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which extends from the beginning of the change to the end. Thus, in

  the Lynceus of Theodectes, the Complication consists of the

  incidents presupposed in the drama, the seizure of the child, and then

  again ... [the Unraveling] extends from the accusation of murder to

  the end.

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

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

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

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

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

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

  and scenes laid in Hades. The poet should endeavor, if possible, to

  combine all poetic elements; or failing that, the greatest number

  and those the most important; the more so, in face of the caviling

  criticism of the day. For whereas there have hitherto been good poets,

  each in his own branch, the critics now expect one man to surpass

  all others in their several lines of excellence.

  In speaking of a tragedy as the same or different, the best test

  to take is the plot. Identity exists where the Complication and

  Unraveling are the same. Many poets tie the knot well, but unravel

  it Both arts, however, should always be mastered.

  Again, the poet should remember what has been often said, and not

  make an Epic structure into a tragedy- by an Epic structure I mean one

  with a multiplicity of plots- as if, for instance, you were to make

  a tragedy out of the entire story of the Iliad. In the Epic poem,

  owing to its length, each part assumes its proper magnitude. In the

  drama the result is far from answering to the poet's expectation.

  The proof is that the poets who have dramatized the whole story of the

  Fall of Troy, instead of selecting portions, like Euripides; or who

  have taken the whole tale of Niobe, and not a part of her story,

  like Aeschylus, either fail utterly or meet with poor success on the

  stage. Even Agathon has been known to fail from this one defect. In

  his Reversals of the Situation, however, he shows a marvelous skill in

  the effort to hit the popular taste- to produce a tragic effect that

  satisfies the moral sense. This effect is produced when the clever

  rogue, like Sisyphus, is outwitted, or the brave villain defeated.

  Such an event is probable in Agathon's sense of the word: 'is

  probable,' he says, 'that many things should happen contrary to

  probability.'

  The Chorus too should be regarded as one of the actors; it should be

  an integral part of the whole, and share in the action, in the

  manner not of Euripides but of Sophocles. As for the later poets,

  their choral songs pertain as little to the