the lexicon of food, the codes of diagnostic medicine
to those of written literature. By extension, literary semiotics construes its
primary ohject of analysis to be literature as a system, while social (or
cultural) semiotics explores culture as a set of interlocking systems and
su bsystems.
The model for structuralist thinking is Ferdinand de Saussure's pioneering
linguistics, which centers not on individual utterances but on the underlying
rules and conventions that enahle language to operate. Saussurean struc·
turalism analyzes the social or collective dimensions of language, focusing
on grammar rather than usage, rules rather than actual expressions, and
langue (the system of language) rather than parole (actual speech). This
linguistics is concerned with the infrastructure of language common to all
speakers at a given time (which operates on an unconscious level), and not
with surface phenomena or historical change. Thus it attends to the syn'
chronic (that which exists now) not the diachronic (that which exists and
changes over time).
[n valuing deep structure over surface phenomena, structuralism strongly
resembles Marxism and psychoanalysis, both of which examine underlying
causes and transpersonal forces of complex systems, shifting attention away
from individual human consciousness and choice. Structuralism thereby
shares in the widespread and ongoing modern antihumanism that decenters
the individual, portraying the self as a construct and a consequence of imper·
sonal systems. Individuals neither originate nor control the conventions of
their social existence, mental life. or mother tongue. Rather, they are created
by social and cultural systems, "'ithin which they are subjects. For this rea-
son, many contemporary theorists, especially structuralist, Marxist, and psy-
choanalytical critics, prefer the terms subject and subjectivity to person or
individual.
To get a sense of the kinds of projects that structuralism and semiotics
might undertake, consider the fashion system. As members of a society, peo'
pie know which items of clothing, textures, colors, and styles go Vl>ith which.
In most \Vestern societies today, sneakers don't fit witb a tuxedo, a top hat
doesn't work with jeans and a T-shirt. and a pair of red shoes, an orange
skirt, and a purple blouse simply don't go together. Few people would be
able to supply a complete written description of all the uneonscious but well-
knOV'lIl rules of dress, but such a list could be created-by structuralists and
semioticians. Similarly, sophisticated readers as well as authors possess a
considerable amount of knowledge in the form of not.quite-explicit conven-
tions and rules of reading, which structuralist poetics aims to chart. Most
 l"ITHODUCTlON TO THEORY AND CRITICISM I 21

stories can be reduced to one of a few underlying basic plots, and most
characters are variations on a few types, which structuralist narratology aims
to inventory.

POSTSTRUCTURALlSM AND DECONSTRUCTiON

In recent decades, poststructuralism has set the terms and the agenda for
many of the major developments and debates in the field of theory and crit-
icism. It has played a significant role in shaping the direction of other schools
and movements, particularly feminist criticism, postcolonial theory, cultural
studies, film studies, and queer theory. Originally a vanguard movement of
French literary intellectuals and philosophers who came into prominence
dUring the 1960s and 1970s and who all were critical of structuralism, it
quickly spread to intellectuals around the globe. By the close of the twentieth
century, poststructuralism had become the leading edge of postmodemism
and was often labeled "postmodem theory."
We have already touched on some of the main features of poststructur-
alism. They include the problematizing of linguistic referentiality, an empha·
sis on heteroglossia, the decentering of the subject, the rejection of "reason"
as universal or foundational, the criticism of humanism, and a stress on
difference.
Poststructuralist accounts of literature often stem from deconstructive
theory, especially its three interconnected concepts of textuality (or floating
signifiers), rhetoricity, and intertextuality. Because the signifier (word) is dis-
connected from the signified (concept) and the referent (thing), language
floats or slides in relation to reality, a condition made more severe with the
additional sliding introduced into language by figurative language, such as
metaphors and metonymies. Such rhetoricity (as it is called) adds layers of
substitutions and supplements (more differences) to floating signifiers. Tex-
tuality and rhetoridty are conditioned by yet a third sliding or differential
element, intertexiuality-a text's dependence on prior words, concepts, con-
notations, codes, conventions, unconscious practices, and texts. Every text
is an intertext that borrows, knowingly or not, from the immense archive of
previous culture. The rerm (intedtextuality, with the parenrheses, captures
the sense of textuality as being conditioned by this inescapable historical
intertext.
The technical term dissemination is commonly employed to name the
deconstructive concept of textual meaning; rather than being simply ambig-
uous or paradOXical, as in earlier New Criticism, meaning here is sliding,
abyssal, undecidable. The linguistic, rhetorical, and intertextual properties
of language undermine or deconstruct stable meaning. Poststructuralist the-
ories of language, whether they focus on floating signifiers, rhetoricity, inter-
textuality, dissemination, ecriture feminine, or elsewhere, typically bring
traditional mimetic, expressive, didactic, and formalist theories into crisis
but do not flatly invalidate their claims. This "undecidability," a particular
hallmark of Jacques Derrida's and Paul de Man's deconstruction, galvanizes
opponents-particularly when joined to the related poststructuralist claim
of the "death of the author," which explicitly disconnects the text from any
grounding in authorial intention or psychology.
22 / [NTROU!..GIION TO THEORY ,\NU CRITICISM

Deconstructive conceptions of reading as both misreading and misprision,

discussed earlier, do not signal an end to textual interpretation hut change
its grounds. The redoubled reading typical of much deconstructiun rests un
claims of interest and insight. not of validity or truth. A reading or interpre-
tation of a text does not prove hut persuades: it is more or less compelling,
productive, original, or useful. This pragmatic set of criteria links decon-
struction with contemporary U.S. neopragmatism, an inHuential philosophy
that insists on the contingency of all human arrangements and concepts.
Deconstruction originated in the name of a special difference (or dijfer-
ancel, stemming from hoth structural linguistics and phenomenological phi-
losophy. It denotes the structure of differences that defines both the sliding
(differential) operation of the signifier-signified complex and, more
ahstractly, the being of entities that are already differentiated and divided
because they necessarily exist in space and in time. Leftist-oriented decon-
struction extends thcse concepts of ontologieal difference and dif-
ferential meaning to include sociopolitical differences in class, gender,
sexuality, race, and ethnicity. There is perhaps no more vexed term in con-
tcmporary poststrueturalisttheory than difference.
Deconstruction is not just a school but also an analytic procedure devel-
oped by Derrida, a historian of philosophy, that has become a methodological
instrument widely used by all manner of literary and cultural theorists and
critics. "A deconstruction" involves inversion and reillscription of a traditional
philosophical opposition. First, one locates in a chosen text a significant
conceptual opposition (for example, natureleulture, purity/contamination,
animality/humanity, or male/female) at a moment of maximum instahility.
To invert the binary pair, One shows how the belate,l second term is actually
indispensable and constitutively prior to the primary term. For instance, it
is from the vantage point of culture that nature is named and defined; shn-
ilarly, the idea of purity depends on the prior possibility of contamination.
To reinserihe the terms of the opposition, one must destabilize and trans-
form-deconstruct-the usual understanding of the conecpts, especially
their temporal and hierarchical relations. Thus Derrida famously decon-
structed the speech/wTiting opposition by shOWing how wTiting precedes
speech; characteristically, he reinscribes the concept of writing (ecriture in
French) to mean any and all forms of inscription and at the same time under-
cuts the privileging of speech as face-to-face spontaneous utterance.
Certain significant strands of poststructuralism focus on desire, the body,
and subjectivity rather than on textuality, rhetoricity, and deconstruction.
Two cases mentioned earlier (in the discussion of psychoanalytic criticism)
are the theories of ecriture feminine and the anti-oedipus. [n this domain-
where psychoanalysis, gender studies, cultural studies, and poststructuralism
intersect-I he problems of subject formatioo, gender identity. and political
resistance link poststrueturalism not only with cultural studies and feminist
theory hut also V\~th postcolonial criticism, queer theory, and related move-
ments and schools. By comparison, the deconstructive strands of poststruc-
turalism concemed with the rhetoricity and undecidability of literary texts
seem narrowly focused, conservative, furmalistic, and apolitical. Posts truc-
turalism in its political form is also interested in popular culture, minority
literatures, radical politics, "deviant" suhjeetivitics, and the dynamics ofhcg-
emonic institutions. A great deal of common ground, therefore, is shared by
 INTRODUCTION TO THEORY AND CRITICISM / 23

politically oriented poststructuralism, Marxism, and postmodern social activ-

ism such as the feminist, lesbian and gay rights, and ethnic civil rights move-
ments. The commingling of approaches, disciplines, 'md movements can be
quite confusing, bnt it has produced some of the most interesting and orig-
inal criticism and theory of recent times.

FEMINISM ANI) QUEER THEORY

Feminist criticism is part of the broader feminist political movement that

seeks to rectify sexist discrimination and inequalities. While there is no single
feminist literary eriticism, there are a half dozen interrelated projects: expos-
ing masculinist stereotypes, distortions, and omissions in male-,Iominated
literature; studying female creativity, genres, styles, themes, careers, and
literary traditions; discovering and evaluating lost and ncglccted literary
works by women; developing fcminist theoretical concepts and methods;
examining thc forces that shape women's lives, literature, and criticism, rang-
ing across psychology and politics, biology and cultural history; and creating
new ideas of and roles for women, including new institutional arrangements.
Feminist theory amI criticism have brought revolutionary change to Iitcrary
and cultural studies by expanding the canon, by critiquing sexist represen-
lations and valucs, by stressing the importance of gender and sexuality, and
by proposing institutional and social reforms.
Theorists of a "feminist aesthetic" argue that women have a literature of
their own, possessing its own images, themes, characters, forms, styles, and
canons. In Elaine Showalter's pionecring account of British novelists from
the early ninctcenth century to the 1970s, for example, women writers form
a subculture sharing distinctive economic, political, and professional reali-
ties, all of which help determine specific problems amI artistic preoccupa-
tions that mark women's literature. Sandra M. Gilbert and Susan Gubar
propose that nineteenth-century women "Titers had to negotiate alienation
and psychological diseasc in order to attain literary authority, which they
aehieved by reclaiming the heritage of female creativity, remembering their
lost foremothers, and refusing the debilitating cultural roles of angel and
monster assigned to them by patriarchal society. Countering Harold Bloom's
masculinist "anxiety of influence" (explained above), Gilbert and Gubar's
"anxiety of authorship" depicts the preCllrsor poet as a sister or mother whose
example enables the creativity of the latecomer writer to develop coJlahora-
tively against the confining and sickening backdrop of forhillding male lit-
erary authority. Diseases common among women in male-dominated,
misogynistic societies include agoraphobia, anorexia, bulimia, claustropho-
bia, hysteria, and madness in general, and they recur in the images, themes,
and charaeters of women's literature.
As Judith Fetterley insists in The Resisting Reader; A Feminist AP111'oach
to Americatt Fiction (1978), women read differently than men. She examines
classic American fiction from Irving and Hawthorne to Hemingway and
Mailer and points out that this is not "universal" but masculine literature,
which forces women readers to identify against themselves. Such literature
neither expresses nor legitimates women's experiences, and in reading it
women have to think as men, identify with male viewpoints, aeeept male
24 / INTRODUCTION TO THEORY AND CRITICISM

values and interests, and tolerate sexist hostility and oppression. Under such
eonditions, women must become "resisting readers" rather than assenting
ones, using feminist critieism as one way both to challenge male domination
of the institutions of literature and to ehange society.
As concepts such as the anxiety of authorship, ecriture feminine, and the
potential of the Imaginary order suggest, psychoanalysis is fundamental to a
great deal of feminist theory and criticism. However, feminist psychoanalysis
is typically revisionist: it has had to work through and criticize the "phallo-
centric" presuppositions and prejudices of Sigmund Freud, Jacques Lacan,
and other pioneering psychoanalysts. For example, the feminine anxiety of
authorship---in its opposition to the masculine anxiety of influence-recon-
figures the "oedipal" relationship between writers as cooperdtive and
nurturing rather than competitive and rivalrous. Similarly, ecriture feminine
transforms Lacan's idea of the Imaginary, casting it not simply as an infantile
sphere of primary drives superseded on the way to the patriarchal Symbolic
order but as a liberating domain of bodily rhythms and pulsations associated
with the mother that permeates literature, especially modern experimental
poetry. Moreover, the pre-Symbolic Imaginary order, a realm of bisexual!
androgynous/polymorphous sexuality, opens the possibility of sexual libera-
tion from the suffocating confines of the "compulsory heterosexuality" that
dominates patriarchal culture.
\Vithin feminist cirdes, there are political differences and conflicts of
interest among women of color and white women, women from different
classes, women of different sexualities, women belonging to different nations
and groups, and women who are liberals, conservatives, radicals, and revo-
lutionaries. Black women bave complained that white middle-class women,
in academia as well as in the mass media, often end up speaking for feminism
or for all women, even though they tend to represent only their own interests.
Third world women, abroad and at home (Latinas, aboriginals, Asian
women), fcel similarly silenced and unrepresented in mainstream social
a~endas, which rarely consider their needs or issues. Lesbian women have
likewise organized themselves to ensure that their voices are heard. The
"politics of difference" opens onto a world of diffcrenees and multiple iden-
tities amon~ and within women themselves.
One of thc main flash points among feminist critics has been identity
politics, by which is meant a politics of difference based on some fixed or
definable identity (as a middle-class white woman, a working-class black
woman, a third world brown woman, and so on). Critics of identity politics
have several major complaints. To begin with, defining feminist identity by
giving priority to race or class or geography tends to essentialize these fea-
tures, reducing people to social indicators whose "real essence" is deter-
mined by race or class or country of origin. Moreover, an emphasis on the
multiplicity of female identities undermines the solidarity and united front
of feminists. Advocates of the politics of difference respond, in turn, that
the act of herding all women into one homogeneous category (Woman) is
a reduetive totalization and very unlikely to disturb the dominant order.
They argue that allianees and eoalitions, in strategic cooperation with other
new social movements. will best and most democratically address issues of
equality and recognition. In the spheres of theory and criticism, the politics
of difference opposes universal notions uf traditional humanism and pro-
motes two key ideas: there are many women's literatures across the
 INTHoDucnoN TO THEORY AND CRITICISM ! 25

globe, and there are many modes of resistance and of resisting reading.
An influential field that has huilt on ideas from feminist criticism, gender
studies, women's studies, and lesbian and gay studies is queer theory. It
begins by criticizing the dominant heterosexual binary, masculine/feminine,
which enthrones "the" two sexes and casts other sexualities as abnormal,
illicit, or criminal. Queer theory attacks the homophobic and patriarchal
basis of heterosexuality. It aims beyond lesbian and gay rights philosophies
to study other so-called perverse, deviant, and alternative sexualities. For
example, queer theorists investigate the historical developments of such cat-
egories as sodomite, hermaphrodite, and homosexual, as well as woman and
man, stressing the socially constructed character of sexualities. Of particular
interest are transgressive phenomena such as drag. camp. cross-dressing, and
transsexuality, all of which highlight the non biological, pcrformative aspects
of gender construction. To he "masculine" or "feminine" requires practicing
an array of rituals (which cross-dressers faithfully mimic and parody in the
production of gender identity).

POSTCOLONIAL STUDIES AND RACE AND ETHNICITY

STUDIES

Postcolonial studies is an interdisciplinary field that examines the global

impact of European colonialism, from its heginnings in the fifteenth century
up to the present, Broadly speaking, it aims to describe the mechanisms of
colonial power. to recover excluded or marginalized "subaltern" voices, and
to theorize the complexities of colonial and postcolonial identity, national
belonging, and globalization.
One major issue concerns the nature of representation. Following the
groundbreaking example of Edward Said's Orientalism, postcolonial critics
have examined the ways in which Western representations of third world
countries serve the political interests of their makers. Postcolonial critics
problematize "objective" perception, pointing out the unbalanced power rela-
,dons that typically shape the production of knowledge. They argue that the
West has constructed the third world as an "Other." Such ideological pro-
jections typically become the negative terms of binary oppositions in which
the positive terms are normative representations of the West. Further, these
damaging stereotypes circulate through anthropological, historical, and lit-
erary texts, as well as mass media such as newspapers, television, and cinema.
A related line of inquiry in postcolonial theory studies how institutions of
Western education function in the spread of imperialism. Historical docu-
ments such as Thomas Bahington Macaulay's "Minute on Indian Education"
show that education-including the study of English literature and the
English language~plays a strategic part in ruling over colonized peoples. As
it inculcates \Veslern Eurocentric values, literary education supports a kind
of "cultural colonization," creating a class of colonial subjects often burdened
by a double consciousness and by divided loyalties. It helps Western coloniz·
ers rule by consent rather than by violence. '"Ine nature of this enterprise has
led some--for example, Ngugi wa Thiong'o, Henry Owuor Anyumba, and
raban 10 Liyong in "On the Aholition of the English Department"-to call for
the dismantling of institutions of Western education in the third world.
The realization of the extent to which the cultures of colonizers and col-
26 I INTRODUCTION TO THEORY ANn CRITICISM

onized interact has prompted reflections on the hybrid nature of culture. No

culture, onc argument goes, is evcr pure. This insight is everywhere evident
in our own era of g10balizcd postindustrial capitalism: the nationalism that
undergirds notions of pure culture is daily called into question by the inter-
national flows of commodities, money, information, technology, and work-
ers. These dynamics of globalization, hybridization, and nationalism
preoccupy scholars of postcolonial studies.
Postcolonial literary criticism focuses specifically on literatures produced
by subjects in the context of colonial domination, most notably in Africa,
Asia, and the Caribbean. Building on knowledge of the institutions of\Vest-
ern education and thc hybrid nature of culture, the analysis of postcolonial
literature characteristically explorcs the complex interactions and antago-
nisms betwecn native, indigenous, "precolonial" cuhures and the imperial
cultures imposed on tbem.
The concerns of postcolonial literary studies ovcrlap with those of race
and ethnicity studics, a broad field that examines a wide array of topics
(including litcrature) related to minority ethnic groups; in Korth America
thesc would includc African, Asian, Hispanic, and Native peoples, among
others. Consider tbc case of African Americans. whose history has included
deportation, slavery, oppression, and struggle. Some scholars 'argue that the
black community in the United States has evolved a distinctive and separate
way of life, neithcr Anglo·Saxon nor African. The charactcr of African Amer-
ican arts is communal rather than indhidualistic, thcir psychology is repu-
diative rather than accommodative of racism, and their tradition is
oral-musical rather than textual: thcy possess their own values, styles, cus-
toms, themes, tecbniques, and genres. In the past, mainstream white critics
have found thc black arts to bc grotesque, humorous, entertaining, inferior.
African American artists havc responded variously: sometimes adopting
while values and forms, or rejecting them outright, ur blending thcm into a
hybrid. Literary critics engaged in race and ethnicity studies analyze the
nature and dynamics of minority literatures, usually focusing on one litera-
ture but occasionally examining as well thc context of dominant cultures
(thereby overlapping with postcolonial studies).

CULTURAL STUDIES AND NEW HISTORICISM

Theories concerned with literaturc and its interpretation almost inevitably

touch on ideas about culture. If we define culture as the aggregate of lan-
guage, knowledgc, belief, morality, law, custom, and art collectively aC'Iuired
by buman beings, then it is easy to see how the contents and forms of culture
supply the materials and procedures of Iiteraturc and criticism, As a way of
life (and spherc of struggle), culture obviously encompasscs elements not
only of elite but also of popular and mass arts and practices. Yet the contem-
porary recognition of "low·" and "middle-brow" culture is something new in
the long history of modern cultural criticism, which for several ccnturies has
focused mainly on exccptional and elite forms. In recent decades cultural
critics have started paying serious attcntion to mass, popular, ami everyday
materials, usually in tbe contcxt of their ideologies (dominant ideas and val·
ues). Those in the discipline now called cultural studies, in particular, have
begun stud}ing such discourses as television, cinema, advertising, rock
 INTRODUCTION TO THEORY AND CRITICISM I 27

music, magazines, minority literatures, and popular literature (thrillers, sci-

ence fiction, romances, westerns, Gothic fiction), characteristically focusing
on how sue h materials are produced, distrihuted, and consumed.
While researchers in cultural studies employ various methods, including
surveys, field-based studies, textual interpretations, historical background
studies, and participant observations, institutional analysis amI ideology cri-
tique have been especially important. Critics interested in present-day pop-
ular romances, for instance, havc cxamincd thc practices of institutions such
as publishing companies and bookstores in shaping and maintaining the
rules of the romance genre as well as in packaging and promoting successful
reproductions of the form. Since institutions overlap and connect with sat-
ellite institutions, an investigation into one often leads to another. In the
case of romance, one who began by scrutinizing the genre's presence in
television soap operas amI women's magazines wonld soon find links to pub-
lishers, literary agents, booksellers, television programmers, magazine edi-
tors, and authors. Because circuits of institutions play such important roles
in creating, conditioning, and commodifying cultural discourses, their anal-
ysis is central to the enterprise of cultural studies.
Ideology critique critically examines the ideas, feelings, beliefs, values, and
representations embedded in, and promoted by, the artifacts and practices
of a culture or a group. It overlaps witb institutional analysis. For instance,
in Englis], in America, Richard Ohmann describes how the institution of
Englisb studies itself disseminates not only the practical skills of analysis,
organization, and literacy hut also the values of detachment, caution, and
cooperation, all of which aid the smooth operation of contemporary capitalist
societies. Associated with the professional managerial classes, such attitudcs
and manners (kleology) are invisible yet ever present in English classrooms,
as well as in places of employment.
Some literary critics have opposed cultural studies, particularly criticizing
the twin displacements of the canon (the bodv of works traditionally accepted
as "great") by popular culture and of poetic explication by sociological anal-
yses, especially ideology critique. Because cultural studies deals with issues
of conflict, domination, class struggle, minorities, state power, and ideology,
they fault it for politicizing the discipline. Often this debate scts multicol-
turalism and analysis attentive to race, class, and gender against literary
appreciation and close reading.
Yet many literary scholars have incorporated the concerns of cultural slud-
ies into the historical analysis of literature, examining class conflicts, hege-
monic forces, and racial and gender codes in such tcxts as William
Shakespeare's plays, Charles Dickens's novels. and Walt Whitman's poetry.
Particularly important in this regard is the critical movement known as the
"New Historicism" (a term coined in thc early 1980s hy Stephen Greenblatt).
New Historicists sludy literary texts not as autonomous objects but as material
products emerging out of specific social, cultural, and political contexts. This
view of literature breaks down the traditional distinction between literary aod
nonliterary texts and forms. Typically, New Historicists demonstrate the ways
in which the power relations of a particular era shape how literature is pro-
duced, distributed, and consumed, making use of a wide range of contempo-
rary materials-everything from diaries and travel writings to legal documents
to medical and penal records. Some dismiss such historical literary investiga-
tions as watered-down, co-opted cultural analysis, not cultural studies proper.
28 i INTROnUCTlO", TO THEORY AND CmTlCISM

Cultural studies advocates argue that what counts as literature changes

from one time, place, and group to another. Before the eighteenth century
in western Europe, the word literattlre designated all books and wTiting. Only
during the neoclassical and Romantic eras did literature come to be more
narrowly defined as belles lettres. Perhaps contemporary debates over the
concept of literature may be seen as staging a return to the older definition;
in any ease, they cxplicitly contest the aesthelicizing or refining of literature
typical of the modem age.
Cultural sludies offers distinctive answers to the two key questions with
which we began-what is interpretation? what is literature? First, literature
consists of popular, mass, and minority genres as well as elite canonical
works. 11 includes a wide array of discursive materials, from writings in
standard literary genres to rap lyrics, blues poems, oral legends, diaries,
magazincs, movies, posters, romances, soap operas, and so on. \Vith a dif-
ferent population or in another time or place, literature would be differently
defined. There is one constant in this culturally relative definition: literature
is symptomatic of the state of its society. Second, interpretation employs
institutional analysis, ideology critique, and field-based research, as well as
textual explication, exegesis, aesthetic appreciation, and personal response.
For cultural studies, personhood (or subjectivity) involves three things: the
operations of our unconscious, the effects of surrounding sociohistorical
forces. and the multiple subject positions that each indhidual occupies.
This complex view of subjectivity applies to the author, not just the critic:
authorcd texts hy definition contain unconscious and socially symptomatic
materials unique to specific times, places, and pcrsons. It is thus no surprise
that cultural studies and formalist literary criticism are seen as opposed,
antagonistic critical projects-one e":pansive and wide-ranging, the other
contracted and tightly focused; one engaged with psychology, sociology, and
politics, the other wedded to aesthetics and poetics.

There are very good reasons that, as Jonathan Culler observes, contemporary
theory now frames the study of literature and culture in academic institu-
tions. Theory raises and answers questions about a broad array of funda-
mental issues, some old and some new, pertaining to reading and interpretive
strategies, literature and culture, tradition and nationalism, genre and gen-
der, meaning and paraphrase, originality and intertextuality, authorial inten-
tion and the unconscious, literary education and social hegemony, standard
language and heteroglossia, poetics and rhetoric, representation and truth,
and so on. In addition, theory opens literary and cultural studies to neigh-
boring disciplines and numerous national traditions. And it reinvigorates the
field not only by reexamining the canonical list of great works and the tool
kit of basic concepts and methods but also by recasting the received inter-
pretations of old texts and frameworks and by revealing interesting new zones
of meaning and pOSSibilities for future critical inquiry.
Theorists are fond of pointing out that everyone has a theory, aboul the
world as well as about literature and interpretation, and that theories must
be examined, debated, and tested. Plato suggested long ago that the onex-
amined life is not worth liVing, prO\iding a worthy credo for philosophers-
and for students of theory and criticism.
 --~
1·""--' • . . - . . - - - - -

rj

'j:

GORGIAS OF LEONTINI
ca. 483-376 B.C.E.

\Vith its observations on the power of' speech (logos), Gorgias's HEncomium of
Helen" develops a classical rhetoric antithetical to Platonic poetics, one that antic-
ipates JACQUES DElll\lDA's twentieth-century critique of PLATO. Where Plato com-
mends moral content, Gorgias praiscs elegant form; where Plato is didactic, Corgias
aims to persuadc througb performance; where Plato-and those who followed him,
like AUGLJSllNE;-condemns rhctorie as dangerously false, Gorgias embraces it,
Speech, Gorgias wrote in another fragment, tisurnmons wboever wishes [to com-
pete], hut crowns the one who is able." The highly wrought style for which he is
justly famous. with its frequent use of paradox. antithesis, balancing clauses, and
rhyme, has its closest modern parallel in OSC1\R WILDE's eelehrated epigram·
matic style. Like Wilde, Gorgias raises significant issues about the radical contino
gency of all truth claims, i"ues that have been central to contemporary theoretical
debates.
Gorgias came from a Greek colony in Sicily and, by all accounts, lived to be more
t~an one bundred years old. Nothing is known of his life until he came to Athens in
427 B.C.E. as pari of an embassy from his native Lconlini. There his dazzling oratorical
style, whose force is difficult to capture in translation, made him something of a
sensation; he quickly hecame one of the most inlluential of the sophists, a group of
itinerant teachers who went from city to dty earning their living by instructing others
in subtle argumentation. Although later writers would credit them with philosophical
doctrines) in particular a skepticism about the clainls of rcason tu arrive at truth, the
sophists were members of a profession aud nut a school of thought. That we today
use the term sophistry to refer to plausible but fallacious arguments reHects the inH..-
enCe of the sophists' critics.
Gorgias confined himself almost exclusively to the teaching of oratory-rhetoric-
which was the main road to success in Greek dty~states. In the i'l<feno. Plato ,",Tites
that he admired Gmgias because be did not claim to be a teacher of aretiJ, or virtue:
"in fact, he laughs at others he hears making such promises. He thinks one should
make men skillful at speaking." Only fragments of Gorgias's rhetorical works survive,
primarily in the form of commonplaces) or rhetorical exercises that were used. to
instruct others, The "Encomium of Helen" is an example of this genre, as is the longer
fragment in defense of Palamides, a minor Greek hero at Tmy. Gorgias concludes
his defense of Helen, HI wished to write this speech for Helen's encomium and my
amusement," suggesting that like the other fragments of his speeches that sur<1ve, it
was an epideictic composition-a display piece intended to demonstrate the princi-
ples of rhetoric to his pupils, presumably accompanied by a verbal commentary that
has not survived,

29
30 GORG1AS OF LEON'l'lNI

The extant "Encomium of Helen" illustrates Gorgias's flamboyant style, which

Plato later parodied in Agathon's speech in the S}....posium. The defense of Helen
of Troy, a character long vilified by poels, proves a fitting challenge for the even
most accomplished rhetorician. But it also serves as a pretext for a discussion of
the power of speech, which Gnrgias equates with the force of compulsion, an
argument developed in modern times by many critics, most notably FRJ~lJIUCH
NIE1ZSCHE and PAUL DE MAN. Gorgias likens the power of speech tu persuade to
the power of magical charms or drugs to alLer the mind or body. He has none of
Plato's firm belief that right reasoning will ultimately lead to truth. Speech is as
likely to lead to "evil persuasion" as to correct action. The elaborate antitheses and
paradoxes of Gorgias's style may express the belief that since truth exists but is
contingent, a clear e>.pression of contrasts and alternatives is needed if one is to sift
through the competing claims of persuasive speech. In the history of theory and
criticism, rhetoric continually raises such problems as the truth status of language,
the power and pleasure of persuasive discourse, and the reliability of figures and
tropes.

BlBLiOGHAPHY

D M. MacDowell has published the Greek text of the Encomium on Helen with a
parallel English translation (1989). Michael Gagarin and Paul Woodruff include all
the extant fragments attrihuted to Gorgias in Early Greek Political Thought from
Homer to the Sophists (1995). Their translations are hased on the Greek text estab-
Iished by Thomas Buehheim in his edition with German translation, Reden, Frag-
mente, und Testimonien (1989). The standard account of the sophists is The Sophists
by W. K. C. Guthrie; the volume, published separately in 1971, waM originally part of
volume 3 of his [listory oiGreek Phi!o"Jphy (6 vols., 1962-81). George Kerfcr<! offers
a comprehensive interpretation of the whole movement in The Sophistic t\·1ovement
(1981). Susan C. Jarratt's Reroaaing tIle S'>phists; Classical Rhetoric Refigured (1991)
reads the sophists with and against contemporary literary theories, including femi-
nism and deconstruction. C.]. Classen's Sophistik (J 976) includes a thorough and
useful bibliography.

From Encomium of Helen l

[I] For a city the finest adornment (kosmos) is a good citizenry, for a body
beauty, for a soul wisdom, for an action arelii,2 and for a speech truth; and
the opposites of these are indecorous. A man, woman, speech, deed, city or
action that is worthy of praise should be honored with acclaim, but the
unworthy should be branded with blame. For it is equally error and ignorance
to blame the praiseworthy and praise the blameworthy. [2] The man who
speaks correctly what ought to be said has a duty to refute those who find
fault with Helen. Among those who listen to the poets a single-voiced, single-
minded conviction has arisen about this woman, the notoriety of whose name
is now a reminder of disasters. My only wish is to bring reason to the debate,
eliminate the eause of her bad reputation, demonstrate that her detractors
are lying, reveal the truth, and put an end to ignorance.

), Translated by Michael Gagarin and Paul \Vood~ theses,

ruff, who occasionally include the Greek in p"ren- 2 Excellence or virtue (Greek).
 ENCOMfU:.l OF H~LEN I 31

[3) That the woman I speak of is by nature and birth the foremost of the
foremost, men or women, is well known by all.' Clearly her mother was Leda
and her father in fact a god, but in story a mortal: Zeus and Tyndarcus. One
was thought to be her father because he was, the other was reported to be
because he said he was; one was mightiest of men, the other tyrant of all.
[4] Born from such as these, she equaled the gods in beauty, not concealed
but revealed. Nlany were the erotic passions she aroused in many men, and
her one body brought many bodies full of great ambition for great deeds;
some had ahundant wealth, some the glory of an old noble lineage, some the
vigor of personal valor, and some the power of acquired wisdom. All came
for love that desires to conquer and from unconquerable desire for honor.
[5] Who it was or why or how he took Helen and fulfilled his love, I shall
not say. For to tell those who know something they know carries conviction,
but does not bring pleasure. Now that my speech has passed over the past,
it is to the beginning of my future speech that I proceed and propose the
likely reasons for Helen's journey to Troy.
[6] Either she did what she did hecause of the will of fortune and the
plan of the gods and the decree of necessity. or she was seized hy force, or
persuaded by words, (or captured by love). If she left for the first reason,
then any who blame her deserve blame themselves, for a human's antici-
pation cannot restrain a god's inclination. For by nature the stronger is not
restrained hy the weaker but the weaker is ruled and led by the stronger:
the stronger leads, the weaker follows. Now, a god is stronl!,er than a human
in strength, in wisdom. and in other respects; and so if blame must be
attaehed to fortune and god, then Helen must be detached from her ill
repute.
[7] If she was forcibly abducted and unlawfully violated and unjustly
assaulted, it is clear that her abductor, her assaulter, engaged in crime; but
she who was abducted and assaulted encountered misfortune. Thus, the
undertakinl!, undertaken by the barbarian was barbarous in word and law
and deed and deserves blame in word, loss of rights in law, and punishment
ill deed. But she who was violated, from her country separated, from her
friends isolated. surely (ellwtiJs) deserves compassion rather than slander.
For he did and she suffered terrible things. It is right to pity her but hate
him.
[8] If speech (lORDS) persuaded and deluded her mind, even against this it
is not hard to defend her or free her from blame, as follows: speech is a
powerful master and achieves the most divine feats with the smallest and
lea~t evident body.' It can stop fear, relieve pain, create joy, and increase
pity. How this is so, I shall show; 19] and I must demonstrate this to my
audience to change their opinion.
Poetry (polesis) as a whole I deem amI name "speech (logos) with meter."

3, According to the: Greek myth, Helen was the .\1cnclaus, precipitated the Trojl:;ln \Var. Paris had
daughter of ZelJ-", who took the form of tl swan been asked to judge the heauty of three grnlrlesses:
~fore raping her mother, Leda. Before he would he declared rhe fairest to be Aphrodite, ~oddess of
give her in marriagt', Helen's human father, Tjn~ lo..e, who had promised him tbe love of the world's
dareus, made aU the Greek princes swear an oafh must Leautiful woman (j,e., Hden}.if he' chost: her,
that if any wrong were done to her husbnml they 4, Gorgiu:i ~eems to he des('ribing spl.'cl:h as if it
WQuld come to his aid. Thus the 1roj80 prince were 2. physical bUlJy, so small it cannot hI;;' sel:n~
Paris's abduction of Helen from her husband. mnving from person to person.
32 / GORGIAS OF LEONTINI

To its listeners poetry brings a fearful shuddering, a tearful pity, and a griev-
ing desire, while through its words the soul reels its own feelings for good
and bad fortune in the affairs and lives of others. Now, let me move from
one argument to another. [10] Saered incantations with words inject plea-
sure and reject pain, for in associating with the opinion of the mind, the
power of an incantation enchants, persuades, and alters it through bewitch-
ment. The twin arts of witchcraft and magic have been discovered, and these
are illusions of mind and delusions of judgment. [I I] How many men on
how many subjects have persuaded and do persuade how many others by
shaping a false speech! For if all men on all subjects had memory of the past,
(understanding) of the present, and foresight into the future, speech would
not be the Same in the same way;' but as it is, to remember the past, to
examine the present, or to prophesy the future is not easy; and so most men
on most subjects make opinion an adviser to their minds. But opinion is
perilous and uncertain, and brings those who use it to perilous and uncertain
good fortune. [12] Wnat reason is there, then, wby Helen did not go just as
unwillingly under the influence of speech as if she were seized by the vio-
lence of violators? For persuasion expelled her thought-persuasion, which
has the same power, but not the same form as compulsion (ananke). A
speech persuaded a soul that WaS persuaded, and forced it to be persuaded
by what was said and to consent to what was done. The persuader, then, is
the wrongdoer, because he compelled her, while she who was persuaded is
wrongly blamed, because she was compelled by the speech. [13] To see that
persuasion, when added to speech, indeed molds the mind as it wishes, one
must first study the arguments of astronomers, who replace opinion with
opinion: displacing one but implanting another, they make incredible, invis-
ible matters apparent to the eyes of opinion. Second, compulsory debates
with words,6 where a single speech to a large crowd pleases and persuades
because written with skill (techne), not spoken with truth. Third, contests of
philosophical arguments, where it is shown that speed of thought also makes
it easy to change a conviction based on opinion. [14] The power of speech
has the same effect on the disposition of the soul as the disposition of drugs
on the nature of bodies. Just as different drugs draw forth different humors
from the body-some putting a stop to disease, others to life-so too with
words: some cause pain, others joy, some strike fear, some stir the audience
to boldness, some benumb and bevdtch the soul with evil persuasion.
[15] The case has been made: if she was persuaded by speech, her fortune
was evil, not her action. The fourth reason, I discuss in my fourth argument.
If it was love that did all these things, she will easily escape blame for the
error that is said to have occurred.

[19] So if Helen's eye, pleased by Alexander's' body, transmitted to her soul

an eagerness and striving for love, why is that surprising? If love is a god,
with the divine power of gods, how could a weaker person refuse and reject
him? But if love is a human sickness and a mental weakness, it must not be
blamed as mistake, but claimed as misfortune. For it came, as it came, snared

5. Text uncertain, but the sense clearly Is "the in law courts. [translator);' note],
same as it is now" [translators' note-]' 7. Paris
6. TI\is ~pre ..sion prob<lbly designnles spet'chf's
 PLATO / 33

by the mind, not prepared by thought, under the compulsion of love, not the
provision of art (techne).
[20J How then can the blame of Helen be considered just? \\'bether she
did what she did, invaded by love, persuaded by speech, impelled by force
or compelled by divine necessity, she escapes all blame entirely.
[21] With my speech I have removed this woman's iII repute; I have abided
by the rule laid down at the beginning of my speech: I have tried to dispel
the injustice of blame and the ignorance of opinion; I vdshed to write this
speech for Helen's encomium and my amusement.
ca. 400 B.C.E.

PLATO
ca. 427-ca. 347 ILC,E,

A monumental figure in the history of Western philosophy, Plato looms nearly as

large in the history of European literary theory, Indeed, for many literary scholars he
marks the beginning of the tradition of literary theory, although his choice of the
dialogue format, in which historical personages convey particular arguments, sUAAests
that the issuc he raises had already been dehat"d hefore he took them up-as do the
extant fragments of the writings of the pre-Socratic philosophers. The several dozen
dialogues attrihuted to Plato engage almost every issue that interests philosophers:
tbe nature of being: the question of how we come to know things; the proper ordering
of human society; and the nature of justice, truth, the good, beauty, and love.
Although Plato did not set out to wTite systematic literary theory-unlike his student
i\RISTOTLE, who prnduced a treatise on poetics-his consideration of philosophical
issues in several of tbe dialogues leads him to reflect on poetry, and those rellections
bave often set the terms of literary dehate in the West.
What binds together Plato's various discussions of poetry is a distrust of mimesis
(representation or imitation). According to Plato, all art-including poetry-is a
mimesis of naturc, a copy of objects in the physical world. But those ohjects in the
material \\'Urld, accordioll to the idealist philosophy that Plato propounds, are them-
selves only mutahle copies of timeless universals, called Forms or Ideas. Poetry is
merely a copy of a copy, leading away from the truth rather than toward it. Philoso·
phers and literary critics ever since, from PLOTl2'US in the third century C.E. to
lACQL.:ES DERRWAin the late twentieth century, have wrestled with the terms of Plato's
critique of poetry, revising it or attempting to point out inconsistencies in his argu·
ment.
Plato was hom about four years after the beginning of the twenty-five-year-long
Peloponnesian War between Athens and Sparta and just after the death of the great
A1henian statesman Pericles, who had overseen the city'. artistic golden aile. His
parents both came from distinguished Athenian families, and his stepfather, an asso-
ciate of Pericles, was an active participant in the political and cultural life of nfth-
century Athens. Plato had two older brothers, Glaueon and Adeimantus, who appear
as characters in his longest dialogue, Republic (ca. 375 R.LE.). As a young man,
growing up in a city at war and in constant political turmoH, he seems to have been
destined for a political career. But after the Peloponnesian War ended in 405, with
the defeat and humiliation of Athens, the excesses of Athenian political life under
34 PLATO

the oligarchical rule (404-403) of the so-ealled Thirty Tyrants and under the reslored
democracy lefl PlaLo disillusioned \\ith political life_ The execution in 399 of Socrates,
on charges of impiety and corrupting the young, was a turning pnint in his life. The
older philnsopher was a close friend of Plato's family, and Plato's writings attest to
Sorrate' great influencc on him. Indeed, the posilion of Socrates in European phi-
losophy is unique. Though he apparently nCVer wrote a word, his influence on suh-
sequent thought through his followers, Plato in parLieular, is incaleulahle.
After Socrates' death Plato retired from Athenian political life and travcled for a
number of years. In 3BB he journeyed to Italy and Sicily, whcre he heeame the friend
of Dionysius I, the ruler of Syracuse, and his brother-in-law Dion. The follo\\ingyear
he returned to Athens. \\here he founded the Acadcmv. an institution devoted to
research and instruction in philosophy and the seiences; he taught there for the rest
of his lifc. Plato envisioned the Academy as a school for statesmen where he could
Lrain a ne\\ kind of philosopher-ruler (or "guardian") according to thc priociples set
forLh in his Republic. l:nlike the older sophist GORGIAS or Plato's contemporary rival
Isocrates, who boLh Laught the arts of rhetoric and persuasion, Plato focused primarily
in the Academy on mathematics, logic, and philosophy. However, when Dionysius
died in 367, Dion invitcd Plato to reLurn to Syracuse to undertake the philosophical
education of the new ruler, DiOllysius II. Platn went, perhaps with the hope of puLLing
Lhe theory of Republic into practice; but philosophy provcd nn match for local pOliLics
and Dionysius;s suspicions. lndced. a return visit resulted in Plato's brief imprison-
ment; by 360 he was back at the Academy for good.
Plato is recognized as a masLer of the dialogue form and as one of the greaL prose
stylists of the Greek language. His published wTitings, apparenrly all of which are
preserved, consist of some LwenLy-six dramatic dialogues on philosophical and related
Lhemes. The central problematic posed by this form is that it becomes virLually impos-
sible to attributc any statement directly to Plato: he never speaks in his own person.
The only exceptions are a series of thirteen letters (whose authenLicity is still a maLter
of scholarly dehate) written in the last decades of PlaLo's life, most addressing the
political situation in Syracusc, Only the seventh-and 10ngesL-Iettcr takes up phil-
osophical issues. For the most part, Plato placcs his arguments in the mouths of
characters who mayor may not he based on historical persons, The speakers can
never be assumed to be voicing: Plato's own vlC\'H Or the views of those whose names
they bear. In almost all the dialogues, Socrates is the focal character and Plato's
mouLhpiece, but Plato's SocraLes is not the historical Sncrates. These complications,
which thwart efforts to fix PlaLn's thought within a series of propositional statements,
have atLracted much attention, especially from late-twentieth-century poststructur-
alist philosophcrs like Derrida.
The chronology of Plato's dialogues is highly controversial, but most scholars
divide the works roughly inLo three periods. Thc carliest works, begun after 399,
include the Apology of Socrales and Cn!o, in which Plato defends SocraLes against
the charges that led to his death; Corgias, in which Socrates' opponenL is the sophist
Gorgias; and Ion (one of our selections), which examines poetry as a kind of divine
madness. Characteristic of these early Platonic dialngues is Socrates' disarming
claim of ignorance and a formal technique of cross-examination called elenchus. a
mCLhod nf questioning designed to lead a learner through stages of reasoning and
to expose the contradictions in an opponent's original statement. This method of
"empt)~ng out" the question by SocraLes Ln reveal his opponents' ignorance is espe-
cially evidenL in his discussion of poetry \\1th lon, a rhapsode (professional reciter
of epic poetry). The middle period. from 380 to 367, includes the Symposium, Cra-
Iylus, and Republic, all begun after the founding of the Academy; they develop the
theory of Forms or Ideas anLicipated in the early dialogues. The Forms constitute a
realm of unchanging being to which the 'World of individual mlllable objects is sub-
ordinate. Because the Forms are immutable, thev are more real-anti more true-
than the changeable material w"rld. The Form of the Good enjoys a unique status,
 PL,<ro 35

for it is responsible for the bcing and intelligibility of the world as a whole. Pluto's
famous "Allegory of the Cave" in book 7 of Republic (one of our selections), a
passage that has generated much interest among poststructuralist theorists, provides
a memorable introduction to the Plutonic theory of Porms, which is reiterated in
book ]O's equally well known critique of artistic imitation. C,atyh., is of interest to
theorists of language because the dispute in this dialogue concerns the"correctness"
of names: do they point unproblematically to the "nature of things"-that is, to the
Form.'i-as Hermogcncs contends, or are they merely a matter of convention~ as
Cratylus argues" Socrates concludes that the matter is lInresolvable, but that "no
one ",1th any understanding will commit himself or the education of his soul to
names, Ot trust them or their givers to the point of firmly stating that he knows
something," To the late period (366-360) belong Timaeus, which thtoughout the
Middle Ages was Plato's most widely known work; Critias; Sophist; and Phaedrns,
the latter closing ","th a .notorious attack on writing,
In lon, our opening seleetion, Plato's Socrates engages Ion in a debate about the
nature of the rhapsode's knowledge of poetry, abollt the nature of poetry. and ahout
th~ status of knowledge itself. Poetry, Socrates maintains, is not an art; it is a form
of di,1ne madness: "the poet is an airy thing, winged and holy, and he is not able to
make poetry until he hecomes inspited and goes out of his mind," This debate between
the claims of inspiration and those of art would subsequently have a long history in
European literary criticism, Is poetry primarily a crafl with a set of rules that can be
taught and learned, as HORACE, GEOFFREY OF v1NSAL:F, and ALEXANDER POPE argue,
or is it primarily the result of inspirati,m or genius, as LONGINUS, PLOTINUS, FRIED-
RICH VON SCHILLER, WILLIAM WORUSWORTH, RALPH WALDO EMERSON, and others,
follOWing Plato, have maintained?
Plato's Socrates goes a stcp further, Not only is poetry a form of dhinely inspired
madness, but so is criticism, "You are powerless to speak of Homer," he tells Ion, "on
the basis nfknnwledge or mastery." SocraLes uses the image of a magnet as a nletaphor
for di'ine inspiration: as a magnet attracts iron and passes that attraction along, so
the gods inspire the artist. who lnsplres the interpreter, \\'ho, in turn, inspires the
audience. For Plato's Socrates, the work of poet and critic is not di\1ded between
inspiration and rational analysis, as it is for most modern eTHics (see, for instance,
MA:ITHEW ARNOLD and the New Critic CU'i\N'IH BROOKS); rather, it lies on a contin-
uum, and thc work of the critic is no more rational than that of the poet, the critic's
knowledge no more truthful.
However, it is helpful when reading Plato to rememher that his dialogues don't
always present a straightforward argument or arrive at a single unambiguous conclu-
sion. The process of elenchus und Socrates' persistent irony often make it difficult to
pin him down to anyonE posilion. In lon, is Soerates making fun of the pomposity
of the rhapsode, or does he seriously believe that whatever truth emerges from poetry
and the interpretation of poetry results only from divine madness?
On the surface, it might seem that 1011 treats poetry very differently than does the
later Republic, our second selection, where Plato's Socmtes argues that far from being
divinely inspired, poets lie and ought to be banished from the ideal republic-or, at
the very least, hea,ily censored and kept in check. But Ion pteseots a view of knowl-
edge that is consistent with the weightier arguments in Republic, However dhincly
inspired, Socrates argues, poets' and critics' knowledge is of a different order than,
and one decidedly inferior lO, the knowledge of charioteers, fishermen, or philoso-
phers. To the modern student of literature, this denigration of the poet's learning
appears downright odd, Surely the standards hy which the knowledge of a charioteer
or'a fisherman or a mathematician would be judged are irrelevant in judging the value
of poetry, Why demand that the poet "know" about horses in the same way that a
horseman ;'knows'l about horses?
To understand Socrates' remarks about knowledge, the modern reader needs to
Wlderstand the centrality of poetrY to Greek education, In a culture in which literacy
36 PLATO

was a relatively new and suspect technology, knowledgc was frequently encoded and
passed on through the mnemonic dcvices of music and poetry. Thc instruction pro-
vided by the sophists and by Plato's main rival. Isocrates, was almost exclusively rhe·
torical and literary. Even in Republic. a book concerned with the ideal education of
the guardians and dtizens, Socrates divides schooling into physical training for the
hody and music and poetry for the soul. Socrates' criticism of poetry and its repre-
sentations appears to be directed against a culture that believed literally "that poets
know all crafts, all human affairs." In such a culture, Socrates' insistence makes more
sensc; a p,,,,t needs to know a horsc the way a horseman Imows a horse. In his
Academy, however, Plato promoted a learning whosc foundation WaS dialectics, dia-
logue, and philosophical reasoning,
Both the Allegory of the Cave and Republic 10's infamous critique of mimesis
cxplore the nature of knowledge and its proper objects. The world we perceive through
the senses, Socrates argues, is illusory and dcceptive. It depends on a prior realm of
separately existing Forms, organized beneath the Form of Good. The realm of Forms
is accessible not through the senses, as is the world of appearances, but only through
rigorous philosophic discussion and thought, based on mathematical reasoning. For
Plato's Socrates, measuring, counting, and weighing all bring us closer to the realm
of Forms than do poctry's pale representations of nature. All art and poetry. becausc
they represent what is already an inferior representation of the true original (the
Forms), can only lead further away from the truth, and further into a world of illusion
and deception. Virtually every subsequent defense of poetry (memorahle e><amples
include those bv Aristotle, SIR PHILIP SlIJNEY, 1\PHRA REHN, and PERCY BYSSHE SHEL-
LEY) has had ~ come to terms with Plato's devastating attack on poetry as inferior
and deceptive mimesis.
Plato's Phaedrus (from whith our final selection ha.s been taken) has been of inter-
est to contemporary literary theory for its discussion of the evils of writing. There
Plato has Socrates relate the story of the invention of writing by the Egyptian god
Theuth (Thoth), who offers it to King Thamus. Thamus declines the offer, de.ciding
that humans arc better off without writing because it substitutes an alien inscrip-
tion-lifeless signs-...-for the authentic living presence of spoken language. Far from
aiding memory, writing will cause it to atrophy. For Plato, the only good memory is
anamnesis, the recollection of spiritual truths through genuinc, living wisdom: that
is, through philosophy. Plato reiterates this point in his Seventh Letter, wbere he
says: ;'anyone who is seriously study'ing high malters will bc the last to write about
them and tbus expose his thought to the cnvy and criticism of men ... [Wlbenever
we see a book, whether the laws of a legislator or a composition on any other subject,
we can be sure that if the author is really serious, the book does not contain his best
thoughts; they arc stored away with the fairest of his possessions. And if he has
committed these serious thoughts to writing, it is because men, not the gods, 'have
taken his wits away.' " Yet Plato's use of a myth in Phaedrus to frame his philosophical
ohjections to writing raises questions of its own, since presumably myths suffer from
the same defects as the texts of the sophists, rhetoricians, poets, and other purveyors
of false wisdom whom Plato criticizes elsewhere. Derrida offers a celebrated u nrav'
eling of the lugic of Plato's argument against writing in his Dissemination (sec below),
which may be the most significant encounter between a twentieth-century philoso-
pher and Plato.
Plato is the progcnitor of \Vestern didactic criticism and theory: the idea that lit-
erature should serve moral and social functions. Republic, whcrc he describes an
ideal well-regulated community in which the educational curriculum promotes
respect for law, reason, authority, self-discipline, and piety, has been especiallyinflu-
ential. Although Plato's Socrates loves and regularly cites Homer's Iliad and Odyssey,
he calls for the censorship of many passages in these works that represent saeri·
legious, sentimental, unlawful. and irrational hehavior. Above all else, he re'luires
that literature teach goodness and grace. Plato's relentless application of this standard
 ION I 37

to all literature marks one of the most noteworthy bel<innings of the ancient quarrel
between philosophy and poctry.

BIBLIOGRAPHY

The standard Greek edition of the entirc works of Plato, including those nf dubious
authorsbip, is Platonis Opera. edited by John Burnet (5 vols., 1900-1907). This edi-
tion is being updated by a tcam of scholars led by E. A. Duke (2 vnls. to date, 1995-).
For a handy one-volume Enl<lish translation of selected dialogues by various trans-
lators, see TIle Collected Dialogues ofPluto, edited by Edith Hamilton and Huntington
Cairns (1961). Plato: Complete Works. edited by John ~1. Cooper (I 997), is the most
~9mplctc one-volume collection, with the hest translations available (done by various
hands). The best translation of Republic is Robin Wakefield's (1993),
. A. E. Taylor's Pluto, tl", }Han and His Work (1926; 7th ed., 1969) contains a com-
plete translation of Dioge"es Laertiu's third-century C.L life of Plato, which has
served as the basis for modern reconstructions of the philosopher's life. Several books
provide good introductions to Plato's aesthetic theory. including \Vhitney J, Oates,
Plato's View of Art (1972); Iris :V1urdoch, I1w Fire and the SU1I: \11t)' Plato Bartished
the Artists (1977), which attcmpts to defend Plato's view of the arts; and Morriss
Henry Partee, Plato's Poetics: TIte Authority of Beauty (19!l1). Gerald F, Else, Plato
mid Aristotle all Poetry (1986), is a comparative study of the aesthetic theory of
Greece's two l<reatest philosophers, In Postmodem Plaws (1985), Catherine H. Zuck-
ert examincs the centrality of Platonic thought to theorists from Friedrich Nietzsche
t.o Jacques Derrida, Other books dealing with Plato's importance to poststructuralist
criticism include Jasper Neel, Plato, Den'idu, and Writing (1988), and Plato andPost-
modernism, edited by Steven Shankman (1994). The CamlJridge Comtumion to Plato,
edited by Richard Kraut (1992). contains essays on several aspects of Plato's thought,
including aesthetics. Andrca Wilson Nightingale's Genres in Dialogue: Plato and the
Construct ofPhilosl>pl,y (1996) examines Plato's integration of Greek poetry and rheL-
oric into his dialogues. Fur an introduction to Republic, see Julla Annas, An /mro-
duction to Pluto's "!lL'P"blk" (1981). On Pl",edrus and Plato's discussions of rheLoric
and writing, see Ronna Burger, Plato's "Phaedrus": A Defense of a Philosophic Art of
Writing (1980); Charles Griswold Jr., Self-K1IQU'ledge in Pluw's "Phuedrus" (1986);
and David A. White, Rhetoric and Reality itt Plato's "Phaed",,s" (1993). For an
advanced, close reading of this dialogue, sce Seth Benardete's Rhe/oric of IHorallty
tmd Philosophy, Plato's "Gargias" and "Ph.aedrus" (I 994), For feminist readings of
Plato, see Feminist Interpretations oj Plato, edited by Nancy Tuala (1994), Two books
that analyze the Platonic dialogue as a literary form are Platonic Writings, Platonic
Readings, edited by Charles Griswold Jr. (1988), and Charles H. Kahn, Plato and tl'e
Socratic Dialogue (1996), The most complete and up-to-date bibliography can be
found in 11w Cambridge Companion w Plato (elted above).

Ion'
[530] SOCRATES:' Ion! Hello. Where have you come from to visit us this
time? From your home in Ephesus?
ION: No, no, Socrates. From EpjJaums, from the festival of Asclepius. 3

L -Translated hy Paul \\'oodruff. who .~ometimes 2, Greek phiiosupher(469-399B,C.F.}and Plato's.

adds clarifying words or phmses in square brack- spol'ik'spersun,
ets; also ill square brackets in the text Hrc lht." Ste- 3, Crccu··Roman hero and god Qfheahng. Epidau·
pha-nus numbo!rs u;ied <llmo,l universally in citing rus: small Greek state on a peninsula of the
Platd-s works: they refer to the pages. of a 1578 Saronk Gulf, famed for its 4th-centurv H.CE. tem-
edition published by Henri Estienne. ple of Asdt"piu~. r
38 I PlATO

SOCII;\TES: Don't tell me the Epidaurians hold a contest for rhapsodes4 in

honor of the god?
ION: They certainly do! They do it for every sort of poetry and music,
SOCRATES: Really! Did you enler the contest? And how did it go for you?
ION: First prize, Socrates! We carried it off,
SOCIHI'lc.S: That's good to hear, \Vell, let's see that we win the games at
Athens, next.
ION: We'lI do it, Socrates, god willing.
SOCRATES: You know, Ion, many times I've envied you rhapsodes your
profession. Physically, it is always fitting for you in your profession to be
dressed up to look as beautiful as you can; and at the same time it is necessary
for you to be at work with poets-many fine ones, and with Homer' above
all, who's the best poet and the most divine-and you have to learn his
thought, not just his verses! Now that is something to envyl I mean, no one
would ever get to be a good rhapsode if he didn't understand what is meant
by the poet. A rhapsode must come to present the poet's thought to his
audience; and he can't do thai beautifully unless he knows what the poet
means. So this all deserves to be envied.
ION: That's true, Socrates. And that's the part of my profession Ihat took
the most work. I think I speak more beautifully than anyone else about
Homer: neither Metrodorus of Lampsacus nor Stesimhrntus of Thasos nor
Glaueon" nor anyone else past or present could offer as many beautiful
thoughts about Homer as r can.
SOCRATES; That's good to hear, Ion. Surely you won't hegrudge me a dem-
onstration?
ION: Really, Socrates, its worth hearing how well I've got Homer dressed
up. I think I'm worthy to he crowned by the Sons of Homer' with a golden
crown.
SOCRATES; Really, I shall make time to hear that later, I] Now rdjust
like an answer to this: Are yOll so wonderfully clever about Homer alone-
or also about Hesiod and Archiloehus?"
ION: No, no. Only ahout Homer. That's good enough, I think.
SOCRATES; Is there any subject on which Homer and Hesiod both say the
same things?
ION: Yes, I think so. A good many.
SOCIt-\TES: Then, on those subjects, would you ell.]>lain Homer's verse bet-
ter and more beautifully tban Hcsiod's?
ION: Just the same Socrates, on those subjects, anyway, where they say
the same things.
SOCIVHES: And how about the subjects on which they do not say the same
things? Divination. for example, Homer says something about it and so does
Hesiod.
ION: Certainly.

4. Professional umtors who reciteu poetry, espc" rcanism. Stesimbrotus (active late 5th c. a.CL)
ciaHy that of Homer and the other epic poets, hiographer of Homer,
5. Greek epk poet (ca. 8th c. I:LL.E.) , to ""hom the 7. The rrometidae, H guilll of rhapsodes devoted
mad and the Odvssey aTe attributed. to reciting Homer's poetry who Qrig.inall)' daimt:tl
6. Plato had m~ eider brother with lhis nume, to be hi.s ul;:sccnutlots.
Metrouurus (;..:a. 330"'(;M, 277 D,c.r:.), a follower 8. Earliest Greek lyric poet 650.e.c.i::,).
and friend of the Athenian philosopher Epkurus Hesiod <active ca. 700 epic didaetfc
and one of the most important teachers of Epicu- poet,
 ION i 39

SOCRATES' \Vell. Take all the places where those two poets speak of div-
ination, both where they agree and where they don't: who would explain
those better and more beautifully, you, or one of the diviners if he's good?
ION: One of the diviners.
SOCRATES: Suppose you were a diviner: if you were really able to explain
the places where the two poets agree, wouldn't you also know how to explain
the places where they disagree?
ION: That's clear,
SocRAn:s: Then what in the world is it that you're clever about in Homer
but not in Hesiod and the other poets? Does Horner speak of any subjects
that differ from those of all the other poets? Doesn't he mainly go through
tales of war, and of how people deal with each other in society-good pcople
and bad, ordinary folks and craftsmen? And of the gods, how they deal with
each other and with men? And doesn't he recount what happens in heaven
and in hell, and tell of the births of gods and heroes~ Those are the subjects
of Homer's poetry-making, aren't they?
ION: That's true, Socrates,
SOCRATES: And how about the other poets? Did they "'Tite on the same
subjects?
101\: Yes, but Socrates, they didn't do it the way Homer did.
SOCRATES: How, then? \Vorse?
ION: Much worse.
SOCRATES: And Homer does it better?
ION' Really better.
SOCRATES: \Vell now, lon, dear heart, when a number of people arc dis-
cussing arithmetic, and one of them speaks best, I suppose someone will
know how to pick out the good speaker.
ION: Yes.
SOCRATES: Will it be the same person who can pick out the bad speakers,
or someone else?
ION: The same, of course.
SOCRATES: And that will be someone who has mastered arithmetic, right?
ION: Yes.
SOCRATES: \Vell. Suppose a number of people are discussing healthy nutri-
tion, and one of them speaks hest. \ViII one person know that the best speaker
speaks best, and another that an inferior speaker speaks worse? Or will the
same man know both?
dON: Obviously, the same man.
SOCRATES: Who is he? Wbat do we call him?
,ION: A doctor.
SOCRATES: So, to sum it up, this is what we're saying: when a numher of
people speak On the same subject. it's always the same person [532] who will
know how to pick out good speakers and had speakers. If he doesn't know
how to pick out a bad speaker, he certainly won't know a good speaker-on
the same subject, anyway.
ION: That's so.
SOCRATES: Then it turns out that the same person is "wonderfully clever"
about both speakers.
ION: Yes.
SOCRATES: ;Xow you claim that Homer and the other poets (including
40 ! PLATO

Hesiod and Arehiloehusl speak on the same subjects, but not equally well.
He's good, and they're inferior.
ION: Yes, and it's true.
SOCRATES: Now if you really do know who's speaking well, you'll know
that the inferior speakers are speaking worse.
[0'<: Apparently so.
SOCRATES: You're superbl So if we say that Ion is equally clever about
Homer and the other poets, we'll make no mistake. Because you agree your-
self that the same person will be an adequate judge of all who speak on the
same subjects, and that almost all the poets do treat the same subjects.
10"1: Then how in the world do you explain what I do, Socrates? ""'hen
someone discusses another poet I pay no attention, and [ have no power to
contribute anything worthwhile: I simply dozc off. But let samcone mention
Homcr and right away I'm wide awake and I'm paying attention and I have
plenty to say.
SOCRATES: That's not hard to figurc out, my friend. Anyone can tell that
you arc powerless to speak about Homer on the basis of the know[edge Or
mastery. Because if your ability came by mastery, you would be able to speak
about all the other poets as wcll. Look, there is an art of poetry as a whole,
isn't there?
ION: Yes.
SOCllA rES: And now take the whole of any other subject: won't it have the
same discipline throughout? And this goes for every subject that can be mas-
tered. Do you need me to tell you what I mean bv this, Ion?
ION: Lord, yes, I do, Socrates. [ love to hear you wise men talk.
SOCR'\TES: [ wish that were true, [on. But wisc? Surely you are the wise
men, you rhapsodes and actors, you and the poets whose work you sing. As
for me, I say nothing but the truth, as you'd expect from an ordinary man. J
mean, even this question I asked you-look how commonplace and ordinary
a mattcr it is. Anybody could understand what I meant; don't you use the
same discipline throughout whenever you master the whole of a subject?
Take this for discussion-painting is a subject to be mastered as a whole,
isn't it?
[ON: Yes.
Soc HATES' And there are many painters, good and bad, and there have
been many in the past.
ION: Certainly.
SOCR'\TES: Have you ever known anyone who is clever at showing what's
well painted and what's not in the work of Polygnotus,9 hut who's powerless
to do that for other painters? [533] Someone who dozes off when the work
of other painters is displayed, and is lost, and has nothing to eontribute-
but when he has to give judgment on Po[ygnotus or any other painter (so
long as it's just one), he's wide awake and he's paying attention and he has
plenty to say-have you ever known anyone like that?
ION' Good lord no, of coursc not!
SOCRUES: \Vell. Take sculpture. Have you ever known anyone who is
clever at explaining which statues are well made in the case of Dactlalus,
son of Metion, or Epcius, son of Panopeus. or Theodorus of Samos,' or any
9. Greek paimer from Thasos {ca. SOQ-ca, 440 R,C.E.}, {)aed'llus:in Greek llwthology, lJ C(JfhLlm"
B.c.E).later an Athenian citizen. llJntely s.killed Alhenian artlSl:ill and drtisc Epciu~:
L Lreek architect and ~(:lIlptor (active c.n. 550 mythulogical builder of the Trojan Horse,
 ION! 41

other ,dngle sculptor, but who's lost when he's among the products of other
sculptors, and he dozes off and has nothing to say?
ION: Good lord nO. I haven't.
SOCRATES: And further, it is my opinion, you've nevcr known anyone
ever-not in flute-playing, not in cithara-playing, not in singing to the eith-
ara, and not in rhapsodizing-you've neVer known a man who is clever at
explaining Olympus or Thamyras or Orpheus or Phemius,' the rhapsode
from Ithaca, but who has nothing to contribute about lon, the rhapsode from
Ephesus, and cannot tell when he does his work well and when he doesn't-
you've never known a man like that.
ION: I have nothing to say against you on that point, Socrates. fiut this I
know about myself: I speak about Homer more heautifully than anybody else
and I have lots to say; and everybody says I do it well. But about the other
poets I do noL Now see what that means.
SOCRATES; I do see, lon, and I'm going to announce to you what I think
that is. As I said earlier, that's not a subject you've mastered-speaking well
about Homer; it's a divine power that moves you. as a "Magnetic" stone
moves iron rings. (That's what Euripides called it; most people call it "Her-
adian.'')' This stone not only pulls those rings, if they're iron. it also puts
power in the rings, so that they in turn Can do just \vhat thc stone does-
pull other rings-so that there's sometimes a very long chain of iron pieces
and rings hanging from one another. And the power in all of them depends
on this stone. In the same way, the Muse 4 makes some people inspired her-
self, and then through those who are inspired a chain of other enthusiasts
is suspended. You know, none of the epic poets, if they're good, arc masters
of their subject; they are inspired, possessed, and that is how they utter all
those beautiful poems. The same goes for lyric poets if they're good: just as
the Corybantes' [534j are not in their right minds when they dance, lyric
poets, too, are not in their right minds when they make those beautiful lyrics.
but as soon as they sail into harmony and rhythm they are possessed hy
Baechie frenzy. Just as Bacchus worshippers· when they are possessed draw
honey and milk from rivers, but not when they are in their right minds-the
soul of a lyric poet does this too, as they say themselves. For of course poets
tell us that they gather songs at honey-flowing springs, from glades and gar-
dens of the Muses, and that they bear songs to us as bees carry honey, flying
like bees. And what they say is true. For a poet is an airy thing, winged and
holy. and he is not able to make poetry until he becomes inspired and goes
out of his mind and his intellect is no longer in him. As long as a human
being has his intellect in his possession he will always lack the power to make
poetry or sing prophecy. Therefore because it's not by mastery that they make
poems or say many lovely things about their subjects (as you do about
Homer}-but because it's by a divine gift-each poet is able to compose

2. Court singer in the p.nlacf'. of Odysseus in uver lhe arts amI all intcllct.'tual pursuirs.
I-Iamer's Odys'>t'J' Olympus: Grc('k mountain, 5 Priests of the goddess Cyhele. the Great
mmed as the hurnt.' of the gods. Thamyr~s: myth- Yiother of the gods {whose worship spread wt"st
ological Thraeiao bard who cballenged the r,.'luses, from Asi« Minor); her followers engagetl in wild
Orpheus: Greek musician unrivaled ulrlong mor· Hull <wmetimt's blooJv tlam:cs.
mis. 6. Bacchus worshippers apparently danced them~
3. Natural mugnel'$ uPllvrently ('l;I.ffiC frum Mag- selves into a frem,y jn which they found &treams
nesia anti Hl'radia in Carla in Asia Minur, and flowing with honey and milk (Eu)ipide~, RaceMe
were called after those places [translator's note}, 70H... 11) Itranslator's note]. Bncchus: Greek <:.lml
EUripides (ca, 485-ca. 406 R.C.F.), At!teni(ln tm· Rormm god of wine <Bakt:hos is one of the names
gedJan, of Dionysus).
4. Dlle of the 9 duughlers of ;\'1emory who preside
42 I PrATo

beautifully only that for which the Muse has aroused him: one can do dith-
yrambs, another encomia, one can do dance songs, another, epics, and yet
another, iambics; 7 and each of them is worthless for the other !yves of poetry.
You see, it's not mastery that enahles them to speak those verses, but a di,,~nc
power, since if they knew how to speak beautifully on one type of poetry by
mastering the subject, they could do so for all the others also, That's why
the god takes their intellect away from them when he uses them as his ser-
vants, as he does prophets and godly dhiners, so that wc who hear should
know that they are not the ones who speak those verses that are of sueh high
value, for their intellect is not in them: the god himself is the one who speaks,
and he gives voice through them to us, The best evidence for this account is
Tynnichus from Chalcis,' who never made a poem anyone would think worth
mentioning, except for the praise-song everyone sings, almost the most beau-
tiful lyric-poem there is, and simply, as he says himself, "an invention of the
Muses," In this more thaQ anything, then, I think, the god is showing us, so
that we should be in no douht about it, that these beautiful poems are not
human, not even from human beings, hut are divine and from gods; that
poets are nothing but representatives of the gods, possessed by whoever pos-
sesses them, To show that, rhe god deliberately sang the most beautiful lyric
poem [535] through the most worthless poet. Don't you think I'm right, Ion?
ION; Lord yes, I certainly do, Somehow you touch mysoul with your words,
Socrates, and I do think it's by a divine gift that good poets are able to present
these poems to us from the gods,
SOCIIATES: And you rhapsodes in tum present what the poets say,
10"; That's true too.
SOCRATES: So you turn out to be representatives of representatives,
ION: Quite right.
SOCRATES: Hold on, Ion; tell me this. Don't keep any secrets from me,
\Vhen you recite epic poetry well and you have the most stunning effect on
your spectators, either when yOll sing of Odysseus"~-howhe leapt into the
doorway, his identity now obvious to the suitors, and he poured out arrows
at his feet-or when you sing of Achilles charging at Hector, or when you
sing a pitiful episode about Andromache or Hecuba or Priam,' are you at
that time in your right mind, or do you get beside yOllrself? And doesn't your
soul, in its enthusiasm, believe that it is present at the actiuns you describe.
whether they're in Ithaca or in Troy or wherever the epic actually takes place"
ION: \Vhat a vivid example you've given me, Socrates! I won't keep secrets
from you, Listcn, when I tell a sad story, my eyes are full of tears; and when
I tell a story that's frightening or awful, my hair stands on end with fear and
my heart jumps,
SOCR.\TES: Well, Ion, should we say this man is in his right mind at times
like these: when he's at festivals or celebrations, all dressed up in fancy
clothes, with golden crowns, and he weeps, though he's lost nonc of his
finery-or when he's standing among millions of friendly people and he's

7" A mder based on the syllabiC pattern short 9. King of Ithaca, the hero of Homer's Odyssey; he
long~ iambic trimeter \'i<.tli re~ulaTly u!;e~ in the dia- pOUTS oul anows in Odyssey 22.
logue and set speeches of: tCtlgedy, "Encomia"; I, King of Troy; he nppf'ar~ in Homer's Iliad.
hy:rnns of praise. "Dithyrambs": chura! poems orig- AchiUe8; greatest Greek w"rrlor of the Trojan War
inally s.u!.Ig in honor of Dlonysus. later associated and centra) character of the lliIuL HedoT: oldest
v<.ith hIghly e."l'ited rnmic and impassioned lan- son of Priam and the Rreatest of the TrujHIl Wilr~
~ua~e. rioTS. ",luin by A('hiH(':~ (see llwd 22). Andromache'
fL Greek poet knovm »oLel)· for his paean to \vif£' of HcdnL Hecnhn: wife of Priam and mother
Apollo, which dO€s not SUl"'\.'ivc. of Hector.
 ION f 43

frightened, though no one is undressing him or doing him any harm? Is he

in his right mind then?
ION: Lord no, Socrates, Kot at all, to tell the truth.
SOCRATES: And you know that you have the same effects on most of your
spectators too, don't you?
ION: I know very well that we do. I look down at them every time from up
on the rostrum, and they're crying and looking terrified, and as the stories
are told they are filled with amazement. You see I must keep my wits and
pay dose attention to them: if I start them crying, I will laugh as I take their
money, hut if they laugh, I shall cry at having lost money.
SOCRATES: And you know that this spectator is the last of the rings, don't
you-the ones that I said take their power from each other by \irtue of the
Heraelian stone[the magnet]? The middle ring is you, [536] the rhapsode or
actor, and the first one is the poet himself. The god pulls people's souls
through all these wherever he wants, looping the power down from one to
another, And just as if it hung from that stone, there's an enormous ehain
of choral dancers and dance teachers and assistant teachers hanging off to
the sides of the rings that are suspended from the Muse, One poet is attached
to one Muse, another to another (we say he is "possessed," and that's near
enough, for he is held). From these first rings, from the poets, they are
attached in their turn and inspired, some from one poet, some from another;
some from Orpheus, some from Musacus,' and many are possessed and held
from Homer. You are one of them, lon, and you are possessed from Homer.
And when anyone sings the work of another poet, you're asleep amI you're
lost about what to say; but when any song of that poet is sounded, you are
immediately awake, your soul is dancing. and you have plenty to say. You
see it's not because you're a master of knowledge about Homer that you can
say what you say, but because of a divine gift, because you are possessed.
That's how it is with the Corybantes, who have sharp ears only for the specific
song that belongs to whatever god possesses them; they have plenty of words
and movements to go with that song; but they are quite lost if the music is
different. That's how it is with you, Ion: when anyone mentions Homer, you
have plenty to say, but if he mentions the others you are lost; and the expla-
nation of this, for which you ask me-why it is that you have plenty to say
about Homer but not about the others-is that it's not mastering the subject,
but a divine gift, that makes you a wonderful singer of Homer's praises.
ION: You're a good speaker, Socrates. Still, I would be amazed if you could
speak well enough to comince me that I am possessed or crazed when I
praise Homer. I don't believe you'd think so if you heard me speaking on
Homer.
SOCHATES: And I reallv do want to hear vou. but not before vou answer
me this: on which of Ho'mer's subjects do you speak well? I do~'t suppose
you speak well on all of them.
ION: I do, Socrates, believe me, on every single one!
SOCRATES: Surely not on those subjects you happen to know nothing
about. even if Homer docs speak of them.
ION: And these subjects Homer speaks of, but I don't know about-what
are they?
[537] SOCH:\TES: But doesn't Homer speak about professional subjects in

2. Mythical singer, closely connected \\ith Orpheus.

44 I PLAm

many places, and say a great deal? Chariot driving, for example, I'll show
you, if I can remember the lines.
ION: No, I'll recite them. I do remember.
SOCRATES: Then tell me what Nestor says to his son Antilochus, when he
advises him to take care at the turning post in the horse race they held for
Patrodus" funeral.
ION: "Lean," he says,
Lean yourself over on the smooth-planed chariot
Just to the left of the pair. Then the horse on the right--
Goad him, shout him on, easing the reins with your hands.
At the post let your horse on the left stick tight to the turn
So you seem to come right to the edge, with the hub
Of your welded wheel. But escape cropping the stone ... 4
SOCRATES: That's enough. \\lho would know better, Ion, whether Homer
speaks correcdy or not in these particular verses-a doctor or a charioteer?
[ON; A charioteer, of course.
SOCRATES: Is that because he is a master of that profession, or for some
other reason?
ION: No. It's because he's a master of it.
SOCRATES: Then to each profession a god has granted the ability to know
a certain function. I mean, the things nadgation teaches us-we won'llearn
them from medicine as well, will we?
ION: Of course not.
SOCRATES: And the things medicine leaches us we won't learn from archi-
tecture.
ION: Of course not.
SOCRATES: And so it is for every other profeSSion: what we learn by mas-
tering one profession we won't learn by mastering anolher, right? But first,
answer me this. Do you agree that there are different professions--that one
is different from another?
ION: Yes.
SOCRATES: And is this how you determine which ones arc different? Wben
I find that the knowledge [involved in one case] deals "vilh different subjccts
from the knowledge [in another case], then [ claim that one is a different
profession from the other. Is that what you do?
[ON: Yes.
SOCRATES: I mean if there is some knowledge of the same subjects, then
why should we say there are two different professions?-Especially when
eaeh of them would allow us to know the same subjects! Take these lingers:
I know there are five of them, and you know the same thing about them that
I do. Now suppose I asked you whether it's the same profession-arith-
metic-that teaches you and me the same things, or whether it's two differ-
ent ones. Of course you'd say it's the same one.
ION: Yes.
[538] SOCR~TES: Then tell me now what I was going to ask you earlier.

.3. Achilles' dearest friend, slain hy He",'tQr.]\eJOtor: laterdk'd fighting,;it Troy.

the oldest of the Greek generJls at Troy; in the 4. l1i1ld 23 •.135-40 {translator's note j,
Iliad, ht' often gjVl;'S l:ldvice, His son Antil(}chus
 ION ! 45

Do you think it's the same way for every profession-the same profession
must teach the same subjects, and a different profession, if it is different,
must teach not the same subjects, hut different ones?
ION: That's how I think it is, Socrates.
SOCRATES: Then a person who has not mastered a given profession will
not be able to be a good judge of the things which belong to that profession.
whether they are things said or things done.
ION: That's true.
SOCRATES: Then who will know better whether or not Homer speaks beau-
tifu

y and well in the lines you quoted? You, or a charioteer?
10,,: A charioteer.
SOCRATES: That's because you're a rhapsode. of course, and not a chari-
oteer.
ION: Yes.
SOCRATES: And the rhapsode's profession is different from the char-
ioteer's.
ION: Yes.
SOCM.TES: If it's different, then its knowledge is of different subjects also.
ION: Yes.
SOCR>\TES: Then what about the time Homer tells how Hecamede. Nes-
tor's woman, gave barley-medicine to Machaon to drink? He says something
like this-
Over "'ine of Pramnos she grated goat's milk cheese
With a brazen grater. ... And onion relish for the drink ...'
Is Homer right or not: would a fine diagnosis here come from a doctor's
profession or a rhapsode's?
ION: A doctor's.
SOCRATES: And what ahout the time Homer says:
Leaden she plunged to the floor of the sea like a weight
That is fixed to a field cow's horn. Given to the hunt
It goes among ravenous fish, carrying death. 6
~hould we say it's for a fisherman's profession or a rhapsode's to tell whether
or not he describes this beautifully and well?
ION: That's obvious, Socrates. It's for a fisherman's.
',_ SOCRATES: All right, look. Suppose you were the one asking questions, and
you asked me, "Socrates, since you're finding out which passages belong to
each of the professions Homer treats-which are the passages that each
profeSSion should judge---<:ome tell me this: which are the passages that
belpng to a di\~ner and to divination, passages he should be able to judge as
to whether they're well or badly composed?" Look how easily I cao give yOll
a true answer. Often, in the Odyssey, he says things like what Theoclymenus
says-the prophet of the sons of Melampus:
[539) Arc you mad? ""''hat evil is this that's upon you? Night
Has enshrouded your hands, your faces, and down to your knees.
Wailing spreads like fire, lears wash your cheeks.

5, Iliad 11.639-40 with 630 [translator's note]. 6, Wad 24.80-82 [translator's note).
lVIachaon: 11 fighter and healer in the W(ld.
46 I PLATO

Ghosts fill the dooryard, ghosts fill the hall, they rush
To the black gate of hell, they drop below darkness. Sunlight
Has died from a sky run over with e"il mist. 7
And often in the Wad, as in the battle at the wall. R There he says:
There came to them a bird as they hungered to cross over.
An eagle, a high-flier, circled tbe army's left
\Vith a blood-red serpent carried in its talons, a monster,
Alive, still breathing, it has not yet forgotten its warlust,
For it struck its captor on the breast, by the neck;
It was writhing back, but the eagle shot it groundwards
In agony of pain, and dropped it in the midst of the throng,
Then itself, with a scream, soared On a breath of the wind!
[ shall say that these passages and those like them beloog to a diviner. They
are for him to examine and judge.
ION: That's a true answer, Socrates.
SOCRATES: \Vell, your answers are true, too, 100. Now you tell me-just
as I picked out for you, from the Odyssey and the Iliad, passages that belong
to a diviner amI ones that helong to a doctor and ones that belong to a
fisherman-in the same way, lon, since you have more experience with
Horner's work than I do, you pick out for me the passages that belong to the
rhapsode and to his profession, the passages a rhapsode should be able to
examine and to judge better than anyone else.
ION: My answer, Socrates, is "all of them."
SOCR>,TES: That's not your answer, Ion. Not "all of them." Or are you really
so forgetful? But no, it would not befit a rhapsode to be forgetful.
[540] ION: What do you think I'm forgetting?
SOCRATES: Don't you remember you said that a rhapsode's profession is
different from a charioteer's?
ION: I remember.
SOCR"'TES: And didn't you agree that because they are different they will
know different subjects?
10"': Yes.
SOCRATES: So a rhapsode's profession, on yot;r view, "ill not know every-
thing, and neither will a rhapsode.
10"': But things like that are exceptions, Socrates.
SOCRATES: By "things like that" you mean that almost all the subjects of
the other professions are exceptions, don't you? But then what sort of thing
will a rhapsode know, if not everything?
10:'>1: My opinion, anyhow, is that he'll know what it's fitting for a man
or a woman to sav-or for a slave or a freeman, or for a follower or a
leader. .
SOCRATES: So--what should a leader say when he's at sea and his ship
is hit by a storm-do you mean a rhapsode will know better than a nav-
igator?
ION: No, no. A navigator will know that.

7. Od~,to-'1:20.351·57:lin(;'354isomiuedbyPlato 8. TIH:' city wall of Troy.

[transLnor's nmej. 9. Iliwl 12.200,-207!tnmslator'$ note].
 ION / 47

SOCRATES: And when he is in charge of a sick man, what should a leader

say-will a rhapsode know better than a doctor?
ION: Not that, either.
SOCRATES; But he ....ill know what a slave should say. Is that what you
mean?
ION; Yes.
SOCRATES: For example, what should a slave who's a cowherd say to calm
down his cattle when they're going ,,,ild-will a rhapsode know what a cow-
herd does not?
ION; Certainly not.
SOCRATES: And what a woman who spins yarn should say about working
with wool?
ION: No.
SOCRATES; And what a man should say, if he's a general, to encourage his
troops?
ION: Yes f That's the sort of thing a rhapsode will know.
SOCRATES: \Vbat? Is a rhapsode's profession the same as a general's?
• ION: Well, I certainly would know what a general should say.
SOCRATES: Perhaps that's because you're also a general by profession, Ion.
I mean, if you were somehow both a horseman and a cithara-player at the
same time, you would know good riders from bad. But suppose I asked you:
'1I\'hieh profession teaches you good horsemanship-the one that makes you
a horseman, or the one that makes you a cithara-player?"
ION: The horseman, I'd say.
SOCR-\TES: Then if you also knew good cithara-players from bad, the pro-
fession that taught you that would be the one which made you a cithara-
player, not the one that made yOll a horseman. VVouldn't you agree?
ION; Yes.
SOCRATES: Now, since you know the husincss of a general, do you know
this hy heing a good rhapsode?
ION: I don't think there's any difference.
• [5411 SOCRATES; \;\;'hat? Are yOll saying there's no difference? On your
view is there one profession for rhapsodes and generals, or two?
ION: One, I think.
SOCRATES: So anyone who is a good rhapsode turns out to be a good
general too.
ION: Certainlv, Socrates.
SOCRATES: It 'also follows that anyone who turns out to be a good general
is a good rhapsode too.
ION: No, This time I don't agree.
SOCRATES: But you do agree to this: anyone who is a good rhapsode is a
good general too.
ION: I quite agree.
SOCR".TES: And aren't you the best rhapsode in Greece?
ION: By far, Socrates.
SOCRATES: Are you also a general, Ion? Are you the best in Greece?
ION: Certainly, Socrates, That, too, I learned from Homer's poetry.
SOCRATES; Then why in heaven's name, lon, when you're both the best
general and the best rhapsode in Greece, do you go around the country
48 I PLATO

giving rhapsodies but not commanding troops? Do you think Greece really
needs a rhapsode who is crowned with a golden crown? And does not need
a general?'
ION: Socrates, my city is governed and commanded by you [by Athens];
we don't need a general. Besides, neither your city nor Sparta would choose
me for a general. You think you're good enough for that yourselves.
SOCIlATES: lon, you're superb. Don't you know ApollodoTUs of Cyziclls?
ION: What does he do?
SOCIlATES: He's a foreigner who has often been chosen by Athens to be
their general. And Phanosthcnes of Andros and Heraclides of Clawmenae-
they're also foreigners; they've demonstrated that they are worth noticing,
and Athens appoints them to be generals or other sorts of officials. And do
you think that this city, that makes such appointments. would not select Ion
of Ephesus and honot him, if they thought he was worth noticing? \Vhy?
Aren't you people from Ephesus Athenians of long standing?2 And isn't Eph·
esus a city that is second to none?
But you, Ion, you're doing me wrong, if what you say is true that what
enables you to praise Horner is knowledge or mastery of a profession. You
assured me that you knew many lovely things about Homer, you promised
to give a demonstration; but you're cheating me, you're a long way from giving
a demonstration. You aren't even willing to tell me what it is that you're so
wonderfully clever about, though I've been begging you for ages. Really,
you're just like Proteus,' you twist up and down and take many different
shapes, till finally you've escaped me altogether by turning yourself into a
general, [542 J so as to avoid proving how wonderfully wise you are about
Homer.
If you're really a master of your subject, and if, as I said earlier, you're
cheating me of the demonstration you promised about Homer, then you're
doing me wrong. But if you're not a master ofyour subject, if you're possessed
by a divine gift from Homer, so that you make many lovely speeches about
the poet without kno"-ing anything-·as I said about you-then you're not
doing me wrong. So choose, how do you want us to think of you-as a man
who does wrong, or as someone divine?
10.\1: lbere's a great difference, Socrates. It's much lovelier to be thought
di~ine.
SOCIlATES: Then that is how we think of you, Ion, the lovelier way: it's as
someone divine, and not as master of a profession, that you are a singer of
Homer's praises.
ca. 390 R.C.E.

I, The memory of Athens' defeat i(. the Pelopon- onists on the west coast of Alil<'l Minor. belonged
nesian \\'ar (which ended in 4(14 D.C. E.; was per~ to itn aUian.:;e led by Athens against th0 Pen'ians.
haps still fresh in Plato's mind when he "",Tole this 3, Son of Poseidon (Greek god of the sea), who
dialogue, had both the power of prophecy and the power Lo
2. Por most of the ;th century, Ephe!>lt!', an cha.nge "!lope: when he was held fa1\t, he wlJUld
;ml)Ortanl ccnrer of trade founded b~ Ionian col· answer gUl;;'stions (see OaYS81!)' 4.3S5·-570f.
 REPLBLlC, BOOK II / 49

L
From Republic]
From Book II

'All right, then let's devise a theoret.ical education for these people,2 as if
'W,e were making up a story and weren't worried about time.'
" 'Yes, that's a good idea.'
'How shall we educate them, then? Or is it hard to improve on the
educational system which has evolved over a long period of time? This, as
vou know, consists of exercise for the body and culLural studies for the
imnd. J •

'Yes.'
'And shall we begin the cultural programme before the physical one?'
'Of course.'
'Cultural studies include literature, don't you think?' I asked.
'I do.'
'Aren't there two kinds of literature, true and false?"
tres.-'
[377 J 'Should we include both kinds in our educational system, and start
with the untrue kind?'
'I don't understand what you're getting at,' he said.
'Don't you realize,' I asked, 'that we start by telling children stories whic·h
are, by and large, untrue, though they contain clements of truth? And stories
precede physical exercise in our education of children.'
'True.'
'Which is why I suggested that cultural studies should be taken up before
physical exercise.'
'It was a good suggestion,' he said.
'Now, do you appreciate that the most important stage of any enterprise
is the beginning, especially when something young and sensitive is involved?
You see, that's when most of its fonnation takes plaee, and it absorbs every
impression that anyone wants to stamp upon it.'
'You're absolutely right.'
'Shall we, then, easually allow our children to listen to any old stories,
made up by just anyone, and to take into their minds views which, on the
whole, contradict those we'll want them to have as adults?'
'No, we won't allow that at all.'

], 'rranslated bv Rohin ·Waterfield. Tht., numbers skills above all. But it is important to realiu~ that
in sqU,We brackets are the Stephanus numbers the kind of education PJi:'lto is olTedng here, which
usw almust universaHy in citing Plato's \\'Orks; they is primMil}' educatiun of ehar<tetcr (though read-
refer to the pages of J. 1578 edition published hy ing, writing, and elemental)' arithmetic would be
Henri Estienne, covered by the grammatistes. the teachf"r respon-
2. At this point in Republic the philosopher Soc~ sible for literature, as -it was in Athens}, is all th",
rate'.> (469-399 O,c'L:., Plato's spokesper!'on) and e:dncDtion n contemporary Athenian child could
Adeimantus are discussing what education the t"A}lt'ct: he would be taught by a ;:ra»lma1;,Stes. a
future rulers (or "guardi:ws") of the perfed state kuharist(fs (music and lyTic poetry), and a paidntri.
should have. Socmtes (speaking here) leads the b~s (physical exercise). Higher (l.E". inldlecttluH
discussi.on dnd Addmuntus follows (Socrates' education of .my kino WflS a novelty, introduced by
other i.nterlocutor in our selections from Republic the sophisls [trumlator's note]. SophiSts: itinerant
is Adeimantus's brother Glaucon!. teachers of the 5th century B.LE., they were
3. Nowadays we think of educution, espcdYlIy Greece's first professional teachers \seeCoRCIAS).
schuol educ<ttion, in terms of information and 4, Le. Medon 01" non-hctioll !translator's notel
50 I PLATO

'So our first job, apparently, is to oversee the work of the story-writers, and
to accept any good story they write, but reject the others. We'll let nurses
and mothers tell their children the acceptable ones, an,1 we'll have them
devote themselves far more to using these stories to form their children's
minds than they do to using their hands to form their bodies. However, we'll
have to disallow most of the stories they currently tell'
'Which stories?' he asked.
'If we examine the grander kind of story: I said, 'that will give us insights
into the more lightweight kind as well, because the same principle must be
involved and both kinds are bound to have the same effect, don't you think?'
'That sounds fine to me: he replied, 'but I don't even understand which
stories you're describing as grander:
'The ones which Hesiod, Homer,' and their fellow poets tell us. In the
past, it's always been the poets who've composed untrue stories to tell people.
and it's no different nowadays:
'Which stories?' he asked. 'And what's their defect, in your view?'
There is no defect which one ought to condemn more quickly and more
thoroughly; f replied, 'especially if the lies have no redeeming feature.'
'Yes, but what is this defecO'
'Using the 'written word to give a distorted image of the nature of the gods
and heroes, just as a painter might produce a portrait which completely fails
to capture the likeness of the original.'
'Yes,' he said, 'it's quite right to find fault with that sort of thing. But how
do tbey do that? What kinds of things do they say?'
'First and most important, since the suhject is so important,' I said, 'there
is no redeeming feature to the lies which Hesiod repeats, about Uranus'
deeds and Cronus' revenge on Uranus. [378J Then there are Cronus' deeds
and what his son did to him.· Now, I think that even if these stories are true.
they oughtn't to be told so casually to young people and people who lack
discrimination; it's better to keep silent, and if one absolutely has to speak,
to make them esoteric secrets told to as few people as possible, who are to
bave sacrificed no mere piglet,? bu t something so large and rare that the
smallest conceivable number of people get to hear them'
'Yes: he said, 'these stories are definitely dangerous:
'And we must censor them in our community, Adeimantus: I said. 'No
young person is to hear stories which suggest that were he to commit the
vilest of crimes, and were he to do his utmost to punish his father's crimes.
he wouldn't be doing anything out of the ordinary, but would simply be
heha~ing like the first and the greatest gods.'
'No, I absolutely agree: he said. '1 share your view that these stories are
unsuitable and shouldn't be repeated.'

S, Creek l!.pk poet {ca. 8th c, ftCEJ. to whom the someday, Their mother Rhea, however, hid one of
Iliad and the Oays.'>ej ure atrrilmled. He!'>iod (active them away on Crete and gfl\ll' Croons a ro(:k to
ca, 700 n,CE.). Gre(~k epic didactic- poeL SV\.'aHow jnstel-jd, In due course thl;'" ;.; hild, Zeus,
6. HI:'!iiod, Thrmgo1JY 154~21O, 453~506, L1mnu!> overthrew Cronus and establisherl himself as king
(Hea'ven) bated his children and kept them paCked of the gods [translator's note].
in theIr mother Earth's womh, to her agony. One 7. A pig or piglet wali a stondard small sacrifice
of the children, CronuiJ, was persuaded by Earth and was usual befuTC initiation into the Eleusinirm
to cilSlrate his father whii'rt he came 10 have SeJ; trl"isleries [tfanslator's note]. "Eleusinian mvsler·
wirh Earth. Cmnus then became lord of creation. ies": secret H.ttts: at Lleusis in honor of Demeter,
Cronns wantM to remain king, so he sv>'alloweo all goddess of grain, and her daughter Persephone.
of his chiJdrcn in case une of them might tfllu: over
 REPUBLIC, BOOK II I 51

'And that's not all: I said. 'The stories which have gods fighting and schem-
ing and battling against one another are utterly unsuitable too, because
they're just as untrue. If the prospective guardians of our community are to
loathe casual quarrels with one another, we must take good care that battles
between gods and giants· and all the other various tales of gods and heroes
cominll, to blows with their relatives and friends don't occur in the stories
they hear and the pictures they see. No, if we're somehow to convince them
diat fellow citizens never fall out with one another, that this is wrong, then
that is the kind of storv thev must hear, from childhood onwards, from the
community's elders or' both sexes; and the poets they'll hear when they're
older must he forced to tell equivalent stories in their poetry. But we'd better
not admit into our community the story of Hera being tied up by her son, or
the episode when Hephaestus" is hurled away by his father for trying to save
his mother from a beating, or any of the battles between the gods which
Homer has in his poetry, whether or not their intention is allegorical. The
point is that a young person can't tell when something is allegorical and when
it isn't, and any idea admitted by a person of that age tends to become almost
ineradicable and permanent. All things considered, then, that is why a very
great deal of importance should be placed upon ensuring that the first stories
they hear are best adapted for their moral improvement.'
'Yes, that makes sense: he said. 'But suppose we were once again to be
asked, in this context as well, what stories we meant, how would we respond?'
'Adeimantus,' I said, 'you and I arc not making up stories at the moment;
we're founding a community. [379] Founders ought to know the broad out-
lines within which their poets are to compose stories, so that they can exclude
any compositions which do not conform to those outlines; but they shouldn't
themselves make stories up.'
'You're right,' he said. 'But that's precisely the point: what are these guide-
lines for talking about the gods?'
'They'd be something like this,' I said. 'Whatever the type of poetry--epic.
lyric, or tragic-God must of course always be portrayed as he really is."
'Yes, he must.'
dWell, isn't God good, in fact, and shouldn't he be described as such?'
'Of course.'
'And nothing good is harmful, is it?'
'I don't think so.'
'. 'Now, can anything harmless cause damage?'
'No, of course not.'
'Can anything incapable of causing damage do anything bad?'
:Again no.'
t

'And something which never does bad couldn't be responsible for bad,
could it?'
'Of course not.'

It For example, the war between Zeus and the queen of the gods (;;ee Wad 1.';'91-9 7 ), According
Titans, who were his father's siblings, and the later to another myth, Hephaestus fashioned <l throne
revolt by the giants, defeated hy aU the gods and for Hem with hidden chains, to punish her for
Herades, The Gigafitomachiil was a popular sulr rejecting him.
ject for sculpture. 1, The Greek philosQphers tend to talk equally o~
9. Greek god uf fire and metalworkin~.J\ccording "God" and the "god": there is a single Dh.ine ot
to ODe legend, he was lamed when Zeus cast him which the gods are vmious manifestations [tnms·
out of heaven for defending hi .. motheT, Hera, InlOl:'S (lote].
52 I PLATO

'Well now, is goodness beneficial?'

·Yes.'
'And it's responsible for doing good, then?'
'Yes.'
'So goodness is not responsible for everything: it's responsible for things
that are in a good state, hut bad things cannot be attributed to it:
'Exactly,' he said.
'The same goes for God too, then,' I said. 'Since he is good, he cannot be
responsible for everything, as is commonly said. He is responsible only for a
small part of human life, and many things cannot be attributed to him-I
mean, there's far more bad than good in the world. He and he alone must
he held responsible for tbe good things, but responsibility for bad things must
be looked for elsewhere and not attributed to God.'
'I think you're absolutely right,' he said.
'So,' I said, 'we shouldn't connive at Homer or any other poet making the
stupid mistake of saying about the gods, "Two jars sit on Zeus' threshold:
one is full of good destinies, bul. the other is full of wretched destinies", and
that if Zeus mixes the two up together and doles them out to someone, that
person "sometimes meets with bad, s()lnetimes with good", whereas if he
doesn't mix them Hp, but allots the pernicious ones to someone in an un-
adulterated form, that person "is driven over the glorious earth by the evil of
poverty".2 Nor will we connive at lhem claiming that "Zeus is the dispenser
of bOlh good and evil",
'Moreover, we'll disapprove of the attribution of Pandarus' perjury and
truee-hreaking to the agency of Athena and Zeus,' and of the gods' quarrel
and its resolution to Themis and Zeus:' [380J and we'll nol allow the younger
generation to hear the idea which Aeschylus' expresses as 'When God wants
to "isit utter ruin on a household, he implants the cause in men." No, if plays
are composed (such as the one these lines arc from) about Niobe's afflictions,
or about the trials and tribulations of the descendants of Pelops" or about
the Trojan War, the playl'llights must either be prohibited from saying that
God was responsible for these events, or if they do attribute them to God,
they have to come up with an explanation which approximates to the one
we're looking for at the moment, and say that what God did was right ami
good, in the SenSe tbat the people in question were being punished and
therefore benefited; but poets should be prohibited from saying that these
people were in a bad way as a result of being punished and that this was
God's doing. The claim that the sinners were badly off because they were in
need of punishment, and that in punishing them God was henefiting them,
is permissible; but the claim that God, who is good, is responsible for any
instance of badness is to be resisted as forcefully as possible by anyone who
wants a well-regulated community, until it is never spoken and never heard

2, Iliad 24.527-32 [translator's note] S. Greek tmgwian 456 B,C-£.); from hhi
:L Iliad 4,20-72 [translator's nDb>l. Pand..ms; Niobe 1.<1- lost play'!. Niobe, wife of a leg~
Trojan archer favoreJ by Apollo, Athena: Greek ('ndary king of Thehes, boasted that she had more
goddess of wisdom anu war and the patron ~od of children than the goddess Leta, I,,,,to's children,
Athens: in the passage citeo. she takes on the form Apnlln and Artemis. kined her six sons and six
of' a Trojan lind persuades Pandarus to hreak the daughters (slC'e IHmJ.24.602--17;.
truce (as Zeus has hid her to do't. 6. I.e" the ill-starred Atreus, Agamemnon, Ores-
4, Perhaps llUul20.1-74 or 15.1~217 [tnmsla- tes, and Electra: see especially Aeschylus's Ores-
tor's note] Thcmts: Greek goddess of justice, wis- tetan trilogy [translator's note].
dom, and gaud counsel.
 REPUBLIC, BOOK II ! 53

by anyone, of whatever age, whether the talc is told in verse or in prose. And
the reasons are that the voicing of these views is sacrilege, they do us no
good, and they are inconsistent with one another.'
'I approve of this law: he said. 'I'll be right behind you when you cast your
: vote for it.'
'So now we have the first of the laws and guidelines which pertain to the
gods,' I said. 'Any spoken words or composed works will have to conform to
the principle that God is not responsible for everything, but only for good.'
'Well, I'm certainly happy with it: he said.
'All right, then. What about a second principle, as follows? Do you think
that God is a sorcerer and can by exercising his will vary his appearance from
time to time, sometimes by actually changing and transforming his appear-
ance into a large number of forms, and at other times by deluding us into
thinking that's what he's done? Or do yOll think he's uniform and extremely
unlikely to abandon his own appearance?'
'I'm not in a position to say just at the moment: l,c replied.
'Look at it this way. Isn't it inevitable that if anything sheds its form, the
change is due either to itself or to something else?'
'Yes.'
'Now, really good things are extremely unlikely to be altered or moved by
an external agent, aren't they? For instance, a human body is altered by food,
drink, and exercise, and plants are altered by the heat of the slln and by wind
and phenomena like that; but the more healthy and strong a thing is, the
less likely [3811 it is to be altered.'
'Of course.'
'And the more courageous and intelligent a mind is, the less likely it is that
an external agent would disturh it and alter it?'
'Yes.;
'Moreover, the same principle applies universally even to manufactured
items, such as utensils, houses, and elothes: things which are well made and
are in good condition are less likely to be altered by time and other phenom-
ena.'
'True.'
'So anything which is in a good state-whether that is due to nature or
human skill or hoth-can hardly be changed at all by an external agent.'
'fhat sounds right.'
'But God and the divine realm are of course in all respects as perfect as
anything can he.'
'Of course.'
'From this point of view, then, Cod is extremely unlikely to have at his
disposal a large number of forms.'
'Yes, extremely unlikely indeed.'
'\¥ould he, however, change and alter himself internally, by his own
resources:,"
'If he changes in the first place: he said, 'then ohviously this must be how.'
'Well, does he enhance and improve himself, or does he worsen and debase
himself?'
'If he changes.' he said, 'then it must be for tbe worse, since it's unthink-
able that God's goollness and excellence are anything less than perfect.'
'You're absolutely right: I said. 'And, Adeimantus, in this context, do you
54 I PLATO

think that anyone-human or divine-deliberately makes bimself deteriorate

in any respect?'
Tbat's impossible,' he said.
'It is equally impossible, then,' 1 said, 'for God to want to change himself.
Since, as we have found, the divine nature is as perfect and as good as
an}thing could be, then any god retains his own form in a uniform. dircct
fashion for ever.'
'I think that's absolutely inevitable,' he said.
'It follows. Adeimantus,' I said, 'that none of our poets is to say, "The gods
travel around human habitations disguised as all sorts of visitors from other
lands.'" Nor are they to tell lies about Proteus and Thetis,' or present Hera
in a tragedy or any other kind of poem in an altered form, as a mendkant
holy woman begging alms "for the life-ghing children of the Argive river
Inacbus",9 or repeat the mass of othcr similar lies that have been told. Fur·
thennore, we should neutralize the poets' inAuence on mothers, which
makes them scare their children with terrible stories about how some gods
tend to prowl around during the hours of darkness in a wide variety of unfa·
miliar human guises, so that we stop the mothers blaspheming against the
gods, and at the same time stop them making their children too timid.'
'Yes, we should,' he said. .
'But even if it isn't in the gods' nature actually to change,' I said, 'do they
magically delude us into seeing them appear in all kinds of guises?'
'It's not ineonceivable,' he said.
[382] 'Well, would God willingly mask the truth behind appearance and
deceive us by his words or actions?' I asked.
'I don't know,' he answered.
'Don't you know that a true falsehood (if you'll allow me the phrase) is
loathed by everyone, divine or human?' I asked.
'What do you mean?' he asked.
'I mean,' I said, 'that no one chooses and wants to be deceived in the most
important part of himself and about the most important things. The presence
of falsehood there is his worst fear.'
'I still don't understand,' he said.
'That's because you think I'm trying to make a high-powered point,' I said.
'But all I'm saying is that no one is at all happy at being lied to and deceived
in his mind about the facts; no one likes being ignorant, and the existence
and presence of falsehood tbere are extremely unwelcome to everyone; they
particularly hate it there.'
'They certainly do,' he said.
'Well, I might have been perfectly correct when I described this state a
moment ago as true falsehood-the state of misapprehension caused by
falsehood in the mind. I mean, a spoken lie is a kind of copy and subsequent
reHection of the mental condition, and no pure lie. don't you think?'
IYes.'
'Now, a genuine lie is hated by men as well as gods.'
7, Ody~sq 17 ,4B5~-S6 Itranslator's note]. 9. Both a river and a rivt'r- god. Argive: of Argos,.a
H. A sea nymph who was rnteJ to he.ar a sun might~ city-state on the Pdoponnese, The "children" are
jer than his. father; she ITUirrie~ the hero Pdeus ::lnd presumably the river's tributaries with their 'iJife~
hore Achilles. Proteus; prophetic son of Puseidon, giving" water. 'lbe quotation Is from 'The Xu:mriai.
Greek god of the sea, who had the power to change <l lost play by Aeschylus.
shap~.
 REPl'BLlC, BOOK II I 55

'I think SO,'

'What about a spoken lie? Aren't there occasions and situations when teU-
ing lies is helpful and doesn't therefore warrant hatred? What about when
we're dealing with enemies, or with people we count as friends, but who arc
trying to do something bad because they've gone mad or have somehow taken
leave of their senses? Isn't telling lies helpful under these circumstances as
a preventative medicine? Moreover, consider those stories we were discuss-
ing not long ago: we cannot know the truth about events in the past, so we
make something up which approximates as closely as possible to the truth,
and that helps liS, doesn't it?'
'Yes,' he said, 'you're quite right,'
'Which of these reasons, then, makes telling lies helpful to God? Would
he make up something which resembles the truth because he doesn't know
the past?'
'That's a ridiculous suggestion,' he said,
'So there's nothing of the lying poet in God,'
'J don't think so.'
'Would he lie out offear for his enemies?'
'Hardly.'
'Because his friends have taken leave of their senses or gone mad?'
'Anyone "illess or insane is no friend of God,' he said,
'So God has no reason to lie.'
'No.'
'So it is not in the nature of deities or gods to deceive.'
'Absolutely not,' he said.
'\\/hether acting or speaking, then, God is entirely unifonn and truthful.
He doesn't actually change himself, and he doesn't delude others either,
during their sleeping or their waking hours, in how he appears or in what he
says or in the signs he sends.'
[383] 'Listening to you speak,' he said, '1 find myself agreeing "ith you.'
'So do you agree,' I said, 'that this is the second principle to which religiOUS
discussions and literature must conform-that the gods are not shape-
shifting wizards and do not mislead us by lying in what they say or do?'
'I agree.'
'Although there is much to commend in Humer, then, we won't approve
of the passage when Zeus sends the dream to Agamemnon.' Likewise, we
won't approve of the bit of Aeschylus" where Tbetis says that at her wedding
Apollo "celebrated in song how happy my children would make me-how
they wouldn't know sickness and would live for many long years-and went
on and on about how lucky J was and how the gods smiled on me, until he
made my heart glad. And since Phoebus' is a god and abounds in prophetic
skill, 1 expected his words to be true. But for all his singing, for all his sharing
of our feast, for all these claims of his, il is he who has now killed my son,"
We'll come down hard on anyone who says anything like this about the gods:
we'll refuse him a chorus and ban teachcrs from using his works to educate
1. Zeus. sends a lying dream to Agamemnon that Agamemnon; king of ;\fycenae rlllo commander of
the cupluTI..' of Troy is imminent in Wad 2, Notice the Greek lCxpedition agllinst Troy
that Plato is not denying the of omens 2, From UIV"il play [translator's note}.
and portents only that dH'_Y c"m oe
j or lhut 3, Apollo, god of prophecy as weli as lli:aling and
false ones ('im he sent by the gud~; it is we who mUSk.
misint.erpret the gods: messages [translator's notel_
56 I PLATO

our children, Othern.~se, our guardians won't grow up to he religious people,

or to he as godlike themselves as is humanly possible.'
'I'm in complete agreement ,,~th these principles,' he said, 'and would want
them enshrined as laws.'

'From Book HI
[386] 'All right, then,' [said, 'If people are going to revere the gods, respect
their parents, and not belittle friendship with one another, then apparently
those are the kinds of stories they should and shouldn't hear about the gods,
from childhood onwards.'
'I'm sure we're right about this,' he said,
'What about if they are to be brave? Won't they also need stories which
are designed to make them fear death as little as possihle? I mean, don't you
think that courage and fearing death are mutually exclusive?'
'Yes, I certainly do,' he answered,
'What about the idea that Hades' doesn't just exist, but is terrifying? Do
you think this goes with facing death fearlessly Hnd with preferring death in
battle to defeat and slavery?'
'Of course not,'
'So here's another aspect of story-telling for us to oversee, apparently, vVe
must ask those who take on the job of telling stories not to denigrate Hades
in the simple fashion they have been, but 10 speak well of it, because oth-
erwise they'll not only be lying, but also not speaking in a way that is con-
ducive 10 courage in battle.'
'Yes, we must,' he said.
'Then we'll start with the follo",~ng lines,' I said, 'and delete everything
which resembles them: "1'd rather be a slave labouring for someone e1se-
someone without property, who can hardly make a living-than rule over all
the spirits of the dead"; and ''The v~le, dank halls, which even the gods hate,
might appear to men and gods"; and "Amazing! The soul, the likeness of H
person, really does e.xist in Hades' halls. but it is completely witless"; and
"He alone had consciousness, while the rest were darting shadows"; and "His
soul flew from his body and went to Hades bewailing its fate, forfeiting cour-
age and the glory of young manhood"; [387] and 'Like a wisp of smoke, his
soul went dov,n to the underworld with a shrill cry"; and "As when bats flit
about squeaking in the depths of an a"ful cave, when one of them loses its
perch on the crowded rock, and they cling to one another, so the flock of
souls wenl wilh shrill cries.'" We'll implore Homer and the rest of the poets
not to get cross if we strike these and all similar lines from their works. We'll
explain that it's not hecause the lines arc not good poelry and don't give
pleasure to most people; on the contrary. the better poetry they are, the more
they are to be kept from the ears of children and men who are to be auton-
omous and lo be more afraid of losing this freedom than of death.'
'Absolutely.'
'~ow, we'd hettcr get rid of all the frightening and terrifying names which
crop op here. I mean names like Cocytus and Styx,' ghost and wraith, and

4. The Gre~k unoennnl.-l 24,6.. XJ limnsilllor's notE'},

5. Quoled from. respedivt:'ly, OJ;SSi'}'] J .489-9 J. 6. Two of tbe rivers uf Hades ....L<Jrncntatiu!l and
Iliad 20.64-66, Wila 23.103--4, OdV5Sey 10.495, Hateful rtranslator's note:.
Ifj(Ul 16.856-57, Waa 23.100.... JOJ. and Odysse\·
 REPUBLIC, BOOK III I 5j

so on-all tbe names which are designed to make everyone who hears them
shudder. In another context. they may have a useful purpose to serve; but
our worry is that this shivering might make our guardians too feverish and
enervated.'
'It's a legitimate worry,' he remarked.
'Should we han them, then?'
'Yes.'
'It's names which have the opposite effect that should be used in both
prose and poetry, isn't it?'
'Clearly.'
'Shall we also remove the passages where eminent men weep amI wail in
mourning) then?'
, 'We have to,' he said. 'It follows from what we've already done.'
'Let's see whether or not we're right to remove them,' I said, '\Ve can agree
tbat one good man will not regard death as a terrible thing for another good
rnan-a friend of his-to suffer.'
l
-Yes, we can.
'So a good man won't mourn as if the other person had suffered something
terrible.'
'No.'
'Moreover, we can also agree that a good man is preeminently capable of
providing himself with a good life entirely from his own resources, and is
absolutely the last person to need anyone or anyi:hing else.'
'True.'
'So he'd be tbe last person to be overwhelmed by the loss of a son or a
brother or some money and so on and so forth.'
'Yes. definitely.'
'He'll also be the last person to mourn, then, when some such disaster
overtakes him: no one will endure it with more equanimity than him.'
'Very true.'
'. '\Ve'd be right, then, not to have famous men mourning. \Ve can allow
women to do that (as long as tbey aren't admirable women) amI any bad men
there might he, [388] so that the people we claim to be training for guardi-
anship of our land Hnd all that sort of hehavior distasteful.'
'That's right,' he said.
'So we have a further request to make of Homer and the rest of the poets,
We'll ask tbem not to porIray ,"chilles, who was the son of a goddess, "at one
point lying on bis side, then lat.er on his back, and then on his front; and
then getting to his feet and sailing, crazed ""ith grief, over the sands of the
bitter sea", or as "pouring handfuls of filthy ashes over his head",7 or generally
as weeping and wailing to the extent and in the fashion that the poet portrays
mm. And we'll ask them not to have Priam, a close relative of the gods by
hirth, "begging and rolling in the dung as he calls out to each man by name". H
'We'll he even more forceful, however, in our request that they don't portray
the gods lamenting and saying things like, "Oh, poor me! How wretched I
am to have borne the noblest of children!";" or at the very least they ought
to stop short of gh1ng such an inaccurate portrait of thc greatest of the gods

7. iliad 24.10-13, 18.23-24 [m:mslator's note], last kin~ of Troy, descended from Zeus.
AchiUes: the ~reatest of the Greek \\",urlor!'. at Troy 9. Wad Ht 54 [tran5Iator's note]. The s.peaker is
and the central figure of the mad. Thetis.
8. Iliad 22.414-1 ') Itnmslnlor's 1101"']_ PriJ:m~ (}It:
58 ! PLATO

that they have him saying, HAlas! The man I now see being chased around
Troy is dcar to me, and my heart grieves", and "Alas that Sarpedon, the
dearest of men to me, is destined to fall at the hands of Patroclus the son of
Menoetius:'l
The point is, my dear Adeimantus, that if the young men of our com-
munity hear this kind of thing and take it seriously, rather than regarding it
as despicable and absurd, they're hardly going to regard such behaviour as
despicable in human beings like themselves and feel remorse when they also
find themselves saying or doing these or similar things. Instead, they won't
find it at all degrading to be constantly chanting laments and dirges for trivial
incidents, and they won't resist doing so.'
'You're quite right: he said.
'And what we've just been arguing, in effect-· ·and at the moment no one's
come up with a better argument, so we should stick to this one-is that we
must prevent this happening.'
'Yes, we must.'
'Now, they'd better not be prone to laughter either. I mean, the stronger
the laughter, the stronger the consequent emotional reaction too-that's
almost inevitable'
'I agree: he said.
'We should, therefore, refuse admittance to any poetry which portrays
cminent humans as being overcome by laughter, and 1389] do so even more
vigorously if it shows gods in that state.'
'Yes, indeed,' he said.
'So we'll also reject the lines of Homer where he says about the gods,
"Unquenchable laughter arose among the blessed gods as they watched
Hephaestus bustling about the house.'" According to your argument, we
should disallow this type of passage:
'Yes, if you want to attribute the argument to me,' he saiJ. 'At any rate, we
should disallow it.'
'Next, they must rate honesty highly. You see, if we were right in what we
were saying a short while ago, and the gods really have no use for falsehood,
although it can serve as a type of medicine for us humans, then clearly lying
should be entrusted to doctors, and laymen should have nothing to do with
it:
'Clearly,' he said.
'If it's anyone's job, then, it's the job of the rulers of our community: they
can lie for the good of the community, when either an external or an internal
threat makes it necessary. No one else, however, should have anything to do
''lith lying. If an ordinary person lies to these rulers of ours, we'll count that
as equivalent in misgUidedness, if not worse, to a patient lying to his doctor
about his physical condition, or someone misleading a ship's captain, with
respect to his ship or crew, by telling him lies about his own state or that of
one of his fellow cre""men:
'You're absolutely right,' he said.
'So if anyone else is caught lying in our community-"any artisan, whether
diviner or healer of ills or carpenter"3-he is to be punished on the grounds
L Iliad 22.16H-69 [Hector lS being chased by dus: the best friend of AchHles.
.>\chill€5J, 16.433 [translators nolej, Sarpedon; a 2. Wad 1.599·"·600 [translator's notel,
son uf Zeus who fought with the Troj'lns. Putw- 3. Od:rssey J7.383-84 [tmmlstor's note].
 REPUBLIC. nOOK III ! 59

that he's introducing a practice which is just as liable to wreck and ruin a
community as a ship.'
'Yes, it would,' he said, 'if what people did was infiueneed hy what he had
said.'
'Now, won't the young men of our community need self-discipline?'
'Of course.'
'And aren't the most important aspects of self-discipline, at least for the
general rank and file, obedience to those in authority and establishing one's
authority over the pleasures of drink. sex, and food?'
'] think so.'
'So I'm sure we'll approve of the kind of tbing Homer has Diomedes say-
"Sit down, shut up, and listen to me"4-and related passages, like "Exuding
an aura of courage, the Greeks advanced in silence, respecting their lead-
ers",' and so on and so forth.'
'Yes, we will.'
'Well, what about lines like "You're groggy with wine, you have the eyes
of a dog and the heart of a deer"· and the next few lines? Are they all right?
[390] And what ahout all the other impertinent things people have said to
their rules in works of prose or poetry?'
We won't approve of them.'
'That, I suppose, is because they don't encourage self-discipline in their
audience, though they may well be enjoyable from another point of view.
What do you think?'
'I agree,' he said.
'What about having your cleverest character saying that in his opinion
the best thing in the world is when "The nearby tahles are laden with
bread and meat, and the steward draws wine from the mixing·bowl, brings
it, and pours it into the cups"?! Do you think this is the right material for
a young man to hear if he is to be self-controlled? Or "There is no death
worse than death bv starvation. no more wTetehed fate to face"?' And then
there's the passage' where, while everyone else-mortal and immortal-is
asleep, Zeus stays awake to do some planning, but in no time at all it is
driven completely out of his mind by his sexual desire, and he is so over-
whelmed by the sigbt of Hera that he doesn't even want to go to their
room, but wants to have sex with her there and then, On the ground, and
he says that he's feeling more desire for her even than the first time they
slept together, "without our parents knowing"" And the story of how
Hephaestus ensnared Ares and Aphrodite for similar reasons is equally
inappropriate material for them to hear.'1
'I couldn't agree with you more,' he said. 'It's 'luite unsuitable,'
'On the other hand,' I said, 'it's worth their pa)1ng attention to the portrayal

4, Iliad 4,412 [trilnslator's note!. Diomede,s:,~ lord A. OdY'iSe)l 12.342; the: point is that this sentiment
or Argos who INUS on;: of the best Greek rlghteTS at encouraged Odysseus's men to s1ekll the Sun.god's
Troy. cattle [translator's ootc].
5. A combination of Wad 3.8 and 4.431 {transla· 9, Iliad 14,294-351; quotation, 296 [translator's
tor's note!. note].
6, mud 1,225; Achilles is insulting hi" leader Aga- I. Odl'isey 8,261l~36(' (translator's note]. When
memnon by caUil1.g him :a k>chcrnus, t:Ow!:lrdly Heph~e~tus learned that his wire, Aplnmlite, the
drunk [translator's note]. Creek goddess oClolle and bCl:Iul)'. was committing
i. Odyssey 9,8-10 [translator's note]. The lines are adultery with .Ares, the god of war, he fashioned a
spoken hy Ody"seu~, who is often de"c:rihed as metal net and caught the pair in bed.
dever or S\:heming,
60 I PLATO

on stage or in writing of occasions when famous men express, by their words

or actions, resistance to all kinds of temptations. For instance, there are the
lines, "He struck his hreast and spoke sternly to his heart: 'Patience, heart-
you've put up with worse in the past.' " '0
'Absolutely,' he said.
'Then again, we shouldn't let them he mercenary or avaricious.'
'Of course not.'
'So they shouldn't repeat the verse "Gifts win over even gods and magnif.
icent kings".' And we won't compliment Achilles' attendant PhoenLx on his
restraint in advising Achilles to accept the gifts he was being offered and
help the Greeks in their fight, but not to refrain from his "wrath" unless he
was bribed. It will also go against our wishes and our convictions for Achilles
himself to be mercenary enough to accept Agamemnon's gifts and to refuse
to release a corpse [39 I] until he'd been given a ransom.'
'Yes, it would be wrong to approve of that kind of behavior,' he said,
'Now, the fact that it's Homer makes me hesitate,' I said, 'but I'm not sure
it's not actually sacrilegious for us to say things like this ahout Achilles and
accept them when others say them, The same goes also for when Achilles
says to Apollo, "There's no god more baneful than you-you with your aloof·
ness, You misled me, and ['d pay you back if I could,'" Vie shouldn't helieve
that he refused to obey the river-god either, and was ready to fight him, and
that he said of his hair, which was dedicated to another river, the Spercheius,
"I hereby give my hair to the hero Patrodus: may he take it with him"," when
Patroclus was dead-we shouldn't believe that he did this, And we'll deny
the truth of the stories that he dragged Hector around Patroclus' tomh and
slaughtered prisoners on his funeral pyre,' And we won't allow our citizens
to believe that Achilles-the child of a goddess and of Peleus (who was
himself a model of self·discipline and a grandson of Zeus) and tutored by
the sage Cheiron-was so full of turmoil that he suffered from the two can·
flicting diseases of mean-spirited avarice and disdain for gods and men.'
'You're right,' he said,
'Moreover,' I went on, 'we won't believe or tolerate the story about those
horrific kidnap projects by Theseus and Peirithous, who were respectively
the snns of Poseidon' and Zeus; and in general, we find it unthinkable that
anyone with a god as a parent, or any hero, would he unscrupulous enough
to do the terrible, sacrilegious things people falsely attribute to them. No,
we should force the poets to deny either that the heroes did these things or
that their parents were gods, but nol 10 say both; and they should also he
forcibly prevented from trying to persuade the young men of our community
that the gods are the source of evil and that the heroes are no better than

2. Od.sse.' 20.17~j 8 Itranslator's note]. companion Patroclus. It was a primitive Greek

3. A pro~erh. possibly migimJling wilh Hesiotl pmctic€' to detlkrtte yOUf hair to a river; the fact
[translator's note], that h~ir grl)W~ makc~ it un cxtenwl fHnnifesration
4. Achi.Ues accepts Agamemnon's giflS at Iliad of one's IiftAoree, so in dedicating your hair, you
19.278-8J; Pdrtm I:nings him gifts. tn release Hec- are dedicating yourself !translator's nok],
tor's body Ht llitu124A69-S95 [lruo!>lMor's notet. i. Hiad 24.14~18, 2J, 115~77 [tramJator's note].
5, Wad 22.15,20 hran:-lator's note]. 8. Gr~k gDd fir the sen, Theseus: legendary hero
6. The river ~camander in Wad 21.211-3~2; the and king of Athens, who was ,m>i;;lcd hy his friend
river Spercheim, mild 23,1 51. The river was sup· Peirithous both in carl1ing off Helen and in
POSf"t1 \.0 guamnteeAchilles' silfe retul'n fmm the attprnpting to retrieve Persephone from the under~
Wtir; becausf..' it hus failed tu do su, Achilles lells it world.
off and hitterly re-dedicates hi~ hoir to his dead
 REPUBLtC, BOOK III i 61

ordinary people. We demonstrated earlier the impossibility of bad things

originating ,,1th the gods; so, as we said then. these storics arc not only
sacrilegious, but also false.'
'Of course.'
".'And they have a pernicious effect on their audience as well, in the sense
that no one will lind his own badness reprehensible once he's been persuaded
that these things are and always have been done by "immcdiate descendants
of the gods, close relatives of Zeus, people whose altar to Zeus, their father-
protector, is high on Mount Ida, above the clouds" and "in whom the blood
of deities is still fresh"! That's why we must put an end to stories of this
nature: if we don't, they "ill engender [392] in the young men of our com-
munity a casual attitude towards badness.'
'I quite agree,' he said.
" 'Now,' [ said, 'if we want to distinguish what in literature should be allowed
and what should be censored, there's one further type of writing we should
still look at, isn't there? I mean, we've discussed how gods must be por-
trayed-and deities, heroes, and the dead,
'Yes.'
'So wouldn't we be left with writing which has human beings as its sub-
ject?'
'(, 'Yes, obviously.'
'In fact, though, we can't evaluate this kind of writing at the moment.'
'Wby not?'
'Because what we'd claim, I imagine, is that poets and prose-writers mis-
represent people in extremely important ways, when-as they often do-
they portray immoral people as happy and moral people as unhappy, and
write about the rewards of undiscovered immorality and how morality is good
for someone else, but disadvantageous to oneself. I suppose we'd proscrihe
assertions of that kind, and tell them that their poems and stories are to
make the opposite points, don't you think?'
, Tm certain we would,' he said.

*
.'It follows, then, that good use of language, harmony, grace, and rhythm
all depend on goodness of character. I'm not talking about the state whieh
ill actually stupidity, but which wc gloss as goodness of character; I'm talking
about when the mind really had eqUipped the eharaeter with moral goodness
and excellence.'
'Absolutely,' he; said,
'And shouldn't the young people of om community take every opportunity
to cultivate these qualities, if they are to do their jobs?'
'Yes, they should.'
[401] 'Now, painting and related arts, and weaving, embroidery, architec-
ture, and the manufacture of utensils in general, and also the physical struc-
tures of creatures and plants, are all pervaded by these qualities, in the sense
that they may display grace or inelegance. And inelegance, lack of rhythm,

9. Both passages are from tbe Niobe of Aeschylus; note]. 'Jantalus cooked his o"':n son, Pe!ops, and
Niohe is talking abollt her f:<th('x Tantalus. a nOlO~ served him to the god~.
claus crlminol whos\:' [other \\otiS Zeus [Lnms)ator's L Cklt1con.
62 I PLATO

and dishannony are allied to abuse of language and a currupt character,

whereas their uppusites are allied to and reflect a disciplined and good char-
acter.'
'Absulutelv,' he saitl.
'Is it only the poets we shuuld uversee, then, and cumpel tu choose between
imbuing their composition with the image of goodness of character or not
practising their art in our community? Don't we also have to oversee artisans
in general and stop them imbuing their portraits of animals, their edifices,
and whatevcr else they may produce, with corruption, lack of self-restraint,
meanness of spirit, and inelegance, and punish failure to comply with a ban
on working in our community? Otherv,ise, during their upbringing our
guardians will be surrounded by the pernicious pasturage of images of bad-
ness, which will be so common that they'll often hc nibbling and feeding on
them, day in and day out, a little at a time, until without realizing it they'll
amass badness in their minds. No, wc must look for craftsmen who have the
innate gift of tracking down goodness and grace, so that the young people
of our community can live in a salubrious region where everything is bene-
ficial and where their eyes and ears meet no influences except those of fine
works of art, whose effect is like a breeze which brings health from favorahle
regiuns, and which imperceptibly guides them, from childhood onwards,
until they are assimilated tu, familiar "ith, and in harmony with the beauty
uf reason.'
'Yes, that would be an outstandingly fine upbringing for them,' he said.
'Now, Glaucon,' J said, 'isn't the prime importance of cultural education
due to the fact that rhythm and harmony sink mare deeply into the mind
than anything else and affect it more powerfully than anything else and bring
gracc in their train? For SOmeone who is given a correct education, their
product is grace; but in the opposite situation it is inelegance. And isn't its
importance also due to the fact that a proper cultural education would enable
a person to be very qUick at noticing defects and flaws in the construction
or nature of things? In othcr words, he'd lind offensive the things he ought
to lind offensh·e. Fine things would be appreciated and eojoyed by him, and
he'd accept them into his mind as nourishment and would therefore hecome
truly good; [402J even when young, however, and still incapable of rationally
understanding why, he would rightly condemn and loathe contemptihle
things. And then the rational mind would be greeted like an old friend when
it did arrive, because anyone with this upbringing would he more closely
affiliated with rationality than anyone else:
'Yes,' he said, 'tu my mind those arc the kinds of reasons for cultural edu-
cation.'
'It's analogous to the process of becoming literate, then,' I said, '\Ve
weren't literate until we realized that, despite heing few in number, the letters
are fundamental wherever they occur, and until we appreciated their impor-
tance whether the word which contained them was great or small, and
stopped thinking that we didn't need to take note of the~, but tried hard to
recognize them evcrywhere, on the grounds that literacy would elude us until
we were capahle of doing so:
'True:
'And we won't he ahle to tell which letters are which when they're reflected
 REPUBLIC, BOOK III I 63

iII water or a mirror either, until we can recognize the letters themselves,
will we? It takes the same expertise and training, doesn't it?'
"'\Absolutely.'
-,'Then this is incredibly similar to what I've been saying, We won't be cul-
tured either (and this doesn't apply only to us, but to the people we're claim-
ing to edueate for guardianship) until we recugnize the types-
self·discipline, courage, generosity, broadness of vision, and all the qualities
which are allied and opposed to them-wherever they oecur, and notice
instances of their presence, whether it is the qualities themselves or their
reflections that we are noticing, and don't underestimate them whether the
situation in which they're occurring is great or small, but bear in mind that
it takes the same ex:pertise and training, Right?'
'Definitely,' he said.
'Now,' 1 wenl on, 'imagine a situation where someone combines beautiful
mental characteristics with physical features which conform tu the same
principle and 50 are cunsistent and concordant with the beauty of his mind,
.eould there be a more beautiful sight for anyone capable of seeing it?'
" 'Hardly.'
, 'And the more beautiful a thing is, the more lovahle it is?'
'Naturally.'
'Therefore, the more people are of this type, the more a cultured person
will love them, If they're discordant, however, he will not love them.'
'No, he won't,' he said, 'if they have a mental defect: hut if their flaw is
physical, he'll put up with it and nol refuse his affection.'
'I appreciate what you're saying,' I said, 'I know you are or were in love
with someone like that, and 1 concede the point. But answer me this: can
self-discipline ami excessive pleasure go together?'
'Of course not,' he said. 'Pleasure deranges people just as effectively as
1
distress.
'Can excessive pleasure partner any of the other virtues?'
[403J '~o.'
'What about promiscuity and dissoluteness?'
'Yes, they're its chief partners.'
'Can you think of any pleasure which is greater and more intense than
sexual pleasure?'
'No, I can't,' he said, 'and J can't think of any pleasure which is more manic
either.'
'And authentic love is a disciplined and cultured luve of someone who is
restrained'as well as good-looking. Yes?'
'Definitely,' hc said.
'Authentic love should have no involvement, then, with anything manic or
anything which bears the trace of dissoluteness, should it?'
'No, it shouldn't.'
'Doesn't it follow, then, that lovers and their boyfriends who love and are
loved authentically should have no involvement with this pleasure and
should have nothing to do with it?'
That's right. Socrates,' he said, They most certainly should not:
'So you'll apparently be making a regulation in the community we're found-
ing to the effect that although a lover can (if he can persuade his buyfriend
64 I PLj\TO

to let him) kiss and spend time with and touch his boyfriend, as hc would
his son-which is to say, for honourable reasons-still his relationship with
anyonc he cares for will basically be such that he never gives the impression
that there is more to it than that. Otherwise, he'll be liable to condemnation
for lacking culture and moral sensibility.'
'Exactly,' he said.
'Now, do you join me in thinking that we've completed our discussion of
cultural studies?' I asked. 'At any rate, we've reached a good place to finish:
I mean, it's good for cultural studies to lead ultimately to love of beauty.'
'1 agree,' he said.

* * *
From Book VIl
[514] 'Next: I said, 'here's a situation which you can use as an analogy for
the human condition-for our education or lack of it. Imagine people living
in a cavernous cell duwn under the ground; at the far end of the cave, a long
way off, there's an entrance open to the outside world. They've been there
since childhood, with their legs and necks tied up in a way which keeps them
in one place and allows them to look only straight ahead, but not to turn
their heads. Tbere's firelight burning a long way further up the cave behind
them, and up the slope between the fire and the prisoners there's a road,
beside which you should imagine a low wall has been built-like the partition
which conjurors place between themselves and their audience and ahove
which they show their tricks.'
'All right,' he' said.
'Imagine also that there are people on the other side of this wall who are
carrying all sorts of artefacts. 1bese artefacts, human statuettes, and animal
models carved in stone and wood [515] and all kinds of materials stick out
over the wall; and as you'd expect, some of the people talk as they carry these
objects along, while others are silent.'
'This is a strange picture you're painting: he said, '..,.ith strange prisoners.'
They're no different from us,' I said. 'I mean, in the lirst place, do you
think they'd see anything of themselves and one another except the shadows
cast hy the fire on to the cave wall directly opposite them?
'Of course not,' he said. "filey're forced to spend their lives without moving
their heads.'
'And what about the objects which were heing carried along? \\'on't they
only see their shadows as well?'
'Naturally.'
'i\ow, suppose they were able to talk to one another: don't you think they'd
assume that their words applied to what they saw passing by in front of
them?'J
'Thev couldn't think otherwise.'
"And what if sound echoed off the prison wall opposite them? ,",'hen any
of the passers-hy spoke, don't you trunk they'd be bound to assume that the
sound came from a passing shadow?'

2, Glutlcot3. prisuners' delusion, sin<.:c om words really refer to

j. In Platonic turns. this sho~ the extent of tbe types [translator's note].
 REPUBLIC, BUUK VII ! 65

'I'm absolutely certain of it,' he said.

.' i

'All in all, then,' I said, 'the shadows of artefacts would constitutc the only
reality people in this situation would recognize.'
1 'That's absolutely inevitable,' he agreed.
'What do you think would happen, then,' I asked, 'if they were set free
from their bonds and cured of their inanity? What would it be like if they
found that happening to them? Imagine that one of thcm has hccn sct frcc
and is suddenly made to stand up, tu turn his head and walk, and to luuk
towards the firelight. It hurts him to do all this and he's too dazzled to be
capable of making out the objects whose shadows he'd formerly been looking
at. And suppose someone tells him that what he's been seeing all this time
has no substance, and that he's now closer to reality and is seeing more
accurately, because of the greater reality uf the things in front uf his eyes-
what do you imagine his reaction would be? And what do you think he'd say
if he weTC shown any of thc passing objccts and had to respond to being
asked what it was? Don't you think he'd be bewildered and would think that
there was more reality in what he'd been seeing before than in what he was
being shown now?'
,i 'Far more,' he said.
" 'And if he were forced to look at the actual firelight, don't you think it
would hurl his eyes? Don't you think he'd turn away and run back tu the
things he could make out, and would take the truth of the matter to be that
these things are clearer than what he was being shown?'
'Yes,' he agreed.
'And imagine him being dragged forcibly away from there up the rough,
steep slope,' I went un, 'withuut being released until he's been pulled uut
into the sunlight. Wouldn't this treatment cause him pain and distress? [516]
And once he's rcachcd the sunlight, hc wouldn't he able to sec a single one
of the things which are currently taken tu be real, would he, because his eyes
would be overwhelmed by the sun's beams?'
'No, he wouldn't,' he answered, 'not straight away.'
'He wouldn't be able to see things up on the surface of the earth, I suppose,
until he'd got used to his situation. At first, it would be a shadows that he
could most easily make uut, then he'd muve un tu the reflectiuns uf peuple
3i1d so on in water,4 and later he'd be able to see the actual things themselves.
Next, he'd feast his eyes on the heavenly bodies and the heavens themsclves,
which would be easier at night: he'd look at the light of the stars and the
moon, rather than at the sun and sunlight during the daytime.'
'Of course.'
'And at last, I imagine, he'd be able to discern and feast his eyes on the
sun-not the displaced image of the sun in water or elsewhere, but the sun
on its own, in its proper place.'5
'Yes, he'd inevitably come to that,' he said.
'After that, he'd start to think about the sun and he'd deduce that it is the
source of the seasons and the yearly cycle, that the whole of the visible realm

4. The stage of lookin~ at reflections and so on to return to the safety of convention [translator's
outside the c.ave does not differ in terms of objects note].
fram the !'itage nr lonking at the effigies in the ~<Jve. 5. The sun in the allegory is, of c.ourse, goodness
But it differs in thalH is [lOW more difrlcult furune [lnmsl<llur's note].
66 I PLATO

is its domain, and that in a sense everything which he and his peers used to
see is its responsibility.'
'Yes, that would obviously he the next point he'd come to,' he agreed.
'Now, if he recalled the cell where he'd originally lived and what passed
for knowledge there and his former fellow prisoners. don't you think he'd
feel happy about his own altered circumstances, and sorry for them'?'
'Definitely,'
'Suppose that the prisoners used to assign prestige and credit to one
another, in the sense that they rewarded speed at recognizing the shadows
as they passed, and the ability to remember which ones normally come earlier
and later and at the same time as which other ones, and expertise at using
this as a basis for guessing which ones would arrive next. Do you think our
former prisoner would covet these honours and would envy the people who
had status and power there, or would he mueh prefer, as Homer describes
it, "being a slave labouring for someone else-someone without property";
and would put up with anything at all, in fact, rather than share their heliefs
and their life?'
'Yes, I think he'd go through anything rather than live that way,' he said.
'Here's something else I'd like your opinion about; I said. 'If he went back
underground and sat down again in the same spot, wouldn't the sudden
transition from the sunlight mean that his eyes would be overwhelmed by
darkness"
'Certainly,' he replied.
'Now, the process of adjustment would be quite long this time, and sup-
pose that before his eyes had settled down and while he wasn't seeing well,
[517] he had once again to compete against those same old prisoners at
identifying those shadows. Wouldn't he make a fool of himself? Wouldn't
they say that he'd come back from his upward journey with his eyes ruinal,
and that it wasn't even worth trying to go up there? And wouldn't they-if
they could-grah hold of anyone who tried to set them free and take them
up there and kill him?"
']bey certainly would,' he said.
'Well, my dear Glaucon.' I said, 'you should apply this allegory, as a whole,
to what we werc talking about before. The region which is accessible to sight
should be equated with the prison eell, and the firelight there with the light
of the sun. And if you think of the upward journey and the sight of things
np on the surface of the earth as the mind's aseent to the intelligible realm,
you won't be wrong-at least, I tlon't think you'd be wrong, and it's my
impression that you want to hear. Only God knows if it's actually true, how-
ever, Anyway, it's my opinion that the last thing to be seen-and it isn't easy
to see either~in the realm of knowledge is goodness; and the sight of the
character of goodness leads one to deduce that it is responsible for everything
that is right and fine, whatever the circumstances, and that in the visible
realm it is the progenitor of light and of the source of light, anti in the
intelligible realm it is the source and provider of truth and knowledge. And
I also think that the sight of it is a prerequisite for intelligent eon duct either
of one's own private affairs or of public business.'
'I couldn't agree more.,' he said.
(, Ody.'i.'ie)" ll,459 [trau'Slator's note], In Homer, Republic 3,386c (see above), should he cldelt;J
thE' eom.p<lfi'ion is between bf:ing a living I;:lave and 7. As Socrales was killed [translator's no~e!, found
ruling over the dCcHl-<J- p,<!:';liage that, Dccording to guilty of impiety and corrupting Athens' youth,
 REI'UHLlC, BOOK X I 67

'All ri~ht, then,' I said. '\ wonder if you also agree with me in not finding
Jj "".ng, "'" ...,1, who" "",Il,d ,h,re dnn', w,n' ,,, en,." 'n hum."
,

business; there's nowhere else their minds would ever rather be than in the
upper region~which is hardly surprising, if 0t/r allegory has got this aspect
right as welL'
.'No, it's not surprising,' he agreed.
'\Vell, what about this?' I asked.. Imagine someone returning to the human
world and all its misery after contemplating the divine realm, Do you think
it's surprising if he seems awkward and ridiculous while he's still not seeing
well, before he's had time to adjust to the darkness of his situation, and he's
forced into a contest (in a lawcourt or wherever) about the shadows of moral,
ity or the statuettes which cast the shadows, and into a competition whose
terms are the conceptions of morality held by people who have never seen
morality itself?'
'No, that's not surprising in the slightest,' he sait!'
[518] 'In fact anyone with any sense,' I said, 'would remember that the
eyes can become confused in two different ways, as a result of two different
sets of circumstances: it can happen in the transition from light to darkness,
and also in the transition from darkness to light. If he took the same facts
into consideration when he also noticed someone's mind in such a state of
confusion that it was incapable of making anything out, his reaction wouldn't
be unthinking ridicule. Instead, he'd try to find out whether this person's
mind was returning from a mode of existence which involves grealer lucidity
and had been blinded by lhe unfamiliar darkness. or whether it was moving
from relative ignorance to relative lucidity and had been ovel'\vhelmed and
dazzled by the increased brightness. Onee he'd distinguished between the
two eonditions and modes of existence. he'd congratulate anyone he found
in the second state, and feel sorry for anyone in the first state. If he did
choose to laugh at someone in the second stale, his amusement would be
less absurd than when laughter is directed at someone returning from the
light above.
'Yes,' he said, 'you're making a lot of sense,'

From Book X
[5951 'You know,' I said, 'the issue of poelry is the main consideration~
among many olhers~which convinces me that the way we were trying to
found our community was along absolutely the right lines,'
What are you thinking of?' he' asked.
''Ibat we flally refused to admit any representational poetry.' I mean, its
total unacceptability is even clearer, in my opinion, now that we've tUstin-
guished the different aspeets of the mind,'
'How is it clearer?'
'\VeIL this is just hetween ourselves: please don't denounce me to the tragic
playwrights and all lhe other representational poets. But it looks as though
this whole genre of poetry deforms its audienee's minds,' unless lhey have
the antidote, which is recognition of what this kind of poetry is actually like.'
S, CJuw.:on, 3, where Soc:ratcIJ ~n(:nLJrflg('slitemry represent"
9, Tra~edy and epic: ;TISofar as they are lion of hehavior fhal is approprl<lL/.· ,mct good.
the'\' acc by definition n"mowt! frorn l'enlitv. 1_ Poetry ddorms minds in the sense that it feeds
total hnn l;en" spt'nlS to cunlnHii.... 1 Rq.mblic' 2 and our Jov,';;;! mind and, hy virtue,! of the fact that its
68 / PLATO

'What do you mean? \Vhat do you have in mind?' he asked.

'iL's fairly clear.' I said, 'that all these fine tragedians trace their lineage
back to Homer: they're Homer's students and disciples, ultimately, And this
makes it difficult for me to say what I have to say, because I've had a kind
of fascinated admiration for Homer ever since I was young. Still, we should
value truth more than we valuc any person, so, as I say, I'd better speak out.'
'Yes,' he said.
'And you'll listen to what I have to say, or rather respond to any questions
I ask?'
'Yes. Go ahead and ask them.'
'Can you tell me what representation hasically is? You see, I don't quite
understand its point myself.'
'And I suppose I do!' he said.
'It wouldn't surprise me if you did,' I said, 'Just hecause a person can't see
very well, it doesn't mean that [596] he won't often see things before people
with better eyesight than him.'
'That's true,' he said. 'All the same, I'd be too shy to explain any views I
did have in front of you, so please try to come up with an answer yourself.'
'All right. Shall we get the enquiry going hy drawing On familiar ideas? Our
usual position is, as you know, that any given plurality of things which have
a single name constitutes a single specific type.' Is that clear to you?'
4Yes.'
'So now let's take any plurality you want. Would it be all right "ith you if
we said that there were, for instance, lots of he(ls and tables?'
'Of course.'
'But these items of furniture comprise only two types-the type of bed
and the type of tahle.'
'Yes/
'Now, we also invariably claim that the manufacture of eithcr of these
items of furniture involvcs thc craftsman looking to the type and then making
the beds or tables (or whatever) which we use, The point is that the type
itself is not manufactured by any craftsman. How could it be?'
'It couldn't.'
'There's another kind of craftsman too. I wonder what yoU think of him.'
'What kind?' .
'He makes everything-all the items which every single manufacturer
makes.'
'He must he extraordinarily gifted.'
'Wait: you haven't heard the half of it yet. It's not just a case of his being
able to manufacture all the artefacts there arc: every plant too, every creature
(himself included), the earth, the heavens, gods, and everything in the heav-
ens and in Hades under the earth-all these are made and created hy this
one man!J
'He really must be extraordinarily clever,' he said.
'Don't you believe me?' I asked. 'Tell me, do you doubt that this kind of
craftsman could exist under any circumstances, or do you admit the possi-
bility that a person could-in one sense, at least-create all these things? I

lator's noteJ.
2, That is , the Idea or Form,
 RCPLIlLlC, BOOK X J 69

mean, don't you realize that you yourself could, under certain circumstances,
creatc all these things?'
''vVhat circumstances?' he asked,
Tm not talking about an}thing complicated or rare,' I said, 'It doesn't take
long to create the circumstances. The quickest method, r suppose, is to gct
hold of a mirror and carry it around with you everywhere, You'll soon be
crcating everything] mentioned a moment ago--the sun and the heavenly
bodies, the earth, yourself, and all other creatures, plants, and so on,'
'Yes, but I'd be creating appearances, not actual real things,' he said.
'That's a good point,' I said. 'You've arrived just in time to save thc argu·
ment. I mean, that's presumably the kind of craftsman a painter is, Yes?'
'Of course.'
'His creations aren't real. according to you; but do you agree that all the
same there's a sense in which even a painter creates a bed?'
'Yes,' he said, 'hc's another one who creates an apparent bed.'
[597] 'What about a joiner who specializcs in making beds? Weren't we
saying a short while ago that what he makes is a particular bed, not the type,
which is (on our vicw) the real bed?'
'Yes, we were.'
'So if there's no reality to his creation, then it isn't real; it's similar to
something real, but it isn't actually real. It looks as though it's wrong to
attribute fuJI reality to a joiner's or any artisan's product, doesn't it?'
'Yes,' he said, 'any serious student of this kind of argument would agree
with you.'
'It 'shouldn't surprise us, then, if we find that even tbese products are
obscure when compared with tbe truth.'
'No. it shouldn't.'
'Now, what about this represcnter we're trying to understand? Shall we
see if these examples hell' us?' I asked.
'That's fine by me,' he said,
'Well, we've got these three beds. First, there's the real one, and wc'd say,
I imagine, that it is the product of divine craftsmanship. I mean, who else
could have made it?'
'No one, surely.'
'Then there's the one the joiner makes,'
'Yes,' hc said.
'And then there's the one the painter makes. Yes?'
'Yes, agreed.'
'These three, thcn-painter, joiner, God-are responsihle for three differ·
ent kinds of bed.'
'Yes, that's right.'
'Now, God has produced only that one real hed. The restriction to only
one might have been his oVl-n choice, or it might just he impossible for him
to make more than one. But God never has, and never could, create two or
more such beds:
'Why not)' he asked.
'Eve;' if he were to make only two such beds,' I said, 'an extra one would
emerge, and both the other two would be of that one's type. It, and not the
two beds, would be the real bed.'
'Right,' he said.
70 ! PLATO

'God realized this, I'm sure. He didn't want to be a kind of joiner, making
a particular bed: he wantcd to be a genuine creMor and make a genuine bcd.
That's why he created a single real one:
'I supposc that's right:
'Shall we call him its progenitor, then, or something like that?'
'Yes, he deserves the name: he said, 'since hc's the maker of this and every
other realitv:
'Wbat ab'out a joiner? Shall we call him a manufacturer of beds?'
'Yes:
'And shall we also call a painter a manufacturer and maker of beds and so
on?'
'No, definitely not:
'\'v11at do you think he does with heds, then?'
'I think thc most suitable thing to call him would be a representer of the
others' cre"tions; he said.
'\Vell, in that case: 1 said, 'you'rc using thc term "representer" for someone
who deals with things which arc, in fact, two generations away frum reality,
aren't you?'
'Yes.' he said.
The same goes for tragic playwrights, then, since they're ",presenter"
they're two generations away from thc throne of truth, and so are all other
representers.'
'I suppose so.'
'\Vell, in the context of what we're now say~ng about representation, I've
got a further question about painters. [598] [s it, in any given instance, thc
actual reality that thcy try to represent, or is it the craftsmen's products?'
The craftsmen's products.' he said.
'Here's another distinction you'd bettcr make: do thcy try to represcnt
thcm as they are, or as they appear to be?'
'What do vou mean?' he asked.
'I'll tell y~u. Whether you look at a bed from the sidc or straight on or
whatever, it's still just as much a bcd as it ever was, isn't it? 1 mean, it duesn't
actually alter it at all: it just appears to be different, doesn't it? And the same
goes for anything else you can mention. Yes?'
'Yes: he agrced, 'It seems different, but isn't actually:
'So r want you to comider carefully which uf these two alternatives paint.
ing is designed for in any and every instance. Is it designed to reprcsent the
facts of the real world or appearances? Does it represent "ppearance or
truth?'
'Appearance,' he said.
'It follows that representation and truth are a considerablc distance apart,
and a representer is capable of making every produet there is only hecause
his contact with things is slight anti is restrictcd to how they look. Consider
what a painter does, for instance: we'rc saying that he doesn't have a elue
ahout shoemaking or joinery, but he'll still paint pictures of artisans working
at these and all other areas of expertise, and ifhe's good at painting he might
paint a joiner, have people look at it from far away, and deceive them-if
they're childrcn or stupid adults-by making it look as though the joiner
were real.'
'Naturally.'
 REPUBliC, BOOK X ! j]

'I think the important thing to bear in mind about cases like this, Glaucon,
is that when people tell us they've met someone who's mastered every craft,
and is the world's leading expert in ahsolutely every branch of human knowl-
edge, we should reply that they're bein~rather silly. They seem to have met
the kind of illusionist who's expert at representation and, thanks to their own
inability to evaluate knowledge, ignorance, and representation, to have been
so thoroughly taken in as to believe in his omniscience.'
'You're absolutely right,' he said.
'Now, we'd better investigate tragedy next,' I said, 'and its guru, Homer,
because one does come across the claim that there's no area of expertise,
and nothing relevant to human goodoess and badness either-and nothing
to do with the gods even-that these poets don't understand. It is said thaI
a good poet must understand the issues he writes about, if his writing is to
be successful, and that if he didn't understand them. he wouldn't he able to
write about them. So we'd better try to decide between the alternatives.
Either the people who come across lhese representational poets are being
taken in and are failing to appreciate, when they see their products, that
these products are [5991 two steps away from realily and that it certainly
doesn't take knowledge of the truth to create them (since what they're cre-
ating are appearances, not reality); or this view is valid, and in fact good
poets are authorities on the subjects most people are convinced they're good
at writing about,'
'Yes, this definitely needs looking into,' he said.
Well, do you think that anyone who was capable of producing both orig-
inals and images would devote his energy to making images, and would make
out that this is the best thing he's done with his life?'
'No, I don't.'
'I'm sure that if he really knew about the things he was copying in his
representations, be'd put far more effort into producing real objects than he
would into representations, and would try to leave behind a lot of fine prod-
ucts for people to remember him by, and would dedicate himself to being
the recipient rather than the best ower of praise.'
'I agree,' he said. 'He'd gain a lot more prestige and do himself a great deal
more good.'
'\Vell, let's concentrate our interrogation of Homer (or any other pact you
like) on a single area. Let's not ask him whether he can lellus of any patients
cured by any poet in ancient or modem times. as Asclepius' cured his
patients, or of any students any of them left to continue his work, as Ascle-
pius left his sons, And even thesc questions grant the possibility that a poet
might have had some medical knowledge, instead of merely representing
medical terminology. No, let's not bother to ask him about any other areas
of expertise either. But we do have a righl to ask Homer about the most
important and glorious areas he undertakes to expound -warfare, tactics,
politics, and human education. Let's ask him, politely, "Homer, maybe yOll
aren't two steps away from knowing the trutb about goodness; maybe you
aren't involved in the manufacture of images (which is what we called rep-
resentation). Perhaps you're actually only one step away, and you do have
the ability to recognize whicb practices-in their private or their public

3. Hero and p;od of healing (in the Wad, a mnrtill).

72 PLATO

lives-improve people and which ones impair them. But in that case, just as
Sparta has its Lycurgus' and communities of all different sizes have their
various refomlers, please tcll us which community has yOll to thank for
improvements to its government. \Vhich community attributes the benehts
of its good legal code to you? Italy and Sicily namc Cbarondas in this respect,
wc Athenians name Solon.' \Vhich country names you?" \ViII he have any
reply to make?'
'I don't think so: said Glaucon. 'Even the Homeridae'· themselves don't
make that claim.'
[600] 'Well, does history record that there was any war fought in Homer's
time whose succcss dcpcnded on his leadership or advice?'
<No.'
'Well then, are a lot of ingenious invcntions attributed to him, as they are
to Thales of Miletus and Anacharsis of Scythia?' I mean the kinds of inven-
tions which have practical applications in the arts and crafts and elsewhere,
He is, after all, supposed to be good at creating things.'
'No, there's not the slightest hint of that sort of thing.'
'All rigbt, so there's no evidence of his having been a public benefactor,
but what ahout in private? Is there any evidence that, during his lifetime, he
was a mentor to people, and that they used to value him for his teaching and
then handed down to their suCCessors a particular Homeric way of life? This
is what happened to Pythagoras:' he wasn't only held in extremely high
regard for his teaching during his lifetime, but his succeSSOrs cven now call
their way of life Pythagorean and somchow seem to stand out from all other
people.'
'No, there's no hint of that sort of tbing either,' he said, 'I mean, Homer's
associate Creophylus'· cultural attainments would tum out to be even more
derisory than his name suggests they are, Socrates, if the stories ahout Homer
are true. You see, Creophylus is said to have more or less disregarded Homer
during his lifetime.'
'Yes, that is what we're told,' I agreed. 'But, Glaucon, if Homer really had
been an educational expert whose products were betler people-which is to
say, if he had knuwledge in this sphere and his abilities were not limited to
representation-don't you think he'd havc been surrounded by hordes of
associates, who wuuld have admired him and valued his company highly?
Look at Protagoras of Abdera, Prodicus of Ceos,' and all the rest of them:
they can use their exclusive tuition to make their contemporaries believe that
without them in charge of their education they won't be capable of managing

-L TradHi.QnaJ founder of tbe Spartan political, dorn: he v.'U~ ';laid to have invented the potter's
sudal, and legal SrStems, wheel. "1hales {6th c. lS,C.F.J .?puted fnunJer of
5, Athenian statesman and poet (ca. 63B-559 geometry amI physical science, whu cukululed
H.eL) who reformed the citv'.;, CflnstitlltiOn. Char" eclipses nnd "lis\:overt-.J thc solstke,
ondas (6th ('. Juwgiv~r of C::ltana and other 8, Creek philosopher and mathematician (6th c,
culunies of Chalcis Sicily M,C,b,),
6. The "J;Uilcr of people who claimed dCi":cent 9. Gmek poet:; his name literally means "me!Jt~
from Homer, in the ...en!>? of maintaining nod per kin," Gbw:un\: me,wing is that meat was a more
petllDting his poem~, also claimed inside knowl· important part of a coarse athlete's diet than a cul-
I:Jgr: of uJ] aspects of the poet's life and tured intellectual's; and it would have heen a sign
perpetuated a lot of apocryphal tales ahout hIm of culture on C.eophylus's part not to Iwve
[translator's note]. Homeridae literally Ill.cans neglected his mentor [transllftur's nUli:],
"Sons of Ilomer." 1, Greek sophist, a contemporary of Socrates, Pro-
7. Scythian prince (61h t::. n.eL) who tnn'dcd tagoras (5th c. 1l.C.E,), Greek philosopher, one of
widely i.n CrecC(' and gained a reputatIon for \'\'is- the most successful of the sophists
 REPUBLIC, BOOK X I 73

their own estates, let alone their communities, and they're so appreciated
for this expertise of theirs that their associates almost carry them around on
their heads.' So if Homer or Hesiod had been able to help people's moral
development, would their contemporaries have allowed them to go from
town to tOVl'l1 reciting their poems? Wouldn't they have kept a tighter grip
on them than on their money, and tried to force them to stay with them in
their homes? And if they couldn't persuade them to do that, wouldn't they
have danced attendance on them wherever they went, until they'd gained as
much from their teaching as they could?'
'I don't think anyone could disagree with you, Socrates,' he said.
'So shall we classify all poets, from Homer onwards. as representers of
images of goodness (and of everything else which occurs in their poetry),
and claim that they don't have any contact ,,'ith the truth? The facts arc as
we said a short while ago: a painter creates an illusory shoemaker, when not
only docs he not understand anythiog about shoemaking, [6011 but his audi,
ence doesn't either, They.just base their conclusions on the colours and
shapes they can see.'
·Yes.'
'And 1 should think we'll say that the same goes for a poet as well: he uses
words and phrases to block in some of the colours of each area of expertise,
although all he understands is how to represent things in a way which makes
other superficial people, who base their conclusions on the words they can
hear, think that he's written a really good poem about shoemaking or military
command or whatever else it is that he's set to metre, rhythm, and music. It
only takes these features to cast this powerful a spell: that's what they're for.
But when the poets' work is stripped of its musical hues and expressed in
plain words, 1 think you've seen what kind of impression it gives, so you know
what I'm talking about.'
'I do,' he said.
'Isn't it,' I asked, 'like what noticeably happens when a young man has
alluring features, without actually being good-looking, and then this charm
of his deserts him?'
'Exactly,' he said.
'Now, here's another point to consider. An image-maker, a representer,
understands only appearance, while reality is beyond him. Isn't that our posi-
tion?'
. 'Yes.'
'Let's not leave the job half done: let's ~ive this idea the consideration it
deserves.'
.,'Go on,' he said.
'What a painter does, we're saying, is paint a picture of a horse's reins and
a bit. Yes?'
'Yes,'
'While they're made by a saddler and a smith, aren't they?'
'Yes.'
'Does a painter know what the reins and the bit have to be like? Surely
.}'""

i:: As effigk-s and images of the ~ods were carried through the streels dUring a ritual pruccssion [tnmslator's
~,F..oteJ.
even their makers, the smith and the saddler, don't know this, do they? Only
the horseman does, becausc he's the one who knows how (0 make use of
them,'
'You're quite right.'
'In fact, won't we claim that it's a general principle?'
'Wl1at?'
That whatever the object, there are three areas of expertise: usage, man-
ufacture, and reprcsentation.'
'Yes,'
'Now, is there any other standard by which onc assesses the goodness,
fineness, and rightness of anything (whether it's a piece of equipmcnt or a
creature or an adidty) than the use for which it was madc, by man or by
nature?'
'No,'
'It's absolutely inevitable, then, that no one knows the ins and outs of any
object morc than the person who makes use of it. He has to be the one to
tell the manufacturer how well or badly the object he's using fares in actual
usage. i\ pipe-player,3 for example, tells a pipe-maker which of his pipes do
what they're supposed to do when actually played, and goes On to instruct
him in what kinds of pipes to make, and the pipe-maker docs what he's told,'
'Of course,'
'So as far as good and bad pipes arc concerned, it's a knowledgeable person
who gives the orders, while the other obeys the orders and does the manu-
facturing, Right?'
·Yes. l

'Justified confidence, then, is what a pipe-maker has about goodness and

badness (as a result of spending time with a knowledgeable person and
having to listen to him), while knowledge is the province [602] of the person
who makes use of the pipes.'
'Yes.'
'Which of these two categories does our represcnter belong to? Does he
acquire knowledge about whether or not what he's painting is good or right
from making use of the object, or does he acquire true helief because of
having to spend time "dth a knowledgeable person and being told what to
paint?'
'He doesn't fit either case.'
'As far as goodness and badness are concerned, then, a representer doesn't
have either knowledge or true heliefs about whatever it is he's representing.'
'Apparently not.'
'How nicely placed" poetic representcr is, then, to know what he's writing
ahout!'
'Not really,'
':"10, hecause all the same, despite his ignorance of the good and bad
aspects of things, he'll go on representing them, But what he'll be repre-
senting, apparently, is whatever appeals to a large, if ignorant, audience.'
'T\aturallv.'
'Here ar~ the points we seem to have reached a reasonable measure of
agreemcnt on, then: a representer knows nothing of value about the things
 REPCBLlC, BOOK X 75

he represents; representation is a kind of game, and shouldn't be taken seri-

ously; and those who compose tragedies in iambic and epic verse4 are, with-
out exception, outstanding examples of representers.'
'Yes.'
'So the prmince of representation is indeed two steps removed from truth,
isn't it?' I said.
'Yes.'
'But on which of the many aspects of a person does it exert its intluencc?'
, 'What are you getting at?'
'Something like this, One and the same object appears to vary in size
depending on whether we're looking at it from close up or far away.'
j)Yes. 1

'And the same objects look both bent and straight depending on whether
we look at them when they're in water or out of it, ami both concave and
convex because sight gets misled by colouring, Our mind obviously contains
the potential for every single kind of confusion likc this. It's because illusory
painting aims at this affliction in our natures that it can only be described
as sorcery; and the same goes for conjuring and all trickery of that sort.'
'True.'
'Now, methods have evolved of combating this-measuring, counting, and
weighing are the most elegant of them-and consequently of ending the
reign vvithin us of apparent size, number, and weight, and replacing them
with something which calculates and measures, or even weighs, Right?'
'Of course.'
'And this, of course, is the job of the rational part of the mind, which is
capable of performing calculations.'
'r'Yes.'
'Now, it's not uncommon for the mind to have made its measurements,
and to be reporting that x is larger than y (or smaller than it, or the same
size as it), but still to be receiving an impression which contradicts its mea-
surements of these very objects.'
·Yes.'
'Well, didn't we say that it's impossible for a single thing to hold contra-
~tbry beliefs at the same time about the same objects?'
f,'Yes, we ,lid, and we were right.'
[603] 'So the part of the mind whose views run counter to the measure-
ments must be different from the part whose views fall in with the measure-
ments.'
,,;,Yes,'
'But it's the best part of the mind which accepts measurements and cal-
culations.'
'Of course,'
, ,The part which opposes them, therefore, must be a low-grade part of the
mind.'
;" 'Necessarilv.'
'Well, alilhal I've been sa~ing has been intended to bring us to the point
where we can agree that not only does painting-or rather representation in
4. The meter or epic:,> h clUd),lk h(;xumcLcr (01 on the syllabic pattern short-long) was the most
6·fool line baseu on the syllabiC patterns long- common meter of dialogue and set speeches in
short-short); iambiC trimeter (a 3-foot line based trdgedies.
76 I PLATO

general-produce a product which is far from truth, but it also forms a close,
warm, affectionate relationship ,'Vith a part of uS which is, in its turn, far
from intelIigence. And nothing healthy or authentic ean emerge from this
relationship.'
'Absolutely,' he said.
'A low-grade mother like representation, then, and an equally low-grade
father produce low-grade children.'
'I suppose that's right.'
'Does this apply only to visual representation,' I asked, 'or to aural repre-
sentation as well-in other words, to poetry?'
'I suppose it applies to poetry as welI,' he said.
'\\lell, we'd better not rely on mere suppositions based on painting,' I said.
'Let's also get close enough to that part of the mind which poetic represen-
tation consorts with to see whether it's of low or high quality.'
'Yes. we should.'
'We'd better start by ha'Ving certain ideas out in the open. We'd say that
representational poetry represents people doing things, willingly or unvdl-
ingly, and afterwards thinking that theyve been successful or unsuccessful,
and throughout feeling distressed or happy. Have I missed anything out?'
'No, nothing.'
'Well, does a person remain internally unanimous throughout all this? We
found that, in the case of sight, there's conflict and people have contradictory
views within themselves at the same time about the same objects. Is it like
that when one is doing things too? Is there internal conflict and dissent~ But
it occurs to me that there's really no need for us to decide where we stand
on this issue now, because we've already done so, perfectly adequately, in an
earlier phase of the discussion,' when we concluded that, at any given
moment, our minds are teeming with countless thousands of these kinds of
contradictions.'
That's right,' he said.
'Yes,' I said. 'But that earlier discussion of ours was incomplete, and I think
it's crucial that we finish it off now.'
'Wbat have we left out?' he asked.
'If a good man meets with a misfortune such as losing a son or something
else he values very highly, we've already said, as you know, that he'll endure
this better than anyone else.
(Yes.'
'But here's something for us to think about. WiII he feel no grief, or is that
impossible? If it's impossible, is it just that he somehow keeps his pain v'Vithin
moderate bounds?'
The second alternative is closer to the truth,' he said.
[604] 'But now I've got another question for you about him. Do you think
he'll be more likely to fight and resist his distress when his peers can see
him. or when he's all alone by himself in some secluded spot?'
'He'll endure pain far better when there are people who can see him, of
course,' he said.
'\\'hen he's all alone, however, I imagine he won't stop himself expressing

5. In Republic 4.439b..·444a, where Sot:'tates argues that each mind or soul is: dhidecl into three dislind
and sometimes warring part!> (the ratiunaL the spirited, and the desiring),
 REPUBLIC, BOOK X I 77

a,lot of things he'd be ashamed of anyone hearing, and doing a lot of things
he'd hate anyone to see him do.'
'That's right,' he agreed.
":lsn't it the case that reason and convention recommend resistance, while
~he actual event pushes him towards distress?'
'frue.'
'When a person is simultaneously pulled in opposite directions in response
to a &ingle object, we're bound to conclude that he has two sides.'
" 'Of course.'
'One of which is prepared to let convention dictate the proper course of
action, isn't it?'
'Can you explain how?'
'Convention tells us, as you know, that it's best to remain as unruffled as
possible when disaster strikes and not to get upset, on the grounds that it's
never clear whether an incident of this nature is good Or bad, that nothing
positive is gained by taking it badly, that no aspect of human life is worth
bothering about a great deal, and that grief hlocks our access to the very
thing we need to have available as quickly as possible in these circumstances.'
'What do you have in mind?' he asked.
'The ability to think about the incident,' I replied, 'and, under the guidance
of reason, to make the best possible use of one's situation, as one would in
a game of dice when faced ~ith how the dice had fallen. \;V1,en children
bump into things, they clutch the hurt spot and spend time crying; instead
of behaving like that, we should constantly be training our minds to waste
no time before trying to heal anything which is unwell, and help anything
which has fallen get up from the floor-to banish mourning by means of
medicine.'
'Yes, that's the best way to deal with misfortune,' he said.
.'Now, Our position is that the best part of our minds is perfectly happy to
be guided by reason like this.' '
That goes without saying.'
"Whereas there's another part of our minds which urges us to remember
the bad times and to express our grief, and which is insatiably greedy for
tears. What can we say about it? That it's incapable of listening to reason,
that it can't face hard work, that it goes hand in hand with being frightened
ofhardship7'
'Yes, that's right.'
'Now, although the petulant part of us is rich in a variety of representable
possibilities, the intelligent and calm side of our characters is pretty well
llimstant and unchanging. This makes it not only difficult to represent, but
also difficult to understand when it is represented, particularly when the
audience is the kind of motley crowd you find crammed into a theatre,
be£ause they're simply not acquainted with the experience that's being rep-
resented to them.' .
f605] 'Absolutely.'
, .'Evidently, then, a representational poet has nothing to do with this part
of tile mind: his skill isn't made for its pleasure, because otherwise he'd lose
his popular appeal. He's concerned with the petulant and varied side of our
. s:haracters, because it's easy to represent.'
'b', 'Obviously.'
78 I PLATO

'So we're now in a position to see that we'd be perfectly justified in taking
hold of him and placing him in the same category as a painter. He resembles
a painter because his creations fall short of truth, and a further point of
resemblance is that the part of the mind he communicates with is not the
best part, but something else, Now we can see how right we'd be to refuse
him admission into any community which is going to respect convention,
because now we know which part of the mind he wakes up. He destroys the
rational part by feeding and fattening up this other part, and this is equivalent
to someone destroying the more civilized members of a community by pre-
senting ruffians with political power, There's no difference, we'll claim,
between this and wbat a representational poet docs: at a personal level, he
establishes a bad system of government in people's minds by gratifying their
irrational side, which can't even recognize what size things are-an object
which at one moment it calls big, it might call small the next moment-by
creating images, and by being rar removed from truth,'
'Yes.'
'However, we haven't yet made. the most serious allegation against repre-
sentational poetry. It has a terrifying capacity for deforming even good peo-
ple, Only a very few escape,'
'Yes, that is terrifying. Does it really do that?'
'Here's my evidence: you can make up your mind. \Vhen Homer or another
tragedian represents the grief of one of the heroes, they have him deliver a
lengthy speech of lamentation or even have him sing a dirge and beat his
breast; and when we listen to all this, even the best of us, as I'm sure you're
aware, feels pleasure. We surrender ourselves, let ourselves be carried along,
and share the hero's pain; and then we enthuse about the skill of any poet
who makes us feel particularly strong feelings,'
'Yes, rill aware of this, of course,'
·Howeve.r, you also appreciate that when we're aHlieted by trouble in our
own lives, then we take pride in the opposite-in our ability to endure pain
without being upset. VIe think that this is manly behaviour, and that only
women behave in the way we were sanctioning earlier,'
'I realize that,' he said.
'So,' I said, 'instead of being repulsed by the sight of the kind of person
we'd regret and deplore being oursel"e.s, we enjoy the spectacle and sanction
it. Is this a proper way to behave?'
'No, it certainly isn't,' he said. 'It's pretty unreasonahle, I'd say,'
[6061 'I agree,' I said, 'and here's even more evidence.'
'What?'
'Consider this. What a poet satisfies and gratifies on these occasions is an
aspect of ourselves which we forcibly restrain when tragedy strikes our own
lives--an aspect which hungers after tears and the satisfaction of having
cried until one can cry no more, since that is what it is in its nature to want
to do. When the part of us which is inherently good has been inadequately
trained in habits enjoined by reason, it relaxes its guard over this other part,
the part which feels sad. Other people, not ourselves, are feeling these feel-
ings, we tell oursel"es, and it's no disgrace for us to sanction such behaviour
and feel sorry for someone who, even while claiming to be good, is over-
indulging in grief; and, we think, we are at least profiting from the pleasure,
and there's no point in thrm<ing away the pleasure by spurning the whole
 REPUBLIC, BOOK X I 79

poem or play. You see, few people have the ability to work out that we our-
selves are bound to store the harvest we reap from others: these occasions
feed the feeling of sadness until it is too strong for us easily to restrain it
when hardship occurs in our own lives.'
'You're absolutely right,' he said,
'And doesn't the same go for humour as well? If there are amusing things
which you'd be ashamed to do yourself, but which give you a great deal of
pleasure when you see them in a cornie representation or hear about them
in private company-when you don't find them loathsome and repulsive('-
then isn't this exactly the same kind of behaviour as we uncovered when
talking about feeling sad? There's a part of you which wants to make people
laul(h, but your reason restrains it, because you're afraid of being thought a
.'Ulgar clown. Nevertheless, you let it havc its way on those other occasions.
and yoo don't realize that the almost inevitable result of giving it energy in
this other context is that you become a comedian in your own life:
'Yes, that's verY true,' he said.
'And the same'goes for sex, anger, and all the desires and feelings of plea-
sure and distress which, we're saying, accompany everything we do: poetic
representation has the same effect in all these cases too. It irrigates and tends
to these things when they should be left to wither, and it makes them our
rulers when they should be our suhjeets, because otherwise we won't live
better and happier lives, but quite the opposite:
'I can't deny the truth of what you're saying,' he said,
'Therefore, Glaucon,' I went on, 'when you comc across people praising
Homer and sa)~ng that he is the poet who has educated Greece,' that hc's a
good source for people to learn how to manage their affairs and gain culture
in their lives, and that one should structure the whole of one's life in accor-
dance ,,~th his precepts, [607J you ought to be kind and considerate: after
all, they're doing the best they can. You should concede that Homer is a
supreme poet and the original tragedian, but you should also recognize that
the only poems we can admit into our community arc hymns to the gods and
eulogies of virtuous men. If you admit the entertaining Muse of lyric and
epic poetry, then instead of law and the shared acceptance of reason as the
best gUide, the kings of your community will be pleasure and pain.'
'You're quite right,' he agreed.
, 'So,' I said, 'since we've been gh~ng poetry another hearing, there's our
defence: given its nature, we had good grounds fur banishing it earlier from
our community. Nu rational person could have done any different. However,
poetry might accuse Us of insensitivity and lack of culture, so we'd better
also tell her that thcre's an ancient qllarrel between poetry and philosophy.
There are cuuntless pieces of evidence for this enmity between thcm, but
here are just a few: there's that "bitch yelping and baying at her maste.r";
there's "featuring prominently in the idle chatter of fools"; there's "control
by a crowd of know-ails"; there are those wbose "suhtle notions" lead them
to realize that they do indeed have "nutional incomes"," All the same. we

6. It is important to remember in this paragmph dayeonsidered no essential It<lrt of om;':; etlucl:luun,

that Greek Old COIll€dy relied extr(':mely heavilyon nut only as poctry, but as a source of wisdom.
very crude sexual humor [lrandalor\; noteJ. morality, and all kinds of information. This is the
7. Herrnlotus said that Humer and Hesiod had backAround to Plato's attack [translator's note].
• dClicribt."<l the form and function of the gods for 8. \Ve know the author of none of these snfltches
Ii the Greeks. In general, Homer was still inPlato's rtnmslntor's [JOle]
of H'ls,e
f!
80 I PLATO

ought to point out that if the kinds of poetry and representation which are
designed merely to give pleasure can come up with a rational argument for
thcir inclusion in a well-governed community, we'd be delighted-short of
compromising the truth as we see it, which wouldn't be right-to bring them
back from exile; after all, we know from oUr own experience all about thcir
spell, I mean, haven't you ever fallen undcr the spell of poetry, Glaucon,
especially when the spcctaele is provided by Homer?'
'1 certainlv have:
'Under th~se circumstances, then, if our allegations met a poetic rebuttal
in lyTic verse or whatever, would we be justified in letting poetry return?'
iYes.'
'And I soppose we'd also allow people who champion poetry because they
like it, even though they can't compose it, to speak on its behalf in prose,
and to try to prove that there's more to poetry than mere pleasure-that it
also has a beneficial effect on society and on human life in general. And we
won't listen in a hostile frame of mind, bceause we'll be the winners if poetry
turns out to be heneficial as well as enjoyable.'
'Of course we will,' he agreed,
'And if it doesn't, Glaucon, then we'll do what a lover does when he thinks
that a love affair he's involved in is no good for him: he reluctantly detaches
himself. Similarly, since we've been conditioned by our wonderful societies
untll we have a deep-seated love for this kind of poetry, 1608] we'll be
delighted if there proves to he nothing better and closer to the troth tban it.
As long as it is incapable of rebutting our allegations, however, then whlle
we listen to poetry we'll be chanting these allegations of ours to ourselves as
a precautionary incantation against being caught once more by that childish
and pervasive love. Our message will be that the commitment appropriate
for an important matter with access to the troth shouldn't be given to this
kind of poetry. People should, instead, be worried about the possible effects,
on one's own inner political system, of listening to it and should tread cau-
tiously; and they should let our arguments guide their attitude towards
poetry:
'1 couldn't agree more,' he said.
'You see, my dear Glaucon,' 1 said, 'what's in the balance here is absolutely
crucial-far more so than people think. It's whether one becomes a good or
a bad person, and consequcntly has the calibre not to be distracted hy pres-
tige, wealth. political power, or even poetry from applying oneself to morality
and whatever else goodness involves.'
'Looking back over our discussion,' he said, 'I can only agree with you.
And I think anyone else would do the same as well.'

ca. 375 II.C.E.

 Pl!1\EDRuS 81

From Phaedrus 1

!l •
r SOCRATES; \Vell, Ihen, that's enough ahout artfulness and artlessness in
., connection wilh spe.king.
PHAEDRUS: Quite.
SOCMTES; \Vhat's left, then, is aptness and ineptness in conneclion with
I writing: \\Ibat feature makes writing good, .nd whal inepl? Righi?
PHAEIJRUS; Yes.
SOCMTES; Well, do yOll know how hesllo plea,;e god when you either use
words or discuss them in general?
PHAEDRUS: Not at all. Do you?
SOCMTES: I can tell you whal I've heard the ancients said, though they
alone know the truth. However, if we could discover that ourselves, would
we still care about the speculations of other people?
PHAEDRUS: lbat's a silly queslion. Still, tell me whal you say you've heard.
SOCRATES: \Vell, this is whal I've heard. Among the ancient gods of Nau-
cratis in Egypt there was one to whom the hird called the ibis is sacred. The
name of Ihat divinity was Theuth/ and it was he who first discovered numher
and calculation, geometry and astronomy, as well as the games of checkers
and dice, and, above all else, writing.
Now the king of all Egypt at that lime was Thamus, who lived in the great
city in Ihe upper reRion that the Greeks call Egyptian Thehes; Thamus they
call Ammon,' Tl,eulh came to exhibit his arts to him and urged him to dis-
seminate them 10 all the Egyptians. Thamus asked him ahout the usefulncss
of each art, and while Theuth was explaining it, Thamus praised him for
whatever he thought was right in his explanations and criticized him for
whatever he thoughl was wrong.
The story goes that Thamu. said much to Theuth, both for and against
each art, which it would take too long to repeat. BUI when they came to
writing, Theuth said; "0 King, here is something thai, once learned, will
make the Egyptians wiser and will improve Iheir memory; I have discovered
a polion for memory and for wisdom." Thamus, however, replied; ';0 most
expert Theuth, one man can give birth 10 the elements of an arl, bul only
another call judge how they can henefit or harm Ihose who will use them.
And now, [275] since you are the falher of writing. your affection for it has
made you describe its effeels as the opposite of what they really are. In facl,
it will introduce forgetfulness inlo the soul of those who learn it: they will
not practice using their memory because they will put their trust in writing,
which is external and depends on signs that helong to others, instead of trying
to remember from the inside, complelely on their own. You have not discov-

L Tnmslated hy AleXilodt-r :'\ehamas amI Paul L Also krwwn as Thodi, whom lht~ Grt'€ks iden-
\\'omlruff. The participants In the dialogue are the tified with Hermes, rhe ffil':.sengcr of the gods,
philosopher Socrates (469-399 B,C.E., Plato's Naucratis: a Greek trading t:olony in Lcf,YlJC The
spokespt.'rsnfl) and PhacJnls (<;-U. 4.:;0-400 H.C.I:. J, following story! ....·hkh re""'1)rks. elements of Cref':k
a Socratic' philosopher, The numbers in square and tgypU,tn Ol},thoIogy, j<; proL'lbly an invention
bracke.ts are the Stt.:phanus numbers used a!most of Pli'ltD's.
univer$dly in citing Plato's w()rk.... ; thvy refer to the 3, Chief F;OJ. of the Egyptinns, identified by the
pages of ;d 1578, ediiion published hy Ht.·nri (;reek'j with an 9.spet:t of Leu5.
Estienn•.:.
82 ! PLATO

ered a potion for remembering, but for reminding; you provide your students
\\1th the appearance of wisdom, not with its reality, Your invention will ena-
hie them to hear many things without being properly taught, and they will
imagine that they have come to know much whilc for the most part they will
know nothing, And they wil! be difficult to get along with, since they will
merely appear to be wise instead of really being so."
PHAEDRUS: Socrates, you're very good at making up stories from EIDpt or
wherever else yOll wantl
SOCRATES: But, my friend, the priest of thc tcmple of Zeus at Dodona' say
that the first prophedes were the words of an oak. Everyone who lived at
that time, not being as wise as you young ones are today, fOllnd it rewarding
enough in their simplicity to listen to an oak or even a stone, so long as it
was telling the truth, while it seems to make a difference to you, Phaedrus,
who is speaking and where he comes from. \Vhy, though, don't you just
consider whether what he says is right or wrong?
PHAEDRllS: I deserved that, Socrates. And I agree that the Theban king
was correct about writing.
SOCR>\TES: Well, then, those who think thev can leave written instructions
for an art, as well as those who accept them, 'thinking that writing can yield
results that are clear or certain, mllst be quite naive and truly ignorant of
Ammon's prophetic judgment: othem1se, how could they possibly think that
words that have been written down can do more than remind those who
already know what the writing is about?
PHAEDRllS: Quite right.
SOCRATES: You know, Phaedrus, writing shares a strange feature with
painting. The offsprings of painting stand there as if they are alive, hut if
anyone asks them anything, they remain most solemnly silent. 'The same is
true of written words. You'd think they were speaking as if they had some
understanding, but if you question anything that has been said hceause you
want to learn more, it eontinues to signify just that very same thing forever,
~'hen it has once hecn written down, every discourse rolls about everywhere,
reaehing indiscriminately those with understanding no less than those who
have no business ,,~th it, and it doesn't know to whom it should speak and
to whom it should not. And when it is faulted and attaeked unfairly, it always
needs its father's support; alone, it can neither defend itself nor come to its
o"...n support.
PHAEDRUS: You are absolutely right about that, too.
[276] SOCRATES: Now tell me, can we discern anolher kind of diseourse,
a legitimate hrother of this one? Can we say how it comes about, and how
it is by nature better and more capable?
PH:\EDRllS: Wbich one is that? How do you think it comes about?
SOCHATES: It is a discourse that is written down, with knowledge, in the
soul of the listener; it can defend itself, and it knows for whom II should
speak and for whom it should remain silent.
PHAEDRUS: You mean the living, breathing discourse of the man who
knows, of which the written one can be fairly called an image.

4, A sanctuary of Zeus in Epirus famous as the center of an oraclf', which was '-'aid w speak through an
oak tree (see Od)'ssey 14.327-28, 19.296~9i: Herodotus L55.1}
 PlIAEDRUS i 83

SOCRATES: Absolutely right. And tell me this. 'Would a sensible farmer,

who cared about his seeds and wanted them to yield fruit, plant them in all
seriousness in the gardens of Adonis' in the middle of the summer and enjoy
watching them bear fruit within seven days? Or would he do this as an
amusement and in honor of the holiday, if he did it at all? Wouldn't he use
his knowledge of farming to plant the seeds he cared for when it WdS appro-
priate and be content if they bore fruit scven months later?
PHAEDRUS: That's how he would handle those he was serious about, Soc-
rates, quite differently from the others, as you say.
, SOCRATES: Now what about thc man who knows what is just, noble, and
good? Shall we say that he is less sensible with his seeds than the farmer is
with his?
·,~PHAEDRUS: Certainly not,
SOCRATES: Therefore; he won't be serious about writing them in ink, sow-
ing them, through a pen, with words that are as incapable of speaking in
their own defense as they are of teaching the truth adequately.
PHAEDRUS: That wouldn't be likeIv.
!D.sOCRATES: Certainly not. When he writes, it's likely he will sow gardens
of letters for the sake of amusing himself, storing up reminders for himself
'~when he reaches forgetful old age" and for everyone who wants to follow in
his footsteps, and wi\] enjoy seeing them sweetly blooming. And when others
tum to different amusements, watering themselves with drinking parties and
everything else that goes along with them, he will rather spend his time
amusing himself with the things 1 have just described.
PHAEDRUS: Socrates, you are contrasting a vulgar amusement with the
vel}' noblest···-with the amusement of a man who can while away his time
telling stories of justice and the other matters you mentioned.
SOCRATES: That's just how it is, Phacdrus. But it is much nobler to be
serious about these matters, and use the art of dialectic.' The dialectician
chooses a proper soul and plants and sows within it discoursc accompanied
by knowledge-discourse capable of helping itself as well as the man who
planted it, [277] which is not barren but produces a seed from which more
discourse grows in the character of others. Such discourse makes the seed
forever immortal and renders the man who has it as happy as any human
being can be.
, PHAEDRUS: \Vhat you describe is really much nobler still.
SOCRATES: And now that we have agreed about this, Phaedrus, we are
finally able to decide the issue.
PHAEDRUS: What issue is that?
0, SOCRATES: The issue which brought us to this point in the first place; We
wanted to eXJ.lmine the attack made on Lysias 7 00 account of his writing
speeches, and to ask which speeches are written artfully and which not. Now,
L think that we have answered that question clearly enough.
1,0PHAEDRUS: So it seemed; but remind me again how we did it.

5. Pots or window boxes used for forcing plants truth through criticttl analysis of concepts and
during the festival of Adonis, n Greek mytholugical hypotheses.
figure whos.e cult is assodHteJ with vegetation and 7, ,i\thenian orator (ca. 459-(;a. 380 R,C,E.), whose
fl?:tilily. oration on love provides the occasion for the dis
(6. That is, use logic to jnve~tiJtate the nature of cussion in PhaeJrus.
84 i PLATO

SOCRATES: First, you must know the truth concerning everything you are
speaking or writing about; you must learn how to define each thing in itself;
and, having defined it, you must know how to divide it into kinds until you
reach something indivisible. Second, you must understand the nature of the
soul, along the same lines; you must determine which kind uf speech is
appropriate to each kind of soul, prepare and arrange your speech accord-
ingly, and offer a coml,lcx and elaborate speech to a complex soul and a
simple speech to a simple one. Then, and only then, will you be able to use
speech artfully, to the extent that its nature allows it to be used that way,
either in order to teach or in order to persuade. This is the whole point of
the argument we have been making.
PHAEDRUS: Absolutelv.TIlat is exactIv how it seemed to us.
SOCHAI'ES: Now how ~bout whether it's noble or shameful to give or wTite
a speech-when it could be fairly said to be grounds for reproach, and when
not? Didn't what we said just a little while ago make it c1car-
PHAEDRUS: What was that?
SOC RA,TE s: That if Lysias or anybody else ever did or ever does \\Tite-
privately or for the public, in the course of proposing some law-a political
document which he believes to embody clear knowledge of lasting impor-
tance, then this writer deserves reproach, whether anyone says so or not. For
to be unaware of the difference between a dream-image and the reality of
what is just and unjust, good and had, must truly be grounds for reproach
even if the crowd praises it with une voice.
PHAEDRCS: It certainly must be.
SOCRATES: On the other hand, take a man who thinks that a written dis-
course on any subject can unly be a great amusement, that nu discourse
worth serious attention has ever been written in verse or prose. and that
those that are recited in public withuut questioning and explanation, in the
manner of the rhapsodes,< are given only in order to protluce conviction.
[278] He believes that at their very best these can only serve as reminders
to those who already know. Anti he also thinks that only what is said for the
sake of understanding and learning, what is truly written in the soul con-
cerning what is just, noble, and !:ood can be clear, perfect, and worth serious
attention: Such discourse should be called his own legitimate children, first
the discuurse he may have discovered already within himself and then its
sons and brothers who may have grown naturally in other souls .insofar as
these are worthy; tu the rest, he turns his back. Such a man, Phaedrus, would
be just what you and I both would pray to become.
PHAEDRUS; I wish and pray for things to be just as you say.
SOCHATES: 'Veil, then: our playful amusement regartling discourse is com-
plete. Now you go and tell Lysias that we came to the spring wbich is sacred
to the :\ylnphs" and heard words charging us to deliver a message to Lysias
and anyone else who composes speeches, as well as to Homer and anyone
else who has composed poctry either spoken or sung, and third, to Solon'
and anyone else who writes political documents that he calls laws: If anyone
of you has composed these thinJl,s with a knowledge uf the truth, if yOll can

S.Profe.\;sional orators whQ recited poetry, espe- trees, t'll:. i.

dally that of Homer and the other ('pic poets. L Achenian statesman and poet (cn, (.38 559
9. In Greek m~,·thoIHgy, gnddessi?s Qflnwer nmk n.c-r..l, who reformed the city's constihllion.
often as:sodated with aspects of natUf(; :.the oc'ean,
 PHAEDRUS ,I 85

defend your writing when you are challenged, and if you can yourself make
the argument that your writing is of little worth, then you mllst be called by
a name derived not from these writings but rather from those things that you
are seriously pursuing.
PHAEDRUS: What name, then, would you give such a man?
SOCRATES: To call him wise, Pbaedrlls, seems to me too much, and proper
only for a god. To call him wisdom's lover-a philosopher-or something
similar would fit him better and be more seemly.
PHAEDRCS: That would be qllite appropriate.
-SOCRATES: On the other hand, if a man has nothing more valuable than
what he has composed or \\Tittcn, spending long hours twisting it around,
pasting parts together and laking them apart-wouldn't you be right to call
him a poet Or a speech writer or an author of laws?
PHAEDRUS: Of course.
SOCRATES: Tell that, then, to your friend.
PHAEDRUS: And what about you? \Vhat shall you do? \'I!e must sllrely nol
forget your own friend.
SOCRATES: Wbom do you mean?
PHAEDRUS: The beautiful Isocrates.' What are you going to tell him, Soc-
rates? Wbat shall we say he is?
SOCRATES: Isocrates is still young, Phacdrus. But 1 want to tell yOll [279]
what I foresee for him.
PHAEDHUS: What is that?
SOCRATES: It seems to me that by his nature he Can outdo anything that
Lysias has accomplished in his speeches; and he also has a nobler character.
SoJ wou ldn't be at all surprised if, as hc gets older and continues writing
speeches of the sort he is composing now, he makes everyone who has ever
attempted to compose a speech seem like a child in comparison, Even more
so if such work no longer satisfies him and a higher, divine impulse leads
him to more important things. For nature, my friend, has placed the love of
wisdom in his mind.
"·That is the message I vvil! carry to my beloved, Isocrates, from thc 1<\ods of
this place; and you have your own message for your Lysias.
PHAEDRUS: So it shall be. But let's he off, since the heat has died down a
bit.
SOCRAI'ES: Shouldn't we offer a prayer to the gods here before we leave?
PH~>\EDRUS: Of course.
SOCRATES: 0 dear Pan" and all the other gods of this place, grant that 1
may be heautiflll inside, Let all my external possessions be in friendly har-
mony with what is within. May I consider the wise man rich. As for !lold, leI
me have as much as a moderate man could bear and carry with him.
",00 we need anything else, Phaedrus? J believe my prayer is enough for mc.
. PHAEDRlJS: Make it a prayer for me as well. friends have everything in
common,
,. SOCRATES: Let's be off.
Ca, 370 B.C.E.

2:" Athenian orator, rhetorician, and te<.:c-ht:'f [436.. 3. Greek god of shepherds cmd 1l0l:h.:-:., usu.uHy
33~' e.c.E.), whose schnoll1UnH:teU pupils £:rum all depicted as part hllmm:, pH.d gOi;lL; he is invoked
over Greece and greOltly inOm:m:cd Iater methods becaus.e this ('"onversutiQTI has taken pldce in the
i?J:~catil)l), cOllillrysitle.
86

ARISTOTLE
384-322 B.C.E.

Alongside his teacher l'u\TO. Aristotle is the great fouoding figure of \-Vestern phi-
losophy and literary theory. Aristotle invented the scientific method of analysis and,
in a wide-ranging series of treatises, codified the divisions of knowledge into disci-
plines and subdisciplines that carry on to the present day. such as physics, chemistry,
zoology, hiolo!,'y. botany, psychology, politics, logic, and epistemology. L'nlike Plato.
who uses the dialogue to dramatize paths of thinking in a conversational literary form,
Aristotle relies in his extant works on categorization and logical differentiation in a
straightforward propositional manner. He fucuses on the distinctive qualities of any
given object of study, whether of plants or of poems. systematically describing thcir
specific fealures and construction.
Plato and other ancient "'Titers uflen commented on literary works, but Aristotle
inaugurated the systematic and distinctive discipline of literary criticism and theory
veith thc Poetic,. £t is pcrbaps the mosl influcntial work in the history of criticism and
theory. shaping future considerations of genre, prosody. stylc. structure. and form.
Its modem impact began in the Renaissancc, when it was rediscovered from frag-
mentary manuscript sources and taken as a rulebook for literary composition, Its
descriptions of formal unity influenced sevenleenth~centuryEuropean writers such t

as the Frencb dramalist PIERRE CORNEILLE, and eighteenth-century writers rcviving

its precepts as "neoclassicism." [n twentieth-century literary theory the Poetics was
foundational for formalist methods. which apply objective modes of analysis to lin-
gUistic arlifacts and discern the structural attributes of literary works; it influenced a
wide array of critics, ranging from tbe Russian formalists (like RORIS EICHENRAU'>I)
and the American Ncw Critics (like WILLIAM K. WI MSATI JR. and MONROE C. BEARD-
SLEY) to the archetypal critics (notably 'oiORTlIROP fRYE) and the French structuralists
ilike TZ:VETAN TODOROV),
Aristotlc's Rhetoric suggests a different avenue for thc study of literature. Rather
than seeing literary works in terms of their distinctive features and internal construc-
lion, it opens for consideration their affective and political dimensions as forms of
public speech. Because of ils focus on types of public speaking. the Rhetoric's influ~
enee on Iitcrary study has been less direct tban tbat of the Poetics, but its emphasis
on audicnce response undergirds subsequent theoretical approaches concerned with
tbe rcader, intcrpretation. and the political effcets of literature. Although Aristotle
himself does not favor one avenue of investigation o,'er another, bis distinction
between poet ies and rbctoric reflects a perennial division in literary tbeory; the split
bctwccn theories concerned with the inlernal properties of literature and tbose con-
cerned witb literature's external effects, especially on readers and suciety.
Aristotle was born in Stai\ira in northern Greece. which was under the rule of
Macedonia. His father, Nicomaehus, was the personal physician to and a friend of
Amynlus 11, thc king of Macedonia. Scholars speculate that his father's practice as a
physician inculcated in Aristotle a pragmatic interest in biology and the natural world.
and Aristotlc's tics to the Maeedonian court affected his subsequent career. In 367
II.C.L Aristotle went to study at Plato's Aeadcmy in Athens, where he distinguished
himself as one of Plato's best students and eventually became a teaehcr himself. In
347, around the time of Plato's death, Aristotle left Athens; he traveled first to Assos
in Asia Minor. where he taught in a colony of Platonists for three years, and thcn to
the island of Lesbos, where he did tbe hiologieal research that groonded his later
scientific treatises. Jn 344 or 343, Amyntas's son, Kini\ Philip, invited Arislotle to
tutor bis hcit, Alexander (later known as Alexander tbe Creat), wbo was then about
thirteen ycars old. \Vhile he had contact witb and received the patronage of Alexandcr
until bis death, Aristotle concluded his !lltoring in 340, aflcr whicb he probably lived
 Am STOTLl:. / 87

in Macedonia or Stagira. perhaps then completing the Rhetoric. In 335, when Alex-
ander acceded to the throne and departed for his campaigns in Asia, Aristotle returned
to Athens amI began his own school al the Lyceum, He laught poetics, rhetoric,
potitics, ethics, and metaphysics, and probably at this time worked on his famous
trealise., including the Politics, the Nicomachea" Ethics, and the Poetics. After the
death of Alexander in 323, when public sentiment against Macedonia was rising,
Aristotle left Athens to live in Chalcis on the island of Euboea, where he died in 322.
For Aristotle the life of the philosopher was not reclusive and scholarly but unfolded
in the midst of public affairs.
Only about a fifth of Aristotle's prodigious 150 reported works survive-transmit-
ted, usually imperfectly, through manuscript copies in the Middle Ages. His treatises
are known as "esoteric" works, because they were not copied by scribes to be distrih·
uled but were available only in libraries for study by others; some seem to be lecture
notes or study gUides rather than polished works. This aeeounts for their compressed
slyle and sometimcs abrupt transitions, frequent repetitions, and shorthand refer-
ences to other works or writers. It also makes the works particularly difficult to dale,
since they were prohably composed and revised over a period of time. The Poetics,
verylikely gathered from a set of incomplete notes, survived only in a fewfanlty copies.
Scholars speculate that we have only half the original text and that the missing second
half dealt with comedy.
Aristotle's early writings, now known only hy the reports of ancient writers. were
written in the form of dialogues, obviously showing the influence of Plato. His more
mature works, however, depart from his teacher's model in a number of signifieanl
ways. Stylistically, he replaces the literary approach with systematic expositions of
particular subjects, more in the form of technical manuals than dramatic accounts.
Methodologically, Aristotle operates through analysis, which in its root sense entails
examining objects by studying their component parts, and through differentiation and
classification. For instance, in hiology Aristotle slarts with the most general cate-
gory-living organisms; he then examines them according to what differentiates
them-as plants, animals, and so on; further classifies them into particular species;
and catalogues their distinctive traits. Philosophically, Aristotle grounds his research
on a more pragmatic basis than Plato, looking at nature and the ohjects of the real
work!, In so doing, he tacitly rejects Plato's fundamental concept of transcendent
Ideas or Forms that govern and generate reality. In his own terms, Aristotle often
works from induction, drawing his general conclusions from the particular objects he
observes, whereas Plato usually works from deduction, drawing particular conclusions
from his general metaphysical concept of heing.
The Poetics demonstrates ATistotle's analytical method, which here parallels that
of his examinations of biology or zoology. Aristotle turns to the various caregories of
human artifacts, differentiating those made in language and eventually focusing on
poetry and especially on the species-specific traits of epic and tragedy. He assomes a
distinction between the wide class of objects that are humanly made and those that
are naturally produced-between, say, a chair and a tree. (The Greek word for a
"poetry," poiesis, is itself bascd on the verb "to make:') In treating poetry as a craft,
Aristotle differs from Plato, who discusses poetry in terms of inspiration and the
emotive transport of the poet-a strain that continues in nineteenth-century Roman-
ticism, exemplified by WILLlAM WORDSWORTH'S definition of poetry as "the sponta-
neous overflow of emotion." Aristotle limits his study of poetry to its observable kinds
and its formal construction, more or less ignoring questions about its affeetive origins,
which he regards as falling under the auspices of other pursuits, such as psychology
or" rhetoric.
Drawing on a wide range of literary examples, especially Sophocles' celehrated
tragedy Oedipus Rex, Arisrotle adduces six salient parIs of tragedy, in order of their
importance-plot. character, rhought, diction, music, and spectacle. He spends the
. most time on the first. specifying the kcy features of good plots. Ccntral to Aristotle
RR ARISTOTLE

is imitation (mimesis), and he judges the best plots to have verisimilitude: they must
be plausible (even if impossible). He also stresses a logically connected order (an
appropriate starting point, elaboration, and a dramatic end or resolution), centered
on one unified action rather than depicting multiple, divergent, or unnecessary
actions, The best kind of resolution is one that shows a reversal (pefipe!eia) of position
for the main character. as well as the characlcr's recognition (a,.Ulj?H-Orisis) of his or
her fate, Aristotle reasons that the characters in tragedy should come fmm high posi·
tions. otherwise their tragic circumstances wuuld not be remarkable; he also pre-
scribes that thcir fates he linked to their own enor (hamartia, literally "missing the
mark," though freqnently translated as "Ilaw"), rather than from some accident or
"ickcdncss, Aristotle concludes somewhat technically by classifying parts of speech
(in his discnssion of diction), sketching solutions to problems of interpretation, and
comparing the genres of tragedy and epic.
Though rooted in the literatore of its time (and focusing especially on a form of
drama quite different fmm ours), the extant Poetics has cnntinned to powerfully influ-
ence criticism. Arislutles systematic categorization of genus and species and his com~
parison of tragedy and epic underlie all genre theory, Notably, they undergird modern
considerations of lhe historkal movement from epic to the novel. such as those of
Gyi)RGY LUKAcs and ""KHAtL tlAKHTIl'i. Perhaps most decisively, Aristotle's systematic
description of plot anti its component parts ground contcillporary narrative theory,
in particular the technical field of narratology,
His scientiflc examination of poetry has been chuJnpioned hy the New Critics \Vim-
sall and CLEAN'rH tlHOOKS as "Aristotle's answer" to Plato, responding both to Plato's
view of pnetry as a degraded imitation twice removed from the reality of eternal Ideas
or Forms and to his suspicion of poctry as stirring emotions in a way that is dangerous
for society. Instead of directly disagrecing with Plato, Aristotle implicitly validates
poetry by examining it as a legitimate branch of study. Countering Plato's notion of
poetry as dewaJed inlitation, Aristotle sees poetry as a source of universal knowledge
of human hehavior: unlike history, which produces kno"leuge only of specific situ-
ations, poetry describes the actions of characters who might be any humans, Morc-
over, he daims that good poetry has a positive emotional effect on its audience, which
he calls katharsis-perhaps the most important and variously interpreted word in the
Poetic~'. Some commentators have interpreted the Lerm in a medical sense. as a pur-
gative thot flushes out the audknce,1s unwieldy emotion; others see it in terms nf
muml purification. More recently, critics have equated catharsis with ethical and
intellectual clarification,
Tn other treatises, Aristotle analyzes natural objects in terms of four component
"causes," sehematized as material, formal, efficient, and finaL If we apply this mbrie to
poetry, the material cause of a poem would be its raw material-language; the formal
cause, the shape of the resulting object· -the poem; its efficient cause, what makes it~
the poet; and the final cause, the end use-its effects on an audience, emotionally as
"ell as educationally and politically. Although Aristotle all odes to andience response in
his discussion oft~atharsis_lin the Poetics he is most concerned vdth thclnaterial andfnr-
mal caoses of poetry, This concentrated focus has strongly marked modem literary crit-
icism-notably that of the New Critics, who explicitly disallow considerations of the
aodience as "the affective fallacy," in the phrase of \Vimsalt and Beardsley. However,
Aristotle is by no means so dismissive. Instead, he treats considerations of the au(H-
ence-the final caose-as a different line of research, taken up in his Rhetoric,
We have cnme to understand rhetoric as the study of ligures of speech, following
the medieval and Rcnaissance traditions (and the modern practice of writcrs like PAUl.
DE M~N), hut Aristotle defines it more broadly as the ahility to see the available means
of persuasion, Tn typical Aristotelian fashion, rhe Rhetoric begins in book I hy differ-
entiating three elemel1ts of persuasion in puhlic speech: the arRuments a speaker
uses; the ethos or character uf the speaker; and the disposition of the audience,
,\dditionally, it differentiates three species of pohlk speeches: deliberative, which deal
 AHlSTOTLh 89

v,.ith future events, as in politics; judicial, which COnCern past events. as in law courts:
imd epl.deictic, which are concerned with the present as they praise or blame a person,
as in a eulogy or declamatory attack, Aristotle stresses the importance of argument
in! part to challenge the then prevalent teachings of the sophists, such as GORGIAS in
an earlier generation. \vho he believed used rhetoric irresponsihly, lacking concern
for valid reasoning.
However, Aristotle also acknowledges the elements of persuasion outside the realm
of reasoning, paying particular attention to the emotions that speeches induce in their
audiences. In book 2, Aristotle adduces the first systematic sllldy of affect, differen-
tiathig eluQtions such as anger. cahl1ncss, fear, confidence, shame. pity, indignation,
envy, and emulation. In book 3, parallelin?, his examination of diction in the Poetic.•,
Aristotle ermdudes with a discussion of lexi, (variously traoslated as "style," "word
choice," or "form of expression"). Perhaps the most important term in the Rlwtoric
is telos-the final came, end, ohjective, or goal of persuasiun-dTe<:ted through emo-
lion "nd style as well as argument. The Rhetoric highlights the publie ends oflauguage
rather than its formal properties.
Although its inHuenee has not been as sustained or decisive as that of the Poetics,
th" Rlletorie proposes wbat the twentieth-century philosopher MARTI:" HEIDEGGER
called the first work of hermeneutics; that is, it considers how response is a factor in
interpretation, In its delineations of emotions, it presages the aesthetic tradition,
whose concern is the affective dimensions of Iitcrary works, and it provides a ground-
ing for reader-response theory, which centers on subjective audienee interaction
rather than the ohjeclive features of the work itself. Perhaps most significantly, it
suggests the historical and political significance of literature in its role as public
discourse.
Whether acknowledged or not, Aristotle's seminal distinction between poetics and
rnRtoric has been crucial in contemporary debates over the proper object of literary
criticism. Against the tcndcncy fostcrcd by the New Critics and latcr the dcconstrue-
live critics who advocated a narrow Iin)l;uistic study of literature, recent decades have
'Witnessed a <lrhetorical Lum" toward methods favoring attention to the personal, his-
torical, and social effects of literary texts, Some object that such approaches address
topics oUL'iide the pun/iew of literary study. That is, they urge a strict poetic view,
arguing that literary criticism should focus on the distinctive attributes of literary
wurk.'i. Rut when we take account of his Rhetoric alongside the Poetks, \ve see that
Aristotle does not disallow these other topics; he opens literary study to a consider'
~tion of its pedagogical and social ends as well as its distinctive formal properties,

BIBLIOGRAPHY

There are a vast number of editions and translations of Aristotle's works, from the
medieval period to the present. Our ie.xt of the Poetic., comes rrom "Poetics!' I, lvith
the IfTractatus Co';sUn';an-u,s) A IIypothetical Reconsfnfctiotl- of "Poet-ics-" II, and the
I'

Fragment.' nJtlIe "0" the Pnets," "dmirahly translated and annotated by Richard Janko
(I986), which is based on the standard edition of Rudolf Kassel, Aristotelis "De Arte
P,Jetica Liher" (1965), Our selection from the Rhetoric is taken from the definitive
present-day English version, ArislOtle "On Rhewric": A TIleo/} of Civic DiscOl.rse,
translated and annotated hy George A, Kennedy \ 1991), which also includes useful
co~mcntary. It draws on an amalgam of Creek tcxts~ including A-ristotelis "An Rl1e-
torica.... edited by W, David Ro.s (1959); Anstote, "Rherorique," edited by Mederie
Dufour and Andre \Vartelle ('I vols., 1960-7'1); aml :histnte/is "AT'< Rhetnriea," edited
by Rudolf Kassel (1976), The Complete Works oJArist.otle, edited by Jonathan [lames
(2 vols" 19R4j, contains the hest compendium of Aristotle's works in Engl;sb, The
Basic Works of Aristotle, edited by Richard McKeon (1941), who was the leading
American expositor of Arlstotle through the mid-twentieth century) is an earlier hut
stilluscful compendium,
90 I ARISTOTLE

Jonathan Barnes's Aristotle (1982) is a brief, accessible overview of Aristntle's life

and works, In a crowded field, Abraham Edel's Aristotle and H~, Philnsophy (1982)
and John lVI, Rist's Mind of Aristotle (1989) stand our as good basic introductions to
Aristotle's biography and works, The Cat>tbridge Companlnn to Aristotle, edited hy
Barnes (1995), contains chapters on important phases of Aristotle's philosophical
project, including a survey of his life and work by Barnes.
On the Poetics. Stephen HalliweH's Aristotle's "Poetics" (1986) is the authoritative
contemporary interpretation. Gerald F. Else, Aristotle's "Poetics": 'The Argument
(1957), prnvides a detailed cummentary on the text, and his Plato and Aristotle on
Poetry (1986) is a useful comparative study. D. W. Lucas's Aristotle-"Poetics"( 19(8)
offers significant commentary as well as the Kassel edition of the Greek text. ,'vlarth"
Nussbaum's Fragility o.fGoodness: Luck and Ethics in Greek Philosophy (1986) con-
taim an influential modification of the argument about catharsis. Aristotle's "Poetics"
and English Literature: A Collectum of Critical Essays, edited by Elder Olson (1965),
gathers views from the eighteenth century through the 19605, highlighting the work
of the Chicago Critics, or "Neo-Aristotelians," who promoted a formal method in
literary study during the mid-twentieth century. Its last chapter, "Rhetoric and Poetic
in the Philosophy of Aristotle," by Richard McKeon, a Chicago Critic, offers an illu-
minating discrimination of poetic and rhetorical approaches, McKcon's "Literary
Criticism and the Conccpt of Imitation in Antiquity," in Critics and Criticism: Essay,
in l'fetfwd (ed. R. S. Crane, 1952), is an important text on imitation. Essays on Aris-
totle's "Poetics," edited by Amelie Oksenberg Rorty (J 992), is an excellent contem-
porary collection by philosophcrs and scholars of Aristotle, clarifying concepts such
as mimesis, catharsis. and comedy.
On the Rhetoric, W. M. A. Grimaldi's Aristotle, "Rhetoric": A Commentary (1980)
is a useful exposition, Essays on Aristotle's "Rhetoric" (1996), edited by Am,'lie Oks-
enberg Rorty as a companion to her volume on the Poetics, pro~1des an excellent
range of contemporary interpretations and reevaluations of the text. Alexander Neha-
mas's "Pity and fear in the Rhetoric and Poetics," in Aristotle's "Rhetoric": Philosoph-
ical EsSQ}' (ed, David J. furlcy and Nehamas, 1994), cogently compares Aristotle's
treatment of emotion in both texts and, in a provocative argument, claims that cathar-
.i. refers to the internal resolution of a tragic plot itself rather than to the response
of the audience.
The "Poetics" ofi\ristotle and the "Tractatus Coislinianus"; A Bibliographyjromabout
900 till 1996, compiled by Omert J. Schrier (1998), testifies to the massive litcT'dture
relating to the Poetics. Aristotle. "Rhetoric": Five Centuries of Philolngical Research,
compiled by Keith V. Erickson (1975). mvers the many studies of the Rhetoric. The
Cambridge Companion to Aristotle contains an cxcellent hibliography on all of Aris-
totle', work, with individual scctions ,m the Poetics and Rhetoric. Both Janko's edition
of the Poetics and Kennedy's of the Rhetoric include ,elective bibliographies on their
respective texts. The Rorty collections on the Poetics and Rhetoric also include good
selective bihliogmphies.

Poetics l

[I, l447a1 Our topic is poetry in itself and its kinds, and what potential each
has; how plots should be constructed if the composition is to turn out well;

L Translated by Richard Janko, who sometimes the Bekker numhers used almost universally in cit-
adds clarifying "'ords Qr phrases in square bra<:kets ing Aristotle's works; they refer to the puge flum-
and includes the Greek in parenthese$. AI!'o in bi:N and columns of an 1A31 edition hy Inurumuel
squtlre brackets in the text are the traditional chap- Bekker,
ter dhdsions inserted by Renais,sHl1ce editurs and
 POETICS ! 91

also, from how many parts it is [constituted], and of what sort they are; and
likewise all other aspects of the same enquiry. Let us first begin, following
the natural [order], from first [principles] .
• Epic and tragic composition, and indeed comedy, dithyrambic composi-
tion,> and most sorts of music for wind and stringed instruments are all,
[considered] as a whole, representations.' They differ from one another in
three ways, by using for the representation (I) different media, (ii) different
objects, or (iii) a manner that is different and not the same.
Some people use colours and forms for representations, making images of
many objects (some by art, and some by practice), and others do sO with
sound; so too all the arts we mentioned produce a representation using
rhythm, speech and melody, but use these either separately or mixed. E.g.,
the art of [playing] the oboe and lyre, and any other arts that have the same
potential (e.g. that of [playing] the pan-pipes), use melody and rhythm alone,
but the art of dancers [uses] rhythm by itself without melody; for they too
can represent characters, sufferings and actions, by means of rhythms given
fonn.
But the art of representation that uses unaccompanied words or verses
[1447b] (whether it mixes these together or uses one single class of verse-
form) has to the present day no name. For we have no common name for
the mimes of Sophron and Xenarchus and the Socratic dialogues, 4 and would
not have one even if someone were to compose the representation in [iambic]
trimeters, elegiacs' or some other such verse. But people attach the word
"poet" to the verse-form, and name some "elegiac poets" and other "epic
poets," terming them poets not according to [whether they compose a] rep-
resentation but indiscriminately, according to [their use of] verse. Thus if
someone brings out a work of medicine or natural science in verse, they
normally call him a poet; but there is nothing in common between Homer
and Empedodes' except the verse-furm. Fur this reason it is right to eall the
former a poet, but the latter a natural scientist rather than a poet. Likewise,
if someone produced a representation by intermingling all the verse-forms,
just as Chaeremon' composed his Centaur (a recitation which mixes all the
verse-forms), he must still be termed a poet. This, then, is how we should
define these matters.
Some arts use all the media we have mentioned (I.e. rhythm, song and
verse), like the composition of dithyrambic poems, that of nomes," and trag-
edy.and comedy; they differ because the former use all the media at the same
time, the latter [use them only] in certain parts. So these are what I mean

2." GreeJu:horal poetry originally sung io honornf of epic, and whose second line replaees the
Dionysus, the god of wine worshipped in an .rmd 6th ront with (lne long !>yllahle. "Iambic
ecstatic cult. trimeter:/': the 'leNt' form uf mOsl dinlogue and set
3. "'rom the. Greek mirnesi5. translated as "repre~ speeches in tragedies (a 3-fom line hased on the
sentation" or "imitation," patr.em short-long).
4: .The philosophical works of PUTO (ca. 427----('tl 6. Pre-Socmtic Greek natural philosopher (ca.
321 B,C.E.), which arc ¥.Tittcn as dialogues f{.'Btur· 493~33 n,c.E.), whowrole in epic meler (dactylic
ing his. teacher} Socrates (469-399 ".C.L), and hexameter). Homer (ca. 8th c, S.C.E.), Greek epic
nne-or more interlocutors. "Mimes"; imitative per· poet to whom is attributed the Wad and the Ody'Sr
:IDl1'IloIluces usually featuring short scenes from .scy; the ancient Greek.." also credited him with 11
daily life. Sophron of SynH.':usc (5th c. [U:.E.) wrote number of lost shorter epics, including the comk
mjmes in rhythmic prose; his son Xenarchus also Magrit!'$.
wrote mimes. 7. Greek tra~edian (mid~4th c. B.C.E.),
5.. A verse form consisting of ;;.ouplell> whose first Fl. Originally, melodies (for lyre or flute) created
line· is in dactylic hexameter (i,e., a 6-foot line to accomp<:I11" l."pic texts; l~ter. choral composi-
b~$ed on the syllabiC pattern iong~short-short).the tions.
92 / ARISTOTLE

by the differences between the arts in the media by which they produce the
representation.
[2, 1448a] Since those who represent people in action, these people are
necessarily either good or inferior. For characters almost always follow from
these [qualities] alonc; cvcryonc diffcrs in charactcr hccausc of vice and
virtue. So they are either (i) better than we are, or (ii) wurse, or (iii) such [as
we are I, just as the painters [represent them I; for Polygnotus used to make
images of superior persons, Pauson of worse ones, and Dionysius' of those
like [us].
Clearly each of the [kinds ull representation we mentioned ,,~II contain
these differences, and will vary by representing ubjects which vary in this
manner. For these divergences can arise in dancing and in playing the oboe
and lyre. They can also arise in speeches and unaccompanied verse: e.g. (i)
Homer [represents] better persons, (ii) Cleophon [represents] ones like [us],
and (iii)Hegemun of Thasos, whu was the first tu compose parodics, and
Nicochares l who cumpused the Deiliad, [represent] worse unes. [They can
arise] likewise in dithyTambs and nomes: for just as Timotheus and Philox-
cnus [rcprcscntcd] Cyclopcs,' [so] onc may rcprcscnt [pcoplc in diffcrcnt
ways]. Tragedy tuu is distinguished from cumedy by precisely this difference;
comedy prefers to represent people who are worse than those who exist,
tragedy people who are better.
[3]Again, a third difference among these [kinds] is the manner in which
onc can rcprcscnt cach of thcsc things. For onc can usc thc samc mcdia to
represent the very same things, sumetimes (a) by narrating (either (i) becom-
ing another Iperson I, as Homer does, or (ii) remaining the same person and
not changing), or (b) by representing everyone as in action and activity.
Representation, then, has these three points of difference, as we said at
the beginning, its media, its objects and its manner. Consequently, in une
respect Suphocles is the same surt uf representatiunal artist as Humer, in
that both represent good people, but in another he is like Aristophanes,3
sincc hoth rcprcscnt men in action and doing [things].
This is why, sume say, their works are called "dramas," because they rep-
resent men "doing" (drantas). For this reason too the Dorians 4 lay claim to
botb tragedy and comcdy. The Megarians' here allege that comedy arose
during the time of their democracy, and the Megarians in Sicily claim it: for
Ephicharmus was from thcrc, though hc was not much prior to Chionidcs
and Magnes.' Sume uf the Dorians in the Peluponnese lay claim to tragedy,
They produce the names lof comedy and drama [ as an indication lof their
origins]: they say that they call villages kamai but the Athenians call them
demoi, on the assumption that comedians were so called not from their rev-

9. Painter from Colophon. Polygnotus (ca. 500- B,LE.1. Sophocles (ca. 41.)6-406 Fl.C,E.), great
ca. 4-10 Ii,Cob.), Due of the first great Greekpainters. Greek tragt"ruan.
P<luson (I~te 5th c. B.C.F,:I, Athenian cmic<lturist. 4. A peuple (probahly originally from southwest
L Alhenian comic pueL (active CH. 390 ll.CE.), Maeedunia) that im'adcd Greece ca. 1100-1000
whose Deiliad (de1los means "cowardly") parodied B,LL, reaching south into the Peloponnese.
heroic epic. Cleophon (4th c. H.C,!::.). Athenian 5. Hesidents of a Dorian city on the isthmus of
tragic poet. Jlegemon (5th (:. R,C.F..), poet whO'ie Cnrinth (weo;t of Athens); it was a demolTacy in
pllrndies won cumpelitions in Alhem;, lhe 6lh l:enlur.,. B.C.E.
2, Mythical nne-eyed giants. Timothclls of 6, Aristotle n~mes thrcc carly comic pocts; Epi-
Miletus (ca. 450- ca. 360 Fl.C.E.) and Philoxenus charmus was Sicilian (active early 5th c. B.C.F,)
of Cythera (l:a, 435--ea, .380 H,C,E.) were both and wrote in Doric Greek, while Chionides (active
Greek dithyrambic poets, en. 48') Il.C.F,) and Magnes (active ca, 470 B.(:,F,)
3. GrealesL poel of Greek OIJ ComeJy (450-385 were Athenian
 POETICS I 93

elling (kiJmazein), but because they wandered around the villages, ejected in
disgrace from the town, I1448bl They also say that they term "doing" dran,
but that the Athenians term it prattein.
, Anyway, as for the points of difference in representation, and how many
and what thev are, let this account suffice.
[4] Two ea'llses seem to have generated the art of poetry as a whole, and
these are natural ones.
(il Representation is natural to human beings from childhood. 'I hey differ
from the other animals in this: man tends most towards representation and
learns his first lessons through representation.
Also (ii) everyone delights in representations. An indication of this is what
happens in fact: we delight in looking at the most detailed images of things
which in themselves we see with pain. e.g. the shapes of the most despised
wild animals even when dead. The cause of this is that learning is most
pleasant, not only for philosophers hut for others likewise (hut they share in
it to a small extent). For this reason they delight in seeing images, because
iLeomes about that they learn as they observe, and infer what each thing is,
e.g. that this person [represents] that one. For if one has not seen the thing
[that is represented] before, [its image] will not produce pleasure as a rep-
resentation, but because of its accomplishment, colour, or some other such
cause.
Since by nature we are given to representation, melody and rhythm (that
verses are parts of rhythms is ohvious), from the beginning those by nature
most disposed towards these generated poetry from their improvisations,
developing it little by little. Poetry was split up according to their particular
characters; the grander people represented fine actions, i.e. those of fine
persons, the more ordinary people represented those of inferior ones, at first
composing invectives, just as the others composed hymns and praise-poems.
We, do not know of any eomposition of this sort by anyone before Homer,
but there were probably many [who composed invectives I. Beginning "'ith
Homer Isuch compositions] do exist, e.g. his lV/argiles etc. In these the iambic
verse-form arrived too, as is appropriate. This is why it is now called "iambic",
because they used to lampoon (iawhizein) each other in this verse-form.
Thus some of the ancients hecame composers of heroic poems, others of
lampoons.
Just as Homer was the greatest composer of serious poetry (not lhat he
alone composed well, hut because he alone composed dramatic representa-
!ions), so too he was first to indicate the form of comedy, by dramatising not
an invective hut the laughahle. For his l'vIargite, stands in the same relation
to comedies as do the lliatl and Odyssey to tragedies. [1449a] When tragedy
and comedy appeared, people were attracted to each [kind of] composition
according to their own pmlicular natures. Some became composers of com-
edies instead of lampoons, but others presented tragedies instead of epics,
because comedy and tragcdy are greater and more honourable in their forms
than are lampoon and epic. To consider whether tragedy is now fully Idevel-
oped] in its elements or not, as judged hoth in and of itself and in relation
to its audiences, is a different topic.
Anyway, arising from an improvisatory beginning (both tragedy and com-
edy-tragedy from the leaders of the dithyramh, and comedy from the leaders
of the phallic proeessions which even now continue as a custom in many of
94 / AHISI0TLE

our cities), [tragedy] grew little by little, as [the poets] developed whatever
[new part] of it had appeared; and, passing through many changes, tragedy
came to a halt, since it had attained its own nature.
(i) Aeschylus' was first to increase the number of its actors from One to
two; he reduced the [songs] of the chorus, and made speech play the main
role. Sophocles [brought in] three actors and scenery.
(ii) Again, as for its magnitude, [starting] from trivial plots and laughable
diction, because it had changed from a satyric [composition],' [tragedy only]
became grand at a late date. Its verse-form altered from the tetrameter 9 to
iambic verse. For at first [poets] used the tetrameter, because the composi-
tion was satyric and mainly danced; but when [spoken] diction came in,
nature itself found the proper verse-form. The iambic is the verse most suited
to speech; and indication of this is that in [everyday] speech with each other
we use mostly iambic I rhythms !, but rarely hexameters, and [only] when we
depart from the intonations of [everyday] speech.
(iii) Again, as for the number of its episodes, I and how each of its other
[parts] is said to have been elaborated, let them pass as described; it would
prohably be a major undertaking to go through their particulars.
[5] Comedy is, as we said, a representation of people who are rather infe-
rior-not, however, witb respect to every [kind of] vice, hut the laughable is
[only] a part of what is ugly. For the laughable is a sort of error and ugliness
that is not painful and destructive, just as, evidently, a laughable mask is
somcthing ugly and distorted without pain.
The transformations of tragedy, and [the poets] who brought them about,
havc not heen forgottcn; but comcdy was disrq~arded from tbe beginning,
because it was not taken seriously. [1449b] For the magistrate granted a
chorus of comic performers at a late date~they had been volunteers. The
record of tbose termed its poets begins from [a time] when comedy already
possessed some of its forms. It is unknown who introduced masks, prologues,
a multiplicity of actors, etc. A, for the composing of plots, Epicharmus and
Phormis' [introduced it]. In the beginning it came from Sicily, and, of the
poets at Athens, Crates' was the first to relinquish the form of the lampoon
and composc gcneraliscd stories, i.e. plots.
Epic poetry follows tragedy insofar as it is a representation of serious peo-
ple which uses speech in verse; but they differ in that [epic] has a single
verse-form, and is narrative. Again, with respect to length, tragedy attempts
as far as possible to keep within one revolution of the sun or [only] to exceed
this a little, hut epic is unhounded in time; it docs differ in this respect, even
though [the poets] at first composed in the same way in tragedies as in epics.
As for their parts, some are the same, others are particular to tragedy. For
tbis reason, whoever knows about good and inferior tragedies knows about

7. The c<lrliest uf the 3 great Greek lnlgeui,ms sionf:llly used fur dialogue in tragedies, this fast-
(525-456 H,eL). movin~ line was thought less stately than iambic
8. That is, like the satyr plays that formed part of meter. The choruses in tragedies used other
the !>pTing fe!>tival of Dion)'!'im in ernly-':;th-century meter".
B.C.£. Athens. Each of the poets competing wrote 1. The sections of a lragedy th<lt are pusitioued
three tragedies and onc satyr play; the latter pre- between hvo choruses.
sented grotesque versions of andent legends, with 2. Syracusan writer of comedy, apparently a con-
the chorus dressed as satyn; (balf-man, half-goat, temporary of Epicharmus.
and wearing a phallus). 3. Atheni.m comic poet (active COl. 450---ea. 430
9. Thal is, trochaic tetrameter (<I 4-fuoL line based S.C-E.).
on the syllabic pattern long-short); though occa-
 POETICS I 95

epics too. Tragedy possesses all [tbe parts] tbat epic bas, but those that it
possesses are not all in epic.
[6] \Ve will discuss representational art in hexameters, lind comedy, later.
Now let us discuss tragedy, taking up the definition of its essence that results
from what we have said.
Tragedy is a representation of a serious, complete action which has mag-
nitude, in embellished speech, witb each of its elements [used] separately in
the [various] parts [of tbe play]; [represented] by people acting and not by
narration; accomplis bing by means of pity and terror the catharsis' of such
emotions.
By "embellished speech," I mean that which has rhythm and melody, Le.
song; by "with its elements separately," I mean that some [parts of it] are
accomplished only hy means of spoken verses, and others again by means of
song.
Sinee people acting produce tbe representation, first {i) the ornament of
spectacle will nel'essarily be a pari of tragedy; and then (iil song and (iii)
diction, for these are the media in which they produce the representation.
By "diction" I mean the construction of the [spoken I verses itself; by"song"
I mean that of which the meaning is entirely obvious.
Since [tragedy I is a representation of an action, and is enacted by people
acting, these people are necessarily of a certain sort according to their char-
acter and their reasoning. For it is because of these that we say that actions
are of a certain sort, [J 4;Oa] and it is according to people's actions that they
all succeed or fail. So (iv) the plot is the representation of the action; hy
"plot" here, I mean the construction of the incidents. By (v) the "characters,"
I mean that according to which we say that the people in action are of a
certain sort. By (vi) "reasoning," I mean the way in which they use speech
to demonstrate something or indeed to make some general statement.
So tragedy as a whole necessarily has six parts, according to which tragedy
is of a certain sort. These are plot, characters, diction, reasoning, spectacle
and song. Thc media in which [the poets] make the representation comprise
two parts [i.e. diction and song], the manner in which they make the rep-
resentation, one ILe. spectacle], and the objects which they represent, three
[i.e, plot, character and reasoning]; there are no othcrs except these. Not a
few of them, one might say, use these elements; for they may bave instances
ofspectaclc, character, plot, diction, song and reasoning likewise.
But the most important of these is the structure of the incidcnts. For (i)
tragedy is a representation not of human beings but of action and life. Hap-
piness and unhappiness lic ill action, and the end [of life] is a sort of action,
not a quality; people are of a certain sort according to their characters, but
happy or the opposite according to their actions. So [the actors] do not act
in order to represent the characters, but they includc the characters for the
sake of their actions. Consequently the incidents, Le. the plot, are the end
of tragedy, and the end is most important of all.
(ii) Again, without action a tragedy cannot exist, but without characters it
may. For the tragedies of most recent Ipoets] lack character, and in general
there are many such poets. E.g. too among the paintcrs, how Zeuxis' relates
4. A mll(:h~debated Greek term I related to a verb abo mt"~n "clarification:
meaning '"to ('Jeansf"" or "purify"; usual1y left 5. Greek painter- from Heradea in southern Italy:
uwransla.lt:'d amI understoud llS "purgation," it can he 'A'U'> in Athens, ca. 400 R.CE,
96 I AIl/STOTLE

to Polygnotus-Polygnotus is a good character-painter, but Zeuxis' painting

contains no character at all.
(iii) Again, if [a poetJ puts in sequence speeches full of character, well-
composed in diction and reasoning, he will not achieve what was [agreed to
be] the function of tragedy; a tragedy that employs these less adequately, but
has a plot (i.e. structure of incidents), will achieve it much more.
(iv) In addition, the most important things with which a tragedy enthralls
[us] are parts of plot-reversals and recognitions.
(v) A further indication is that people who try their hand at composing
can be proficient in the diction and characters hcfore they are able to struc-
ture the incidents; e.g. too almost all the early poets.
So plot is the origin and as it were the soul of tragedy, and the characters
are secondary. It is very similar [1450bj in the case of painting too: if some-
one daubed [a surface] with the finest pigments indiscriminately, he would
not give the same enjoyment as if he had sketched an image in black and
white. Tragedy is a representation of an action, and for the sake of the action
above all [a representation] of the people who are acling.
Reasoning comes third, i.e. being able to say what is possible and appro-
priate, which is its function in the case of the speeches of civic life and
rhetoric. The old [poets] made people speak like citizens, but the recent ones
make them speak like rhetoricians. Character is that which reveals decision,
of whatever sort; this is why those speeches in which the speaker decides or
avoids nothing at all do not have character. Reasoning, on the other hand,
is that with which people demonstrate that something is or is not, or make
some universal statement.
Diction is fourth. By "diction" I mean, as we said earlier, communication
by means of language, which has the same potential in the case of both verse
and [proseJ speeches.
Of the remaining [parts]. song is the most important of the embellish-
ments. Spectacle is something enthralling, but is very artless and least par-
ticular to the art of poetic composition. The potential of tragedy exists even
without a performance and actors; besides, the designer's art is more essen-
tial for the accomplishment of spectacular [effects] than is the poets'.
[7J Now that these definitions have been given, let us next discuss what
sort of structure of the incidents there should be, since this is the first and
most important [part] of tragedy. We have laid down that tragedy is the
representation of a complete i.e. whole action which has some magnitude
(for there can be a whole with no magnitude). A whole is that which has a
beginning, a middle and a conclusion. A beginning is that which itself does
not of necessity follow something else, but after which there naturally is, or
comes into heing, something else. t\ conclusion, conversely, is that which
itself naturally follows something else, either of necessity or for the most
part, but has nothing else after it. A middle is that which itself naturally
follows something else, and has something else after it. Well-constructed
plots, then, should neither begin from a random point nor conclude at a
random point, but should usc the elements we have mentioned [i.e. begin-
ning, middle and conclusion].
Further, to hc fine both an animal and every thing which is constructed
from some [parts] should not only have these [parts] in order, but also pos-
sess a magnitude that is not random. For fineness lies in magnitude and
 POETICS / 97

order. For this reason a fine animal can be neither very small, for ohservation
becomes confused when it approaches an imperceptible instant of time; nor
[can it be] very large, for [145Ia) observation cannot happen at the same
time, but its unity and wholeness vanish from the observers' view, e.g. if
there were an animal a thousand miles long. Consequently. just as in the
case- of bodies and of animals these should have magnitude, but [only] a
magnitude that is easily seen as a whole, so too in the case of plots these
should have length, but [only] a length that is easily memorable.
As for the limit on their length, one limit relates to performances and the
perception [of them], nol to the art [itself]. If the performance of a hundred
tragedies were required [at one tragic competition), they would he performed
"against the clock," as the saying goes! But as for the limit according to the
nature of the thing [itself], the larger the plot is, the finer it is because of its
magnitude, so long as the whole is still clear. To give a simple definition, in
whatever magnitude a change from misfortune to good fortune, or from good
fortune to misfortune, can come about by a sequence of events in accordance
with probability or neccssity-this is an ade<l'Jate definition of its magnitude.
[8] A plot is not unifIed, as some suppose, if it concerns one single person.
An indefinitely large number of things happens to one person, in some of
which there is no unity. So too the actions of one person are many, but do
nol turn into a single action. For this reason, it seems, all those poets who
composed a Heracleid, a Theseid" or similar poems are in error. They suppose
that, because Heracles was a single person, his story too must be a single
story. But, just as Homer is superior in other respects, it seems that he saw
this clearly as well (whether by art or by nature). In composing the Odyssey,
he did not put into his poem everything that happened to Odysseus, 7 e.g. that
he was wounded on Parnassus and pretended to be insane during recwit-
ment; whether one of these things happened did not make it necessary or
prnhable that the other would happen. But he constructed the Odyssey
around a single action of the kind we arc discussing, and the Iliad similarly.
Therefore, just as in the other representational arts a single representation
is of a single [thing), so too the plot, since it is a representation of action,
ought to represent a single action, and a whole one at that; and its parts (the
incidents) ought to be so constructed that, when some part is transposed or
removed, the whole is disrupted and disturhed. Something which, whether
it is present or not present, explains nothing [else], is no part of the whole.
[9] It is also obvious from what we have said that it is the function of a
poet to relate not things that have happened, hIlt things that may happen,
i.e. that are possible in accordance with probability or necessity. For [145 I bl
the historian and the poet do not differ according to whether they write in
verse or without verse-the writings of Herodotus' could be put into verse,
hut they would be no less a sort of history in verse than they are without
verses. But the difference is that the former relates things that have hap-
pened, the latter things that may happen. For this reason poetry is a more
philosophical and more serious thing than history; poetry tends to speak of

6. (n ancient Greece, thert.· were several epic Her- cled in the Oil}'5,ey.
acleids and Tneseids-poems depicting, re~pec­ 8. Greek histori;m (co, 484-425 B.CE.).chief1vof
tively, the nef"()(>$ Ifemdes and Theseus. lht' Persiun \Vars; smr.climcs caned "the fathc~ of
7. The king of' Hhucn who!:it' dforts to return history."
home to after the Trojan War are chroni-
98 j ARISTOTLE

universals, history of particulars. A universal is the sort of thing that a certain

kind of person may well say or do in accordance with probability or neces-
sity-this is what poetry aims at, although it assigns names [to the people].
A particular is what Alcibiades9 did or what he suffered.
In the case of comedy this has already become clear. \Vben [comic poets]
have composed a plot according to probability, only then do they supply the
names at random; they do not, like the composers of lampoons, compose
[poems] about particular individuals. In the case of tragedy [the poets] keep
to actual names. The reason is that what is possible is believable; we do not
believe that what has never happened is possihlc, but things which have
happened are obviously possihle-they would not have happened, if they
were impossible. Nonetheless, even among tragedies some have only onc or
two well-knmvn names, and the rest made up; and some have not one, e.g.
Agathon'sJ Antheus. In this [drama] the incidents and the names alike are
made up, and it is no less delightful. Consequently one must not seek to
keep entirely to the traditional stories which tragedies are about. In fact it is
ridiculous to seek to do so. since even the well-known [incidents] are known
only to a few people, but even so everyone enjoys them.
So it is clear from these arguments that a poet must be a composer of
plots rather than of verses, insofar as he is a poet according to representation,
and represents actions. So even if it turns out that he is representing things
that happened, he is no less a poet; for there is nothing to prevent some of
the things that have happened from being the sort of things that may happen
according to prohahility, i.e. that are possible, which is why he can make a
poetic composition about them.
Among simple plots and actions, episodic [tragedies] are the worst. By
"episodic" I mean a plot in which there is neither probability nor necessity
that the episodes follow one another. Such [tragedies] arc composed by infe-
rior poets because of themselves, but by good ones because of the adors.
FOT in composing competition-pieces, they extend the plot beyond its poten-
tial and [1452a] are often compelled to distort the sequence.
The representation is not only of a complete action but also of terrifying
and pitiable [incidents]. These arise to a very great or a considerable extent
when they happen contrary to expectation but because of one another, For
they "Will be more amazing in this way than if [they happened I On their own,
i.e. at random, since the most amazing even among random events are those
which appear to have happened as it were on purpose, e.g. the way the statue
of Mitys at Argos' killed the man who was the cause of Mitys' deatb, by
falling on him as he looked at it. Sucb things do not seem to happen at
random. Consequently plots of this kind are necessarily finer.
[IO] Among plots, some are simple and some are complex; for the actions,
of which plots are representations, are evidently of these kinds. By "simple,"
I mean an action which is, as we have defined it, continuous in its course
and single, where the transformation comes about without reversal or rec-
ognition. By "complex," I mean an action as a result of wbich the transfor-
mation is accompanied by a recognition, a reversal or both. These should

9, Atbt:'ui,an politici:nn and general (l~d_ 450-404 2. The providential punishment of the murderer
B,C,E,I, of Mity1i of Argus happened <;mne time before or
L Iono\'3ti",(: Athenian tral!edian (d, ca. 401 around 374 H,Cf.'. IbTl1lslatOJ\ nOle].
less than 40 Hnes of h'is, workii remain.
B.C.E.,I;
 POETICS I 99

arise from the actual structure uf the plut, su it happens that they arise either
by necessity or by prubabilHy as a result of the preceding events. It makes a
great difference whether these [events] happen because of those or [only]
after those.
[II] A reversal is a change of the actions to their opposite, as we said, and
that, as we "re arguing, in accordance with probability or necessity. E.g. in
the Oedipus,3 the man who comes to bring delight to Oedipus, and to rid
him of his terror about his mother, does the opposite hy revealing who Oed-
ipus is; and in the Lynceus,' Lynceus is being led to his death, and Danaus
follows to kill him, but it comes about as a result of the preceding actions
that Danaus is killed and Lynceus is rescued.
A recognition, as the word itself indicates, is a ehange from ignorance to
knowledge, and so to either friendship or enmity, among people defined in
relation to good fortune or misfortune. A recognition is finest when it hap-
pens at the Same time as a reversal, as does the one in the Oedipus, There
are indeed other [kinds of] reeognition. For it can happen in the manner
stated regarding inanimate objects and random events; and one can recog-
nise whether someone has done something or not done it. But the sort that
most belungs to the plot, i.e. most belungs to the action, is that which we
have mentioned: for such a recognition and reversal [1452b} will eontain
pity or terror (tragedy is considered to be a representation of actions of this
sort), and in addition misfortune and good fortune will come about in the
case of such events,
Since recognition is a recognitiun of people, some recognitions are by one
person only of the other, when the identity of one of them is clear; but
sometimes there must be a recognition of both persons. E.g. Iphigeneia is
reeognised by Orestes' as a result of her sending the letter, but it requires
another recognition for him· 1to be recognised I by I phigeneia. These, then,
reversal and recognition, are two parts of plot. A third is suffering. Of these,
we· have discussed reversal and recognition. Suffering is a destructive or
pa.inful action, e.g. deaths in full view, agonies, woundings etc,
[12] Regarding the parts of tragedy, we stated earlier which ones should
be used as elements. The quantitative parts, Le. the separate parts into which
it is divided, are as follows: (i) prologue, (ii) episode, (iii) exit and (iv) choral
[part], with this divided into (a) processional and (b) stationary [song]-these
are shared by all [dramas], and [songs sung] from the stage, i.e. dirges-
these are particular [to some].
(i) A prologue is a whole part of a tragedy that is before the processional
[song] of the chorus.
(Ii) An episode is a whole part of a tragedy that is between whole choral
songs.
(iii) An exit is a whole part of a tragedy after which there is no song of tbe
chorus,
3. Oedipus Rf'X (-:::L 430 [Lee}, by Sophocks-a 4. lust tragedy by tn..,
urator ami tragic poet Tht:.'u~
play to which Aristotle frequently refers as a model deetes (ca, 375-:B4 3.C.E.), about the dau~t€rs
for his definition of tragedy. Unknov.ingly, Oedi~ of King Danaus of Argos, who ordered them to kill
pU$: kills his father. loins: takes his fnther's place their hushands (all obeyed <:xc<:pt HJ1}f~rme:<>tra,
Ill> king of Thebes; und marries hismuthcT,Jocasta. whose husbuml was LYlU:CUS).
When he learns that he has not escaped the fate 5. In Iphigeneia in Tauris (ca. 413 D.LEJ, by
fcrelold, he gouges out his eyes and banishes him~ Euripides (ca. 406 B,C.L}. the youngest of
!ielf, hence undergoing a reven.lll from king In out~ the 3: great tragedians,
cast.
100 ! ARISTOTLE

(iv) Of the choral [part], (a) a processional is the first whole utterance of
the chorus; (b) a stationary song is a song of the chorus without anapaestic 6
trochaic verse; and (c) a dirge is a lament shared by the chorus and [those]
on stage.
Regarding the parts of tragedy, we stated earlier which ones should he
used [as elements]; the quantitative ones, i.e the separate parts into which
it is dhdded, are these.
[13] After what we have just been saying, we must perhaps discuss next
whal [poets] should aim at and what they should heware of in constructing
plots, i.e. how tragedy will achieve its function. Since the construction of
thc finest tragedy should be not simple but complex, and moreover il should
represent terrifying and pitiable events (for this is particular to representation
of this sort), first, clearly, it should not show (i) decent men undergoing a
change from good fortune to misfortune; for this is neither terrifying nor
pitiable, but shocking. Nor [should it show] (ii) wicked men [passing] from
misfortune to good fortune. This is most untragic of all, as it has nothing of
what it should; for it is neither morally satisfying nor pitiable nor terrifying.
[1453a] Nor, again, [should it show] (iii) a thoroughly villainous person fall-
ing from good fortune into misfortune: such a structure can contain moral
satisfaction, but not pity or terror, for the former is [felt] for a person unde-
serving of his misfortune, and the latter for a person like [ourselves]. Con-
sequently the outcome will be neither pitiable nor terrifying.
There remains, then, the person intermediate between these. Such a per-
son is one who neither is superior [to us] in virtue and justice, nor undergoes
a change to misfortune because of vice and wickedness, but because of some
error, and who is one of those people with a great reputation and a good
fortune, e.g. Oedipus, Thyestes' and distinguished men from similar families.
Necessarily, then, a plot that is fine is single rather than (as some say) double,
and involves a change not from misfortune to good fortune, but conversely,
from good fortune to misfortune, not because of wickedness bUI because of
a great error by a person like the one mentioned, or by a better person rather
than a worse one.
im indication [that this is so] is what is coming about. At first the poets
recounted stories at random, but now the finest tragedies are constructed
around a few households, e.g. about Alcmeon, Oedipus, Orestes, lVleleager,
Thyestes, Telephus and the others, who happen to have had dreadful things
done to them, orto have done them." So the tragedy which is finest according
to the [principles of the] art results from this structure. For this reason, people
make the same error when they bring against Euripides the charge that he docs
this in his tragedies, and many of his [tragedies [end in misfortune; for this, as
we said, is correct. A very important indication [that this is so is the following].

6. Based on a foot of tht> sY'lIahk pattern short- Alcmaeon and Orestes kill their mothers,
l>llf'\'IVC,
short~long (~omerim~"':S known as mftrt:hing mder Eriphyle and Clytemnestra, to avenge their fathers.'
because Qf ill' regularity). deaths and are driven mad by the Furies (female
7. Like Oedipus, a popular subject for Greek trag- demons who punish kin-munlercrs); Mdcager kills
edy, thQugh none survive: his story has numerous his undt,'S. and as a result his mother kiUs him; and
variants, He unknOWingly ate the Hesh of his uwn Tclcphus, fated it) kill his greaHmdes, js expn~d
~on~, !";t?rved by his brother Atrc.'us; and roJiQwing by his grandfather (a tragedy hy EUTipides told of
the axhice of an orade. he committed lncest with felephus's wound. rcceived from Achilles li'S the
his daughter to beget the son who would avenge Greeks were preparing tu suH for Troy. that would
him. not hCtll).
8, l-"ew of the tragedil"s involVing thest:' t:hunH:tr.:rs
 POETICS / JOJ

On stage, i.e. in performance, tragedies of this sort, if they are done correctly,
are obviously the most tragic, and although Euripides manages badly in other
respects, he is obviously the most tragic of poets.
The second[-best\ structure is that which some say is first, the [tragedy]
which has a double structure like the Odyssey, and which ends in opposite
ways for the better and worse [persons]. This [structure] would seem to be
first because of the weakness of the audicnccs; thc poets follow the specta-
tors, composing 10 suit their wishes. But this is not the pleasure [that comes]
from tragedy, but is more particular to comedy. There the bitterest enemies
in the story, c.g. Orestes and Aegisthus,' exit as friends at the conclusion,
and nobody kills anyone else.
,[14, 1453b] That which is terrifying and pitiablc can arisc from spectacle,
but it can also arise from the structure of the incidents itself; this is superior
and belongs to a better poet. for the plot should be constructed in such a
way that, evcn without sccing it, someone who hears about the inciuents will
shudder anu feel pity at the outcome, as someone may feel upon hearing the
plot of the Oedipus. To produce this by means of spectacle is less artful and
requires lavish production. Those [poets] who use spectacle to prouuce what
is only monstrous and not terrifying have nothing in common with tragedy.
For we should not seek every [kind of] pleasurc from tragcdy, but [only] thc
sOrt which is particular to it. Since the poet should use representation to
produce the pleasure [arising] from pity and terror, it is obvious that this
must be put into the incidents.
Let us consider, then, what sorts of occurrence arouse dread or compas-
sion in us. These sorts of action against cach another ncccssarily takc place
between friends, enemies or people who are neither. If it is one enemy [who
does the action] to another, there is nothing pitiable, whether he does it or
is [only] about to do it, cxcept in the suffering itself. Nor [is it pitiable] if the
people are neither [friends nor enemies]. But when suffering happen within
friendly relationships, e.g. brother against brother, son against father, mother
against son or son against mother, when someone kills someone else, is about
to, or does something else of the same sort-these are what must be sought
after.
[The poet] cannot unuo the traditional stories, I mean e.g. that Clytae-
mestra is killed by Orestes or Eriphyle by Alcmeon; but he should invent for
himself, i.e. use thc inherited [stories], well. Let me explain more clearly
what I mean by "well."
. The action may arise (i) in the way the old [poets] made people act know-
ingly, i.e. in full knowleuge, just as Euripiues too maue Medea' kill her chil-
dren. Or (ii) they may be going to act, in full knowledge, but not do it. Or
(iii) they may act, but do the dreadful dccd in ignorance, and then recognisc
the friendly relationship later, as Sophocles' Oedipus [does]. This is outside
the drama; but [they may do the deed] in the tragedy itself, as Astydamas'
A1cmeon or Telegonus in the Wounded Odysseus" [do]. Again, fourth beside

9. Clytemnestra's lover (and Agamemnon's 2. Alost play b~ Sophocles in whichTelegolllls, the

cousin), whom (in the 'o'ersion lold in Aeschvlus's son ufOdysscus Hnd Circe, fatally wounds his father
Agamemnun) Orestes also kills. - without knOWing his identity. Astydamas (active
1. A sorceress from Colehis. In Medea (431 ca, 390 H,C.E.), a prolific Athenian tragedian;
B,C.E.), to avenge herself on Jason, who has Alcrnae01'~ (and all hut a few lines of hi!':. work!':.) i!':.
dfl~erted her for the daughter of a king, she kills lost.
Ips-and her-children.
102 / ARISTOTLE

these Iways] is (iv) to be about to do something deadly in ignorance [of one's

relationship], but to recognise it before doing so. Beside these there is no
other way; for the act is necessarily either done or not done, and those who
act eithe~ have knowledge or do n~t.
Among these 1ways] , (i) to be about to act in full knowledge, but not do
it. is the worst. For this is shocking and also not tragic, as there is no suf-
fering. For this reason nobody composes in this way, 1144';a] except rarely.
c.g. Haemon against Creon in the Antigone. 3 (ii) To act is secondl-worst].
(iii) To act in ignorance, but recognise [the relationship] afterwards, is better.
This has nothing shocking in it. and the recognition is astonishing. (iv) The
last [way] is the hest. I mean e.g. the Cresphontes, where Merope is about
to kill her son, hut does not kill him and recognises him; the lphigeneia,
where [it is the same for] the sister and her brother; and the Helle,' where
the son is about to hand OVN his mother but reeognises her. This is why, as
we said a while ago, tragedies are not ahollt many families. [The poets]
sought to produce this sort lof effect] in their plots, and discovered how to
not by art hut by chance; so they are obliged to concern themselves with
those households in which such sufferings have happened.
As for the structure of the incidents, and what sort of plots thcre should
be. let this suffice.
[15] Regarding characters, there are four things at which [the poet] should
aim.
(i) First and foremost, the characters shollid be good. [The tr'<lgedy] will
have character if, as we said, the speech or the action makes obvious a deci-
sion of whatever sort; it "'ill have a good character, if it makes obvious a
gond decision. IGood characterl can exist in every class [of person]; for a
woman can be good, and a slave can, although the first of these [elassesl
may be inferior and the second wholly worthless.
Iii) Second, [they should bel appropriate. It is possible to be manly in
character, but it is not appropriate for a woman to he so manly or elever.
(iii) Third, [the character should be Iife-]like. 1bis is different from making
the character good and appropriate in the way already stated.
(iv) Fourth, [the character should be] consistent. If the model for the
representation is somebody inconsistent, and such a character is intended,
even so it should be consistently inconsistent.
An example of unnecessary villainy of character is the Menelaus in the
Orestes; of the unsuitable and inappropriate, the lament of Odysseus in the
Scylla, and the speech of Mclanippe;' and of the inconsistent, the lphigeneia
at Auli, (the girl who begs [for her life] does not seem at all like the later
Tphigeneia). 6
In the characters too, exactly as in the structure of the incidents, Ithe

3, By Sophoc1~s (ca. 441 !J,CL), Hacmon, who Scy!l;~: 11 lost ditby-ramb by Timotheu-s, in wbicb
loW's Anligone, tries to kill his [alher (Creon, king Odysseus \"eeps in no unmanly way for his crew
of Thebes), who is responsible for her suicide. memben killed by the monster Scylla,
4. Nothing mort" is knO'wn of this play. The Cres- 6. That is, Iphiget1ia at Tauri~" Euripides' play set
phom& {now ]osl} und lphigeni" j-x TauTis ure both at Aulis (<:3. 4U5 6.(.'"E.) depicts lphigenia alxmt to
by Euripide~, h~ Hlcrificed by her fatber, Agamemnon, 0;0 thut
S, In;\felanippe the Wiw, a lust play by Euripides; the Greeks may havt' rnir""inds as they sail to Troy;
tlw ht'TOine apparently flrgll(..~ with a philmmphicHI according to on(;' "'crsion of the my I h, she was
sophistication inappropriate for a womnll, l\lcne- saved hy Artemis and transporleJ far lil'\.'ay to
laus in the Ore~tes; in Euripides' play (408 n.C.E.), Tnuns, where she hecomes higb priestess {and
Menelaus basely refuses to help his nephew. where Orestes la.ter CorTU:''')
 PoeTICS / 103

poet] ought always to seek what is either necessary or probable, sO that it is

either necessary or probable that a person of such-and-such a sort say or do
things of the same sort, and it is either necessary or probable that this [inci-
dent] happen after that one.
It is obvious that the solutions of plots too should come about as a result
of the plot itself, [14541>] and not from a contrivance, as in the IHedea and
in the passage about sailing home in the lliad. 7 A contrivance must be used
for matters outside the drama-either previous events which are beyond
human knowledge, or later ones that need to be foretold or announced. For
we grant that the gods can see everything. There should be nothing improb-
able in the incidents; othcrvvisc, it should he outside the tragedy, e.g. that in
Sophocles' Oedipus.
Since tragedy is a representation of people who are better than we are,
[the poet] should emulate the good portrait-painters. In rendering people's
particular shape, while making them [life-]like, they paint them as finer[than
they are]. So too the poet, as he represents people who are angry. lazy, or
have other such traits, should make them sueh in their characters, [hut]
decent [tool. E.g. Homer [made] Achilles B good as well as an example of
stuhbornness. [The poet] should guard against these things, as well as against
[causing] reactions contrary to those that necessarily follow from the art of
PQetry. In fact one can often make errors in these; there is a sufficient
account of them in my published work.
[16J We stated earlier what recognition is. As for the kinds of recognition,
(i) the first is the least artful, which [poets] make most use of from lack of
resourcefulness-recognition by signs. Of these, (a) some arc congenital,
e,g. "the spear-head that the earth-born bear," or [the birth-marks like] stars
such as Carcinus" [made upJ in his Thyestes. (b) Others are acquired, Of
the&e (I) some are on the body, e.g. scars, ami (2) others are external, e.g,
necklaces, and e.g. [the recognition I by means of the dinghy in the Tyro.'
These can be used more or less well; e.g. Odysseus was recognised from
his scar in one way by the nurse, and in another by the swineherds." For thc
latter recognitions, and all similar ones, are less artful because of the [means
of] proof; but those that result from a reversal, like that in the "Bath-scene,"
are better.
(ii) Second are those recognitions madc up hy the poet, which is why they
are not artful. E.g. in the Iphigeneia, how Orestes makes it known that he is
Orestes; for Iphigencia is recognised by means of the letter, but he himself
says what the poet wants, not what the plot does. For this reason, this rec-
ognition is not far from the error we ijust] mentioned; Orestes could have
brought some actual ohjccts. Also "the shuttle's voice" in Sophocles' Ten~us.'

7. In llUtd 8.155--81. only thf' arhitrflrY interven- lost AI'.dgone.

tion Q(,the goddess Athena prevents the Creeks 1. A lost play~' Sophoclf's; T}TO'S son,s arc aban·
from giving up the fight .at Troy ;md ,aping home. don~d in a smad boat thal leads to theIr Inter !t"c:-
The Medea; after killing her children, l\ledca flies ognition,
off in the chariot of the sun--god Helios, her gmnd- 2, Odysseus is re<'ognized artfully (because inevi·
father; this «contrivance" is the deus £'X tHlu:hi-mL hlhlyJ hy his l1tlT'>t" when h€ sbows them his scar
8. The greatest warrior among the Greeks and the in the '~ath scene" (Od:y5Sey 19.386--47~); hut his
central charaClcr of the Iliad. He displays his dedaration of his identity to the swineherds, \~helJ
"51ubbornness'" hy long feFu!'ing to engage in the he shows: them the Kat as proof (21.205-25), is
hattie hecause of his anger with .i\gmnemnon. the m;mufactured by the poet.
leader of the Creek forces, 3, A lost play, Philomela tells her sister the storr
9. Prolific Greek tr<1Aic poet tearly 4th c. s.c.c.). of her rape by Tt-'reus, who has torn out h("~ tongue
, preceding quota'inn may be from EUripides to silence her, by weaving a picture of ie.
104 I ARISTOTLE

(iii) The third [kind of recognition] is by means of a memory, when some-

one reacts to something he sees, [1455a[like the one in Dicaeogenes' Cyp-
riots where he bursts into tears upon seeing the painting, or the one in the
"Tale told to Alcinous"4 where Odysseus hears the lyre-player and weeps at
his memories, as a result of which they recognise him.
(tv) Fourth is recognition resulting from an inference, e.g. in the Libation
Bearers, on the grounds that "someone like [Electra] has come; but there is
nobody like [her] except Orestes; it is he, then, who has come".' Or the
recognition [proposed by] the sophist Polyidus concerning Iphigencia: it
would be reasonable, he said, for Orestes to infer that "his sister was sacri-
ficed, and it [now] falls to him to he sacrificed himself." Or in Theodectes'
Tydeus, on the grounds that "he came to find a son, but is to die himself."
Or the reeognition in the Som of PhinellS:' when the women see the place
they infer their fate, on the grounds that "they arc fated to be killed there,
for [the boys] were left to perish there."
There is also a combined recognition resulting from a false inference by
the audience, e.g. in Odysseus the False Messlmger: Y for the fact that [Odys-
seus could] bend the how, bm nobody else [could], is made up by the poet
and is a premise. and [so is Odysseus'] saying that he would recognise the
bow which he had not seen; but the way he is expected to make himself
known by the former means, but does so by the latter, is a [case of] false
inference.
(v) The best recognition of all is that which results from the incidents
themselves, when our astonishment comes about by means of probable [inci-
dentsJ. e.g. in Sophocles' Oedipus and the Iphigeneia: it is prohable that
Iphigeneia would 'wish to dispatch a letter. For such recognitions alone are
without made-up [incidents] and necklaces. Recognitions as a result of infer-
ence are second[-best].
[17] In constructing his plots and using diction to bring them to
completion, [the poet] should put [the events] before his eyes as much as he
can. In this way, seeing them very vividly as if he were actually present at
the actions [he represents], he ean discover what is suitable, and is least
likely to miss contradictions. An indication of this is the [contradiction] for
which Carcinus was criticised. His Amphiaraus comes up out of a shrine;'
this would have been missed by anyone not seeing it as a spectator. But [the
play] failed on stage, as the spectators were upsel a bout it.
As far as possible, [the poet should] also bring [his plots] to completion
with gestures. Given the same nature, those [poets] who experience the emo-
tions [to be represented] are most believable, i.e. he who is agitated orfurious
[can represent] agitation and anger most truthfully. For this reason, the art
of poetry belongs to the genius or the madman; of these, the first are adapt-
able, the second can step outside themselves.
As for his stories, both those [already] made up and those he composes
himself, [1455b] he should set them out as universals, and only then intro-
duce episodes, i.e. extend them, I mean that he might investigate what is

4. King of the Phaeadans and Odysseus's host in 16B~234.

Wad 7 ~12 (for the telltale weeping, see B.521-~4.l. 6. Lost, as is Tya.~us, Polyidus tearly4th c. R,C-E.),
Dicacogenes (lafe lith c. B,CL], a rninorGre~ktrH­ perhaps the poet llnu critic Polyidus of Selymbria.
gedian 7. A to\:f play by an unknown author.
5. Aeschylus, Ubafion Bearen: (4,8 S.C.E.), lines R. J11 <l lost play.
 POETICS / 105

universal in them in the following way, e.g. [the story] of Iphigeneia: "a girl
has been sacrificed and disappears in a way unclear to the people who sae-
rifieed her. She is set down in another country, where there is a law that
foreigners must be sacrificed to the goddess; this is the priesthood she is
given. Some time later it turns out that the priestess' brother arrives.. , ,"
The ract that the oracle commanded him to go there, for some reason that
is not a universal, and his purpose Iin going], are outside the plot. "After he
arrives, he is captured. ""'hen he is about to he sacrificed [by his sister], he
makes himself known [to hed." either as Euripides or as Polyidus arranged
it, "by saying-as would hc probable-that it was not only his sister's fate to
be sacrificed, but his O\loTI too. This leads to the rescue." After this [the poet]
should now supply the names and introduce episodes. Take care that the
episodes are particular [to the story], e.g. in Orestes' case his madness
through which he is captured, and his rescue by means of the purification,
In dramas thc episodes are brief. but epic is lengthened out with them,
The story of the Odyssey is not long: "someone has heen away from home for
many years, with a god on the watch for him, and he is alone. Moreover
affairs at home are such that his wealth is being consumed by [his \Ioife's]
suitors, and his son is being plotted against [by them]. He arrives after much
distress, makes himself knovvn to some people, and attacks. He is rescued,
hill,enemies annihilated." This is what is proper [to the Odysseyl; its other
[parts] are episodes.
[I8] [Part] of every tragedy is the complication, and [part] is the solution.
The, [incidents] outside [the tragedy] and often some of those inside it are
the complication, and the rest is the solution. By "complication," I mean the
[tragedy] from the beginning up to the final part from which there is a trans-
formation towards good fortune or misfortune; by "solution," the [tragedy]
from the heginning of the transformation up to the end. E.g, in Theodectes'
Lynce1'S, the prior incidents, the capture of the hahy and then its parents'
explanation is the complication, and the [tragedy] from the demand for the
death penalty up to the cnd is the solution.
There are four kinds of tragedy (for we said that its parts too are of the
same .numher); (i) the complex tragedy, the whole of which is reversal and
recognition; (ii) the tragedy of suffering, e.g. the [tragedies called I Ajax and
[1456a] Ixion;9 (iii) the tragedy of character, e.g. the Women ~f Phthia and
the Peleus;' (iv) the fourth [kind] is spectacle, e,g. the Daughters ofPhorcys,
the Prometheus' and [dramas set] in Hades. Preferahly [the poet I should
attempt to have all [the parts]; otherwise, the most important and the major-
ity of them, especially given the way people belittle poets nowadays. Since
there have been poets good at each part [of tragedy], they demand that a
single [poet] surpass the particular good [quality] of each one; but it is not
right to call a tragedy the same [as another] or different according to anything

9, NopJayofthis name survtn':<.lxhmwl:Is (he first Sophocles find Euripides wrote play9 titled }Jeleus,
to murder kin and attempted to rape Hera, queen 2, Pl'rh1Jps Aescnjius's Prom(!ihett~ Hntmd: whose
of the gods; as punishment for the second crime, hero speaks while bound to the rocks in the Cau-
he is chainll'd forever to t1 wheel in the underwodd. casus, Daughters ofpfwrCrS: perhaps hy A£5l:b~}'lus
Aj= Sophocles' pttly (....<1. 445 B,C.£.) (dIs (he story Phorc:vS was. a sea god, and his dauJi,hte:rs were
of the Greek warrior driven mad bv Athena \"ho mOnsters: the 3 Graeac, aid wamen who shared
then commits suicide Out of shame: one tooth and une ",ye, and the 3 serpent-haired
1. Both Jost work.. revnlvt' around the familv of Gorgons, the sight of whom turned humans 10
Achilles. who was the son of Peleus and came f~om stone,
~\,Phthia. 'Women uj Phlhia h by Sophocles; hoth
106 ! ARISTOTLE

so much as the plot, that is, [plots] with the same development and solution.
Many [poets] develop [the plot] well and solve it badly, but one should har-
monise hoth [parts].
[The poet] ought to remember what wc havc often said, and not compose
a tragedy with an epic structure (by an "epic" structure, I mean one ....i th
more than one plot), e.g. if someone were to compose [a tragedy with] the
whole plot of the Iliad. For there, the parts receive suitable magnitude
because of the length [of the epic]; but in dramas the result is farfrom one's
expectation.
An indication [that this is so is the following]: those [tragedians] who
composed a Sack of Tray as a whole and not in part like Euripides, or a
Niobe' and not like Aeschylus, either fail or compete badly, since even Aga-
thon failed in this onc respect. In reversals and in simple incidents, they aim
to arouse the amazement which they desire; for this is tragic and morally
satisfying. This is possible when someone who is clever but "iUainous is
deceived, like Sisyphus: or someone who is brave but unjust is defeated.
This is even probable, as Agathon says; for it is probable that many things
will happen even against probahility.
[The poet] should regard the chorus as one of the actors. It should be a
parl of the whole, and contribute to the performance, not as in Euripides
but as in Sophocles. In the rest the sung [parts] belong to the plot no more
than they belong to another tragedy. For this rcason lhcy sing interludes;
Agathon was first to begin this. Yet what difference is there between singing
interludes and trying to adapt a speech, or a whole episode, from one [drama]
to another)
[19] We have discussed the other elements [of tragedy]; it rcmains to
discuss diction and reasoning. As for reasoning, what was said about it in
my Rhetoric' should be assumed; for this is proper rather to that enquiry. All
[the effects] that havc to he produced by speech fall under reasoning. The
types of these are (i) demonstration and refutation, (ii) the production of
emotions [1456bj (e.g. pity, terror, anger, etc.), and again (iii) [arguments
about things'] importance or unimportance.
Tn the incidents too [the poet] clearly should use some of the same ele-
ments when he needs to make things [e.g.] pitiable, dreadful, important or
probahle, excepl that there is this difference, that these [effects] should be
apparent without a production, hut those dependent on speech should be
produced by the speaker and arise from speech. What would be the
speaker's function, if the element were apparent even without [the use of]
speech?
Among matters rclated to diction, one kind of investigation is the forms
of the diction. Knowledge of this belongs to the art of delivery and to the
person with mastery in it. [I mean] e.g. what is a command, what is a wish,
a statement, a threat, a question, an answer, ctc. No criticism at all made

3, There ;ll'E' no known epics conc.eminf,!; Niobe; nally fOT betraying ?..ew/s secrets; he tries to roll a
Aeschyius'$ Niobe is losr, Sack of Troy: a poem in stonE' over the top of a steep hill, hut alw<fYs fails
the epic cycle, by Le,sches of My tiline {cfl, 71h c. and must try again from the bottom, Aesch~·lus.
B.CE.} or Arctinus of Milelus (c-~L 8th c. R.C.E.), Sophocles. and Euripides all V>'1ote phlYS 011 Sisy-
EUripides treated somt: of the same events in his phus.
Trnjan \,VQmen amI HfC1t~. 5. In a discussion of types of argument; see Rhet-
4. A sly lrkkswrwho murdered travC'iers and once oric 1356a~1358a.
even chained the gQd of death; he j;;. punished f'Ler~
 POETICS / 107

against the art of poetry, that is based on knowledge or ignorance of these

[forms], actually deserves to be taken seriously. What error could anybody
consider there to bc in "Sing, goddess, of the wrath," which Protagoras 6
criticises on the grounds that [Homer] supposes he is making a wish, but is
giving an order? (For Protagoras says that telling someone to do something
or not do it is an order.) For this reason let us leave this investigation aside,
as it belongs to another art and not to that of poetry.
[20] The parts of diction in its entirety are as follows: (i) the element [i.e.
letter]' (ii) the syllable, (iii) the particle, (iv) the conjunction, (v) the name
[i.e. noun or adjectivel, (vi) the verb, (vii) the inflection. (viii) the utterance.
(i) 'The element is an indivisible sound-not every [kind of] sound, but
one from which it is natural for a composite sound to ·arise. For wild animals
too make indivisible sounds, none of which I mean by an element. The types
of this [kind of] sound are (a) the vowel. (b) the semi-vowel and (c) the
consonant.
(a) A vowel is that which has an audihle sound without a contaet [between
the parts of the mouth]. (bl A semi-vowel is that which has an audible sound
with [such] a comact, e.g. sand r. (c) A consonant is that which has no
audible sound in itself with [such] a contact. but becomes audible together
with those elements that have a sound of some sort; e.g. g and d.
The elements differ according to the forms of the mouth. the places [in
the mouth where they are produced], aspiration, non-aspiration. length,
shortness, and also high, low or intermediate pitch. One must investigate
the particulars of these mallers in works on versification.
(ii) A syllable is a non-significant sound composed of a consonant and [an
element] which ha' sound. In fact gr without an a is a syllable, and Iit is also
a syllable) with an a. as in gra. But the investigation of the differences
between these also belongs to the art of versification.
(iii) A particle is (a) a non-significant sound which neither precludes,
[1457a] nor brings about, the production of a single significant sound that
by nature is composed of several sounds [i.e. an utterance], and which it is
not appropriate to place at the heginning of an utterance on it, own, e.g.
mett, etoi, tk. Or [it is] (b) a non-significant sound which by nature pro-
duces, as a result of [joining together] several sounds that are significant,
a.single significant sound [I.e. an utterance], e.g. "about," "concerning"
etc.
(iv) A conjunction is a non-significant sound which makes dear the hegin-
ning of an utterance, its end or its dividing-point, and which by nature is
placed both at the extremities and in the middle [of an utterance], e.g. "or,"
"because~" i·but.·~
(v) A name [I.e. noun or adjective] is a composite significant sound without
[an.indication of] time, no part of which is significant in itself. For in double
names we do not use [any part] as being significant in and of itself: e.g. in
"Theodore" [i.e. "gift of god"] dore is not significant.
(vi) A verb is a composite signiiJcant sound with [an indication of] time,
no part of which is significant in itself. just as in the case of names. For
"human being" or "whitc" docs not signify when, but "walks" or "walked"

6,. Pre~Socratic philosopher (5th c. B.C,!:.), who was one of the most successful of the sophists, or itinerant
teacher~. "Sing .. ,": the first won"1s of the mad.
108 I ARlSTOTTE

signifies this as well, present time in the first case, and past time in the
second.
(vii) An inflection of a name or verb is either (a) the inflection according
to the [part] that signifies "of him," "for him," etc., or (b) that according to
the [part] that signifies "one" or "many," e.g. "person" or "persons," or (c)
that according to the delivery, e.g. according to [whether it is] a question or
an order; for "did he walk?" or "walk!" is an inflection of the verb according
to these kinds.
(viii) An utterance is a composite significant sound, some parts of which
signify something in themselves. For not every utterance is composed of
verbs and names, e.g. the definition of a human bcing, but there can be an
utterance without verbs. However, an utterance will always have a part that
signifies something [in itself], e.g. "Cleon" in "Cleon walks."
An utterance can be single in two ways, either (3) by signifying one thing,
or (b) by a conjunction of several things. E.g. the Wad is one by a conjunction
[of many things], but the definition of a human being is one by signifying
one thing.
[21] The kinds of name are (i) single (by "single," I mean that which is
not composed from [parts] that are significant, e.g. "earth"), and Oi) double.
Of the double name, (a) one [kind] is composed of [a part] that is significant
and Ia part] that is non-significant, except that these (parts] are not signifi-
cant and non-significant in the [double] name [itself]; (b) the other [kind] is
composed of [parts] that are significant. There can be a triple and a quad-
ruple name, even a multiple one: e.g. most of the names of the people of
Marseilles, "Hermocaicoxanthus/ who prays to Zeus." 114S7b] Every name
is either (i) standard, (ii) exotic, (iii) a metaphor, (Iv) an ornament, (v) made-
up, (vi) lengthened, (vii) reduced or (viii) altered.
By (i) "standard," I mean a name which a particular people uses; by (ii)
"exotic," J mean one which other people uses. Consequently it is obvious
that it is possible for the same [name] to be both exotic and standard, but
not for the same people. For sigutlon ("spear") is standard for the Cypriots,'
but exotic for us; and "spear" is standard for us, but exotic for the Cypriots.
(iii) A "metaphor" is the application [to something] of a name belongin!!,
to something else, either (a) from the genus to the species, or (b) from the
species to the genus, or (c) from a species to [another] species, or (d) accord-
ing to analogy.
By (a), "from genus to species," I mean e.g. "here stands my ship": for [the
species] lying at anehor is a [part of the genus] standing. By (bi, "from species
to genus," I mean e.g. "truly has Odysseus done ten thousand deeds of
worth": for [the species] "ten thousand" is [part of the genus] "many," and
[Homer] uses it here instead of "a lot". By (e), "from species to species," [
mean e.g. [killing a man by] "draining out his life with bronze" [i.e. a
weapon], and [drawing water hy] "cutting it with long-edged bronze" [i.e. a
bowl]: for here [the poet] calls cutting "draining" and draining "cutting".
Both are [species of the genus] "taking away." By (d), "analogy," I mean when
b is to a as d is to c; for Ithe poet then] will say d instead of h, or b instead
ofd.

7 A comical name compounded from the l1am(.'!> seme~ (then called Vlassalia} ocigjnatt:d.
of lhrce rivers (Hermus. Cakus r and XLluthus) in 8. Thal is, those speaking the dialect of Greek
western Asia Minor, where the fountkrs of 1\13r- 11s.etl on the iSland of Cyprus.
 POETICS I 109

Sometimes too [poets] add [to the metaphor] the thing to which the name
relates, instead of what it means. I mean e.g. that the wine-bowl stands to
Dionysus as the shield does to Ares:" SO [the poet] will call a wine-bowl
"shield of Dionysus" and a shield "wine-bowl of Ares." Again, as old age
stands to life, so the evening stands to the day: so [the poet] will call evening
"old age of the day," as Empedocles does, and old age "the evening of life"
or "the sunset of life:'
There may be no current name for some of the things in the analogy, but
even so they will be expressed in the same way. E.g. to scatter seed is to sow,
and,toscatter radiance from the sun has no name; but this has the same
relation to the sun as sowing does to the seed. For this reason [the poet/ says
"sowing god-wrought radiance."
This manner of [making a] metaphor can be used in another way too. After
terming something by a name that belongs to something else, one can deny
to it one of the things particular to [that other thing], e.g. if [a poet] called
a shield not "wine-bowl of Ares" but "wine-bowl without wine."
(iv) [An "ornament" is '-""]'
(v). A "made-up [name]" is one which is wholly unused by people, but
which the poet supplies himself. There would seem to be some such names,
e.g. "branchers" for "horns" or "prayerman" for "pries!."
(vi)~(vii) As for lengthened [1458a] or shortened names, the former is one
which uses a longer vowel than the one particular Ito it J. or an inserted
syllable. The latter is one some [part] of which has been shortened. A length-
ened [name] is e.g. f'oleos for puleos "of the city," and Peleiadco for Pcleidou
"son of Peleus"; a shortened [name I is e.g. kri [for krithe] "barlcy," do [for
diima/"mansion" and, in "one seeing comes from both [eyes]," Of'S [for apsis]
"seeing."
(,iii) An altered [name I is when [the poet] leaves some of the appellation
[unaltered], but makes up some of it, e.g. "by her righter breast" instead of
"right."
Among names [in] themselves, (a) some arc masculine, (b) some are fem-
inine, and (c) some are in between [I.e. neuter]." (a) Masculine names are
those that end in fl, T, S and the elements that are composed of s; therc are
two of these, f'S and x [Le. ksj. (b) Feminine names are (1) those that end in
the vowels that are always long, i.e. in e and 0, and (ii) those that end in a
among the vowels that may be lengthened. Conscqucntly the elements in
whieh tbe masculine and feminine names end turn out to be equal in number
[i.e. three], for ps and x are composite. No names end in a consonant, nor
in a short vowel [that is always shOTt]. There are only three names ending in
1, "honey," "gum" and "pepper" (meli, kommi, peperi); there are five ending
in u, "spear," "fleece," "mustard," "knee" and "eity" (dotu, pou, napu, ganu,
astu). The [names] that are in between end in these elements [a, j and u],
and in n, [r] and s.
[22J The ,irtue of diction is to be elear and not commonplace. Diction
made up of standard names is clearest, but is commonplace. An example is
m!!.,;poetry of Cleophon and that of Sthenelus.' Diction that uses unfamiliar

9. Greek god of war. 2. Some editors condemn this paragraph (which

1. Aristotle distinguishes between ornamental and contains much that is not true) a.<; $purious.
standard names, but his account here is miSSing in ,~" Perhilps (l tmgie po!;'t whose style lI\-ns mocked
~hUMVlng manu"ript<. by AristQphuneli [translator's notcl
110 I ARISTOTLE

names is grand and altered from the everyday. By "unfamiliar," I mean the
exotic [name], metaphor, lengthening and everything that is contrary to what
is standard. But if someone makes all Ithe names] of this sort, [his poeml
will be either a riddle or gibberish. If [it is composed] of metaphors, it wilJ
be a riddle; if of exotic [names]' gibberish. For it is the form of a riddle to
use an impossible combination Iof names] in saying things that are the ease.
This cannot be done with the combination of the other names, but is possible
with metaphor, e.g. "I saw a man glue bronze on a man with fire," etc. Things
[composed] of exotic names are gibherish. [The poet], then, should mix these
[two kinds] in some way. The first (e.g. the exotic name, metaphor, ornament
and the other kinds we mentioned) will produce that which is not everyday
and commonplace, and the standard name will produce clarity.
Lengthenings, curlailments and alterations of names make no small COn-
tribution [1458b] towards making the diction clear and not everyday. These
will produce what is not everyday, because of their variation from what is
standard, as they are contrary to the norm, hut clarity will come from what
they have in common with the norm. Consequently those who criticize this
manner of speech and ridicule Ihe poet [for using it] arc not correct to abuse
him. E.g. old Euclides. to show thai it is easy to compose if [a poet] is allowed
to lengthen [names] as much as he wishes, composed as a lampoon in his
words "I saw Epichares walking to Marathon" and "not mixing hellebore for
him.'" To use this manner in some ob,~olls way is laughable. IThe need for]
due measure is shared by all the types [of unfamiliar names]. For [a poet]
who purposely uses metaphors, exotic [names], and the other kinds unsuit-
ably, with a ~ew to arousing laughter, can accomplish the same [effecl].
How much what is appropriate is superior [to what is inappropriate] can
be observed, in the case of lengthened [names], by inserting the [standard]
names into the verse [instead]. In the case of exotic [names], as well as
metaphors and the other forms, someone who substitutes the standard
names can see that what we are saying is true. E.g. when Euripides composed
the same iamhic verse as Aeschylus. and substituted only one name, an exotic
name instead of the usual standard one, his verse seems fine. but Aeschvlus'
seems ordinary. For Aeschylus in his Philoctete!!' composed the verse .
"the gangrene which eats at the flesh of my foot,"
but Euripides substituted "feasts on" for "eals at," Also, [in the verse]
"now I am a pallry man, nothing worth and plain,'"
suppose that someone substituted the standard names to say
"now I am a little man, a feeble one and ugly."
Compare too
"setting dov,n a squalid hassock and a paltry table,'"

4. The two phrases are unrelated; both contain Euripides survives), Phlloctetes, who u;,.cJ the how
words v.ith arbitmrily lengthened ;;yHablcs. Eudj~ and arrows of Ilerac:!f's, sailed with the Greeks for
des: identity unknown; both ,,10 Athenian magis- Troy hut was left i>ehind on an island becau&e a
trate ;lndn \1~garan philosopher of that name wt;>Te wound on his foot, caused by snakebite~ produ<:ed
active Cd, 400 Il,C,I.>'. Epkhares: a common nnme .. horrihle smell. He remained alone IiJr 10 . . ear~.
in :\thens. Marathon; a large Attic city un the until On the advice of an finlde he und hi~ bot."
northeast wast. "I felJebore"; no ht:rb thought to were bTOu~hr tn Troy.
he a cure for mmlness. 6. Oi'lysscJ:9.S15, .
'i. A lost phiY (lhc Philoctete.:s of Sophodes hut nol 7. OJ:r;~y 20,259
 POETICS 111

with
"setting down a nasty hassock and a little table,"
or "the headlands bellow" with "the headlands yell."
Again, Ariphrades' ridiculed the tragedians on the grounds that they use
things which nobody would say in his [everyday[ speech, e.g. "without the
palace" and not "outside the palace," "of thee," "mine own," [1459a] "Achil-
les round" and not "around Achilles," etc. Because all such [names] are not
among the standard ones, they produce what is not everyday in the diction.
But Ariphrades was ignorant of this.
It is important to use each of the [kinds[ mentioned suitably, both double
names and exotic ones, but the metaphorical [kind] is the most important
by far, This alone (a) cannot be acquired from someone else, and (b) is an
indication of genius. For to make metaphors well is to observe what is like
[something else].
Among names, double ones are most appropriate for dithyrambs, exotic
ones for heroic [verses]" and metaphors for iamhic verses. In heroic verses
all the [kinds] mentioned are useful. In iambic verses, because these repre-
sent [everyday] diction as far as possible, those [kinds I of names are appro-
priate which one can use in [prose] speeches too. These are the standard
name, metaphor and ornament.
As for tragedy, i.e. representation hy means of acting, let this account
suffice us.
[23] As for the art of exposition and representation in verse, it is clear that,
just as in tragedies, [the epic poet] shoul(1 construct plots that are dramatic
(i.e. [plots J about a single whole action that is complete, with a beginning,
middle [parts] and end), so that it will produce the pleasure particular to it,
asa single whole animal docs. The constructions [of of the incidents] should
not be like histories; in these it is necessary to produce a description not of
a single action, but of a single time, with all that happened during it to one
or more people; each [event] relates to the others at random. Just as the sea-
battle at Salamis and the battle against the Carthaginians in Sicily happened
atthe same time, 1 but did not contribute to the same end, so too in sequential
[periods of] time one thing sometimes comes about after another, but from
these there comes about no single cnd. But this is what the majority, almost,
of[epic] poet do.
For this reason, as we said already, Homer appears marvellous compared
to the others, in that he did not undertake to put into his composition even
the [Trojan] war as a whole, although it has a beginning and an end. For the
plot would probably have been too big and not easily seen as a whole; or, if
it were moderate in magnitude, [it would have been tooJ complex in its variety
[of incidents]. As it is, selecting a single part [of it], Homer has used many
of them as episodes, e.g. he diversifies his composition with the "Catalogue
ofShips"2 and other episodes. The other [poets] compose about a single man,
8; single time, or a single action that has many parts, e.g. he who composed

the [1459b] Cypria and the Little Iliad.' Consequently one or at most two

8, An unknown comic pOd. the CUrlhuginialls (X'curred on the same day in 480
9, That is, verses in the meter of epic (JaetyhJ; Il.CI'.
helt1lmeter), 2. Iliad 2.4a4-759.
1. ,o\,ccnrding to llerodotus (7, 166.1), the victory 3. Poems in the epic cycle, of unknownauthorship;
of the Greek ileet oyer lhe: Persmns at Salamis and the C)pria relat~d th~ origin.s of the TmFln \Var
the victory of the Sicilian Greeks led. by Gdon over and tnt' Littfe IliatI events ufler the end of the Iliaa.
) 12 ! ARtS'lOTLE

tragedies in each case are produccd from the iliad and the Ody.,sey; bill many
[are produced] from the Cypria, and from the Little lIiad more than eight,
e.g. th(, Judgment '!f Arms, Philoetetes, Neoptolernus, Eurypylus, Vagabond-
age, Laconian iVomen, Sack of Troy, Embarkation, Sinon, and Trojan
Women.'
[24] Again, epic must have thc same kinds as tragedy, for [il musl be]
cither (i) simplc or (iO complex, (iii) an epic of character or (iv) one of suf·
fering. Its parts, except for song and spectacle, are the same; in fact it nccds
reversals, recognitions and sufferings. Again, the reasonings and diction
should be line.
Homer is first and foremost in the use of all of these. In fact each of his
poems is constructed in each of the two ways-the Iliad is simple and full
of suffering, the Odyssey is complex (for it is recognition right through) and
full uf character. In additiun, he has surpassed all lathers] in dicliun and
reasoning.
Epic differs [from tragedy] in (i) the length of its [plot- ]structure. and (ii)
its verse.
(;) .';'s for its lcngth, Ihe definition that we stated is sufficient; it should be
possihle 10 see at one view its beginning and end. This would be su, if the
structures were smaller than the ancient ones, but reached [Ihe length of]
the numher of tragedies presented at a single hearing.
For extending its magnitude, epic has an [advantage] very partieular [to
it]. In tragedy, it is nol pussible for many parts [of the action] to be pre-
sented as being done at the same time, but only the part of the actors on
the stage. But in epic, because it is exposition, it is possible 10 put in many
parts which are accomplished at the same lime; with these..-provided thcy
are particular [to it]-the wcight of Ihe poem is increased. COllsequently
epic has this advanlage [over tragedy], both (a) for [giving il] splendour,
and (h) for diverting the listener and introdUcing episodes that arc unlike
[one another]. For likeness [in episudes] is soon boring and makes trage-
dies faiL
(ii) As for ils verse-form, heroic verse has been found appmpriale from
experience. If anyone produced an expository representation in sume other
verse-form, or in many, it would obviously be llnsuilable. Heroic verse is the
staleliest and weightiesl of Ihe verse-furms. For this reason, it mosl readily
admils exotic names, metaphors and lengthcnings-for expusitory represen-
lalion exceeds the other [kinds] in Ihis too. But the iambic and letrameleT
[1460a] verse-forms are [fast-]moving, as the first is rdalcd to action, and
the second to dance. It would be slill morc orld if sumeone mixed them, as
Chaeremon did. For this reason, nobody has composed a long struclure in
any verse olher than the heroic; but, as we said. nature itself teaches [poetsl
to choose [the verse-form] that is appropriate lu il.
Homer deserves acclaim for many things, but especially bel'<lUsc he
alone among [cpic] poets is well aware of what he himself should do. The
poet should say very little himself; for this is nol the way in which [a poet]
represcnts. Thc other [cpic' poets] do the performing themselves right
through [the poem], hut reprcsent few [people speaking] and do so rarcly.

4 Only Suphodes' Phil(jcteles ilnd Euripiues; Trojrl!l Women are extant; some ~'tlH(Jr:;- doubt that Aristotle
is responsible far ali the IHl~s in this list.
 POETICS I U

But Homer, after a brief preamble, immediately brings on a man, a

woman, or some other [person]-and none of them characterless, but [all]
"'ith character.
[The poet] should put what is amazing into his tragedies; but what is
improbable, from which amazement arises most, is more admissible in epic
because [the audience] does not see the person in action. For the passage
abollt the pursuit of Hector' would obviously be laughahle on the stage, v.ith
the Greeks standing still and not pursuing him, and Achilles forbidding them
to do so, bnt it passes unnoticed in the epic verses. What is amazing is
pleasant. An indication [of this is that] everyone narrates [stories] with addi-
tions, so as to please.
Homer ahove all has taught the other [pocts I to tell untruths in the right
way, that is, [by] a false inference. For if, whenever p exists or comes to be,
'! exists or comes to be, people suppose that if the latter (q) exists, the former
(P) also exists or comes to be. But this Isupposition] is untrue. For this
reason, if the former (,,) is untrue, but it follows from its existence that
something else (q) exists or comes 10 he, [the poet I should add it [i.e. 'I]'
Because we know that this ('I) is true, our soul falsely infers that the former
(I') exists too. An example of this is the passage in the "Dath-seenc."6
Impossible [incidents] that are believable should he preferred to possible
ones that are unhelievable, and stories should not be constructed from
improbable parts, but above all should contain nothing improbable; other-
wise, it should be outside the plot-structure, like Oedipus' not knowing how
Laius was kille,!. But it should not he within the drama, like the people who
narrale [the accident at] the Pylhian games in the Electra, and the person
who comes to ,vlysia from Tegea without speaking in the tvfysians.' Conse-
quently it is ridiculous to say thaI the plot would have been ruined [without
the improbabilityl; such plots should not be constructed in the first place.
But if one is set up, and it appears fairly logical, even an oddity can be
admitted. ror even the improhabilities in the Odyssey over the pUlling ashore
[of Odysseus I' would dearly nol be tolerable, if an [1460h] inferior pact
composed them. But as it is, the poet makes the oddity disappear by using
his nlher good [qualities] for embellishment. [The poet] should take great
pains with Ihe diction in the slack parts [of the poem], I.e. those with neither
character nor reasoning. For in turn excessively resplendent diction obscures
characters and reasoning.
'251 As for the questions that arc raised [about epic poetry] and their
solutions, it may hecome obvious 10 how many kinds they belong, and of
what sort they are, if we investigate them as follows.
(I) Since a poet represents, jusl like a painter or some other maker of
images, at any moment he is necessarily representing one of three things,
either (a) things as they were or are, or (b) things as people say and think
[they were or are], or (c) things as they should be.

5, ninJ 22.13i-2Ui; Hector. etd(;~t son Hf the 7. A play of Aeschytus or Sophoclcs~ Tegea in the
king of Troy and the greatest Tl'o.ian ward.)r, ini- Pdoponm'.<;e is f;1f dis [ant fmm \1~·sia. in northwest
tially flees Achilte~" A<;;ia Minor Eh,t:fm; Sophocles' tragedy (ca, 414
6, Thill i", Penelope \ fahc inference. from the IteE.) lunlalns a faise lli;count Oine~ 6x~ 763) of
disguised 00I';lS{'US\ accurate description nfsnme On:'stes' dea.th in a chariot unsh in the Prthjan
t!olning, thfit his tale of being it (>f'tilfl ~dlO md giimes, which were fOlll1tied eenlUrics after the
hcr husband Odpisells is trw: (Odr5seJ19.16S~ events of the play.
~50), x, OJr.'.'!!)' 1':1." 116-25,
114 I ARISTOTLE

(ii) These things are expressed in diction in which there are exotic names,
metaphors and many modifications of diction; we grant these to poets.
(iii) In addition, there is nol the same [standard of] correctness in the art
of civic life as in that of poetry, nor is there in any other art as in that of
poetry. Error in the art of poetry itself is of two sorts. (a) error in the art
itself. (h) error in it by coincidence. For if [an artist] decided to represent [a
horse correctly. but erred in the representation hecause of his] lack of ability.
the error belongs to the art itself; but if he decided tu represent it incorrectly.
and [represented] the horse "'ith both right legs thrown forward, [it is] an
error in the indi~idual art (e.g. one in medicine or another art uf whatever
sort), not in the arl uf poelry itself.
Consequently one should consider and solve the criticisms that are among
the questions raised [starting] from these [principles].
(i) First. some [criticisms should be solved] with reference to the art itself.
[If] impossibilities have been produced. there is an error; but it is correct, if
it attains the end of the art itself. The end has been stated [already, Le. [ if
in this way it makes either that part [of the poem], ur another part, mure
astonishing. An example is the pursuit of Hector.
However. if the end [uf the art] could have been brought about better or
no worse [without erring] according to the art concerned with these maUers,
the error is not correct. For [the poet] should, if possible, have made no
errurs at all.
(ij) Again, to which sort does the error belong, to those in the art [itself],
or [to those in it] hy coincidence? The error is less, if [an artist] did not know
that a female deer has no horns, than if he painted without representing
[anything] .
(iii) In addition, if [the poet] is criticised for representing things that arc
not true, perhaps he is representing them they should be. e.g. as Soph-
ocles said that he himself portrayed people as they should be, but Euripides
purtrayed them as they are-there is the solution.
(iv) If [the solution] is in neither of these ways, then [it may be] on the
grounds that people say [it is] so, e.g. the [stories] about the gods. These are
perhaps neither better [told this way] nor true. hut arc possibly [lies] [1461a]
as Xenophancs~ thought; yet people say [it is] suo
(v) Some things are perhaps not better [than they should be], hut WCre so,
e.g. the passage about the weapons:
"their spears, [set] upright on the butt·spike ... "1
This was the custom then, as it is among the IIlyrians even now.
(vi) As for whether someone's saying or action is fine or not so fine, one
must consider not only what was said or done itself, to see whether it is good
or inferior, but also the person saying or doing it, and to whom, at what time,
by what means and to what end, e.g. whether it is to bring about a greater
good, or to avert a greater evil.
(vii) Some (criticisms] must he resolved by looking at the diction, e.g. by
[assuming] an exotic name in "the ottreis first":' perhaps [Homer) means not
9, Pre-Socratic philosopher.mJ poet (cu. 57~H, 1. Iliad
480 B.C.E,) who JenoUJH:eu immurai tulcs of the :2. Iliad 1.50. the Greek word ourea.s mal,'
Gr~k gods. derive either from arcus(mule) or ouJV1' (sentinalj,
 POEncs / lIS

"mules" but "sentinels." As for Dolon' "who was evil in form," [Homer may
mean] not that bis body was misproportioned, but that his face was ugly; for
the Cretans call someone fair of face "well-formed." Also by "mix it purer"
[he may mean] not "[mix the wine] stronger," as if for drunkards, but "mix
it faoter."
(viii) Some things are said with a metaphor, e.g. "all gods and men slept
all night long," but [Homer] says at the same time "but when he gazed at the
Trojan plain, [he marvelled at] the din of flutes and pipes." "All" is said for
"many" with a metaphor; for "all" is a lot. So too "[this constellation] alone
has no share [in the baths of Ocean]" is said with a metaphor; for what is
best known is "alone."
(ix) [Some questions should be solved] with reference to the pronuncia-
tion, as Hippias of Thasaos' solved [the question of] "but grant that he gain
his prayer" [instead of "we grant"], and "part rotted by rain" [instead of "not
rotted"].
(x) Some [should be solved] by punctuation, e.g. Empeducles' "at once
were things mortal born, that learnt before to be immortal, and things were
mixed, pure before."
(xi) Some [should be solved] by [assuming] an ambiguity, [e.g.] in ;'more
of the night has gone," "more" is ambiguous .
. (xii) Some [should be solved] with reference to a habit of diction. People
call mixed [wine] ;'wine," whence [Homer] composed "a greave of new-
wrought tin" [i.e. of bronze, copper mixed with tin]; and thcy call men who
work iron "bronze-smiths," whence his calling Ganymede' "wine-pourer of
Zeus," although [gods] do not drink wine [but nectar]. This could also be
[solved] with reference to a metaphor.
Whenever any name would seem to signify something contradictory, one
should consider how many ways it may signify in the passage, e.g. in "there
the brazen spear was held" cunsider huw many ways it can mean "was
stopped there," one way or another as best one may understand it, according
to the exact opposite of what [146Ib] Glaucon 6 says.
Again, some people illogically make some prior assumption, and judging
it right themselves make inferences [from it]. If there is a contradiction to
their ovm suppositiun, they criticise [the poet] as if he had said what they
think. This has happened in the case of lcarius. People suppose that lcarius
is a Lacedaemonian: so they think it odd that Tclemachus' does not meet
him when he goes to Lacedaemon. But perhaps it is as the Cephallenians
say; they say that Odysseus took a wife from among them, and that [Penel-
ope's father] was Icadius and not Tcarius. It is probable that the question
[has arisen] because of an error [by Homer's critics].
In general, (i) the impossibility should be explained with reference either
to (a) the cumposition, or to (b) [making sumething] better [than it is], or to
(c) opinion. In relation to Ithe needs of] the composition, a believable impos-

All the follo\\ing examples in this passage come 5. A beautiful young Trojan prince seized and car-
from the Iliad, sometimes ahhre\'iating the origi~ ried to Olympus by Zeus's eagle; he became a
nal. minor Greek god.
3. A Trojan scout killed by the Greeks (Iliad 6. Perhaps lhe interpreter of Homer named by
10.314-457). Plato in Ion 530d (sec above).
4. AI" ,unknown figure (possibly an indhidual who 7. Odysseus's son.lcarius: Penelope's father. from
~.'.; fuAthem in 404 R.C.F..). Sparta (Lacedaemonia).

I'&~
116 / AHlsToTLE

sibility is preferable to an unbelievable possibility. For it may be impossible

that there arc people like those Zeuxis painted, but [it is] better [sol. For [the
artist] should improve on his model.
(ii) Improbabilities [should be explained] with reference to \vhat people
say: [or one must solve them in this way, and on the grounds that sometimes
an improbability is no improbability: for it is prohahle that things will happen
even against probabilil y.
(iii) Sayings that are contradictory should be considered just like re[uta-
tions in arguments, as to whetber it is the same thing [that is meant], relates
to the same thing, or is said in the same way. Consequently [these] must bc
solved with reference either to (a) what [the poct] himself says or to (b) what
a sensihle person may assllme.
Criticism of improbability and wickedness is correct when, with no neces-
sity at all to do so, [the poet] uses an improbability, as Euripides uses
Aegeus,' or villainy, as Euripides uses Menelaus in the Orestes.
So the criticisms that people make are of five kinds-that things are impos-
sible, improbable, harmful, contradictory, or incorrect in terms of [anotherl
art. Solutions roust be looked for among the items we have stated: there arc
twelve of them.
126] One may be puzzled about which is better, epic or tragic represen-
tation. If the less vulgar representation is better, and the less vulgar is always
that which relates to better spectators, it is very dear that the one which
represents in all respe.cts is vulgar. Assuming that 1the spectators] will not
react unless [each actorl adds something himself, they use a lot of move-
ment, like inferior oboe-players wbo whirl about if they have to represent a
discus, and drag the chorus-leader about if they are playing the Scylla. So
tragedy is [a representation] of this sort. Compare too how the earlier actors
regarclcd tbose who came after them. Mynniscus used to call Callippides a
monkey, on the grounds that he went to great excesses, and the opinion about
Pindarus9 was similar. [1462a] As the later actors stand to them, so the whole
art [of tragedy] stands to epie. So people say that epic relates to decent
spectators, who have no need of gestures, but the tragic [art] relates to infe-
rior oncs. Tberefore, if it is vulgar, clearly it would be worse Ithan epic].
So let us discuss these matters. (i) First, the charge is not against the art
of [tragic 1composition hut against that of [the actors'] delivery. For [visual[
signs can be overworked even in reciting an epic, as Sosistratus did, and in
singing, as Mnasithesus of Opus I did.
(ii) Next, not all movement is to be rejected, unless dance is to be too, but
[onlyJ that of inferior [people], such as that for which CalJippides was crit-
icised, and others now are, on the grounds that they represent women who
are not free born.
(iii) Again, tragedy can produce its ovm [effect] even vvithont movement,
as epic does. For it is ohvious from reading it what sort [of tragedy] it is. So
if tragedy is superior in all other things, this at any rate docs not necessarily
belong to it.

8. In .i\.ledea Oint's 663-758\ Aegeus, king of Ath~ (activt' U1. 46~420 B.C.I:.), an actor known for
en,. happens to pass through Coritlth ami see roles in AC$('hylus's plays, Callippides (a<:tive C;:L
lvlede3; lw pnllllises her future nsylum, "I27~400 IU.:,t.l, J Greek actor.
9. Pn:o$urtHJbly }In aclor. Ylynnht:us of Chad .. 1, lloth unknown.
 RllETORIC, BOOK I, CIIAPTER 2 117

(i) Furthermore, [tragedy is superior I because it has everything that epic

has; for it is even possible to use its verse [in tragedy].
(ii) Again, it also has as no small part of it music and spectacles, by means
of which its pleasures are constructed very vividly.
. ,(iii) Next, it has vividness in reading as well as in performance.
(iv) Again, [it has the advantage I that the end 11462bl of the representa-
tion.is in a smaller length. What is more concentrated is more pleasurable
than what is diluted with a lot of time [in performance]. I mean, e.g. [the
effect] if someone put Sophocles' Oedipus into as many epic verses as the
Iliad.
(v) Again, the epic poets' representation is less unified. An indication [of
this is] that more than one tragedy comes from any [epic] representation.
Consequently, if they compose a unified plot, it appears either docked, if it
is briefly presented, or watery, if it accords with the length [appropriate to]
the verse-form. [By "less unified"], I mean, e.g. [the effect] if it is composed
of several [complete] actions, just as the Iliad and the Odyssey have many
such parts, which have magnitude even in themselves. Yet these poems are
as well constructed as [epics] may be, and are, as far as possible, represen-
tations of a single action.
So if tragedy is superior in all these ways, and also in [aehie\~ng] the
function of the art (for tragedy and epic should produce not a random plea-
sure, but the one we have mentioned), it is obvious that it will be superior
to epic as it achieves its end more than epic does.
So regarding tragedy and epic, in themselves, their kinds and their parts,
as to how many there arc and how they differ, and what are the causes of
doing well or not [in them], and regarding questions raised and their solu-
i,tions, let this account suffice.
ca. 330 B.C.E.

From Rhetoric'
From Book I
[.'f/OM Ct tAPTER 2
Let rhetoric be [defined as] an ability, in each [particular] case, to see the
available means of persuasion. This is the function of no other art;' for each
ofthe others is instructive and persuasive ahout its own suhject: for example,
medicine about health and disease and geometry about Ihe properties of
m:agnitudes and arithmetic about numbers and similarly in the case of the
other arts and sciences. But rhetoric seems to be able to observe the per-
suasive about "the given," so to speak. That, too, is why we say it does not
include technical knowledge of any particular, defined genus [of suhjects].
Of the pisteis,3 some are 8lechnic [dnonartisticl'], some entechnic ["em-

I. Translated by George A, Kennedy, who some- kef.

times adds clarifyin~ words or phrases in square 2, In Gfeek, techne. Aristotle distinguishes be*
brackets. Also in square brackets in the text are the tween human arl.~, .c;uch a.c; rhetoric or poetic-s) and
Dekker numhers used aljTIO!it lI11i\'ersally in citing sciences, such <IS physics or logic, which alillucc
~.':.' A<istotle's wmks; [hey ,efe, I" [he page numbe" verifi ..ble resulLs.
.g;.and columns of an J 831 edition by Immanuel Bek- 3. Proofs or means of persuasion (Greek).
118 ! ARISTOTLE

bodied in art, artistic"]. I call atechnic those that are not provided by "us"
[i.e., the potential speaker] but are preexisting: for example, witnesses, tes-
timony of slaves taken under torture, ~'ontracts, and such like; and artistic
whatever can be prepared by method and by "us"; thus, one must use the
former and invent the latter. [1356a] Of the pisteis provided through speech
there are three species: for some are in the character of the speaker, and
some in disposing the listener in some way, and some in the argument itself,
by showing or seeming to show something.
[There is persuasion] through character whenever the speech is spoken in
such a way as to make the speaker worthy of credence: for we believe fair-
minded people to a greater extent and more quickly [than we do others] on
all subjects in general and completely so in cases where there is not exact
knowledge but room for doubt. And this should result from the speech, not
from a previous opinion that the speaker is a certain kind of person; for it is
not the case, as some of the technical writers propose in thcir treatment of
the art, that fair-mindedness on the part of the speaker makes no contribu-
tion to persuasiveness: rather, character is almost, so to speak, the control-
ling factor in persuasion.
[There is persuasion] through the hearers when they are led to feel emo-
tion by the speech; for we do not give the same judgment when grieved and
rejoicing or when being friendly and hostile. To this and only this we said
contemporary technical writers try to give their attention. The details on this
subject will be made clear when we speak ahout the emotions.
Persuasion oC~'urs through the arguments when we show the truth or the
apparent truth from whatever is persuasive in each case.

FROAJ CHAPTER 3
The species of rhetoric are three in number; for such is the number [of
classes] to which the hearers of speeches belong. A speech [situation] con-
sists of three things: a speaker and a subject on which he speaks and someone
addressed, [1358b] and the objective' of the speech relates to the last (I
mean the hearer). Now it is necessary for the hearer to be cither a spectator
or ajudge, and [in the latter case] a judge of either past offuture happenings.
A member of a democratic assembly is an example of One judging about
future happenings, a jury-man an example of one judging the past. A spec-
tator is concerned with the ability [of the speaker], Thus, there would nec-
essarily be three genera of rhetorics, deliberative, judicial, demonstrative.'
Deliherativc advice is either protreptic ["exhortalion"] or apotreptic ["dis-
suasion"]; for both those advising in private and those speaking in public
always do one or the other of these. In the law court there is either accusation
or defense; for it is necessary for the disputants to offer one or the other of
these. In epideictic, there is either praise or blame. Each of these has its own
"time": for the deliberative speaker, the future (for whether exhorting or
dissuading he advises about future events); for the speaker in court, the past
(for he always prosecutes or defends concerning what has been done); in
epideictic the present is the most important; for all speakers praise or blame

4. In Greek. telos, also translated as "end" or l), In Greek, epideikriknn. also tmnslated lJS "epi·
"goal." dektk,"
 RHETOHIC, BOOK 11, CHAPTEH I I 119

in regard to existing qualities, but they often also make use of other things,
both reminding [the audience] of the past and projecting the course of the
future. The "end" of each of these is different, and there are three ends for
three [species J: for the deliberative speaker Ithe end I is the advantageous
and the harmful (for someone urging something advises it as the better
course and one dissuading dissuades on the ground that it is worse), and he
includes other factors as incidental: whether it is just or unjust, or honorable
or disgraceful: for those speaking in the law courts [the end] is the just and
the.unjust, and they make other considerations incidental to these; for those
praising and blaming [the end] is the honorable and the shameful, and these
speakers bring up other considerations in reference to these qualities. Here
is a sign that the end of each [species of rhetorie I is what has been said:
sometimes one would not dispute other factors; for example, a judicial
speaker [might not deny] that he has done something or done hann, but he
would neVer agree that he has [intentionally] done wrong: for [ifhe admitted
that,] there would be no need of a trial. Similarly, deliberative speakers often
grant other factors, but they would never admit that they are advising things
that are not advantageous [to the audience] or that they are dissuading [the
audience] from what is beneficial; and often they do not insist that it is not
unjust to enslave neighbors or those who have done no wrong. And similarly,
those who praise or hlame do not consider whether someone has done
actiuns that are advantageous or harmful [to himself] [1359a] but often they
Include it even as a source of praise that he did what was honorahle without
regard to the cost to himself; fur example, they praise Achilles because he
went to the aid of his companion Patroclus 6 knowing that he himself must
die, though he could have lived. To him, such a death was more honorable;
.~butJife was ad,·antageous.
111£
~i9 . *
From Book II
FROl,1 CHAPTEH

These [topics, set forth in hook I] are the proper sources of exhortation and
dissuasion, praise and blame, and prosecution and defense, and the kinds of
opinions and propositions useful for their persuasive expression; for enthy-
memes' are concerned with these matters and drawn from these sources, so
the result is speaking in a specific way in each genus of speeches. But sinCe
rhetoric is concerned with making a judgment (people judge what is said in
deliberation, and judicial proceedings are also a judgment), it is necessary
not only to look to the argument, that it may be demonstrative and persuasive
but also [for the speaker] to construct a view of himself as a certain kind of
person and to prepare the judge: for it makes much difference in regard to
persuasion (especially in deliberations but also in trials) that the speaker
seem to be a certain kind of person and that his hearers suppose him to be
~ disposed toward them in a certain way and in addition if they, too, happen
[N'· rt

6, In stories of the Trojnn \\-'aT, Achilles' dosesi of ih: premises unslated, Enthymcmcs USl' u looser
friend; At:hilIes IT'juin~d the battle to avenge his: form of reasoning than syllogisms. which are tech·

~
death at the hands of (he Trojan hero Hector. nical lo~ical arguments that follow a rigid 3-pan
1. Rhetorical argument by deductlon, appl)';ng procedure.
..; genen1l principle< to 'pedRc Ca<"" 'ha' I..""., un.
120 I ARISTOTLE

to be disposed in a cerlain way [favorably or unfavorably to him], For the

speaker to seem to have certain qualities is more llseful in deliberation; for
the audience to be disposed in a certain way [is more useful] in lawsuits, for
things do not seem the same to those who are friendly and those who are
hostile, nor Ithe samel to the angry and the calm but either altogether dif-
ferent or different in importance: [137I\a] to one who is friendly, the person
about whom he passes judgment seems not to do wrong or only in a SOlan
way; to one who is hostile, the opposite; and to a person feeling strong desire
and being hopeful, if something in the future is a source of pleasure, it
appears that it will come to pass and will be good; but to an unemotional
person and one in a disagreeable state of mind, the opposite.
There are three reasons why speakers themselves are persuasive; for there
are three things we trust other than logical demonstrations. These arc prae-
lical wisdom and virtue and good will; for speakers make mistakes in what
they say Or advise through [failure to exhibit] either all or one of these; for
either through lack of practical sense they do not form opinions rightly; or
though forming opinions rightly they do not say what they think because of
a bad character; or they are prudent and fair-minded but lack good will, so
that it is possible for people not to give the best advice although they know
[what] it [is]. These are the only possibilities, Therefore, a person seeming
to have all these qualities is necessarily persuasive to the hearers. The meaos
by which one might appear prudent and good are to be grasped from analysis
of the virtues, for a person would present himself as being of a certain sort
from the same sources that he would use to present another person; and
good will and friendliness need to be described in a discussion of the emo-
tions.
The emotions are those lhings through which, by undergoing change, peo-
ple come to differ in their judgments and which are accompanied by pain
and pleasure, for example, anger, pity, fear, and other such thiogs and their
opposites. There is need to divide the discussion of each into three headings.
I mean, for example, in speaking of anger, what is their state of mind when
people arc angry and against whom are they usually angry, and lor what sort
of reasons; for if we understood one or two of these but not all, it would be
impossible to create anger [in someone]. And similarly, in speaking of the
olher emotions,

From Book III

FROM CHAPTER 2

11404b I Let the malters just discussed be regarded as understood, and let
the virtue of style' he defined as "to be clear" (speech is a kind of sign, so jf
it does not make clear it will not perform its function)--and neither Hat nor
above the dignity of tbe subject, but appropriate. The poetic style is hartHy
flat, hut it is not appropriate for speech. The use of nouns and verbs in their
prevailing meaning makes for clarity; other kinds of words, as discussed in
the Poetics,' makes We style ornamented rather than flat. To deviate [from

8, In Greek. lexis, literally "speech"; the word is "expression," <::IS well as

variously translated "language," "word choice:' and 9. Sf'e Poetics 21~22,
 HOHACE I 121

prevailing usage] makes language seem more elevated; for people feel the
same in regard to lexis as they do in regard to strangers compared "ith citi-
zens. As a result, one should make the language unfamiliar, for people are
admirers of what is far off, and what is marvelous is sweet. Many [kinds of
words] accomplish this in versc and are appropriate there; for what is said
[in. poetry] about subjects and characters is more out of the ordinary, but in
prose much less so; for the subject matter is less remarkable, since even in
po.~try it would be rather inappropriate if a slave used fme language or if a
man were too young for his words, or if the subject were too trivial, but in
these cases, too, propriety is a matter of contraction or cxpansion. As a rcsult,
authors should compose without being noticed and should seem to speak
not artificially but naturally. (The latter is persuasive, the former the oppo-
site; for [if artifice is obvious] people become resentful, as at someone plot-
ting against them, just as they are at those adulterating wines.) An example
is the success of Theodorus" voice when contrasted with that of other actors;
for his seems the voice of the actual character, but the others' those of
somebody else. The "theft" is well done if one composes by choosing words
~om ordinary languagc. Euripidcs" docs this and first showed thc way.
sr

ca. 340 B.C.E.

1,'· Renuwneu Athenian tragic actor (active ca. 370 2. Creek tragedian (ca. 485-ca. 406 H,C.E.)
y,~.E.).

HORACE
65-8 S.C.E.
IT'

It would be impossible to overestimate the importance of Horace's Ars Poetica (Art

of Poetry) for lhe suhsequent history of literary criticism. Since its composition in the
~J:St century B.C,E., this epigrammatic and sometinles enigmatic critical poem has
exerteu an almost continual influence over poets and literary critics alike-perhaps
because its dicta, phrased in verse form, are so eminently quotable. Horace's injunc-
tjpn that poetry should both "instruct and delight'· has been repeated so often that it
has come be to known as the Horatian platitude. His practical approach to poetry as
a craft, or ars, contrasts markedly with the more theoretical bent of his predecessors,
especially AnlSTOTLE and PLATO. In fact, unlike Plato, Horace holds the poet in very
high regard, as his "Epistle to Augustus" suggests: ''The poet forms the young child's
stammering mouth, and turns his ear at a timely hour from obscene discourse; next
he also shapes his heart \vith friendly precepts, castigating harshness, resentment,
and wrath. He tells of deeds honorably done, instructs rising generations by the exam-
ples of famous men, and consoles the sick and helpless."
Horace describes himself in his youth as the impm!erished son of a freed slave, yet
he rose to great prOIninenee in Rome. becoming both a leading member of thc illus-
trious circie of poets patronized by the emperor Augustus (63 B.c.E.-14 C.E.) and one
of Rome's greatest poets and satirists. Quintus Horatius Flaccus was born in Venusia,
• Roman military colony in southeastern Italy on the border between Apulia and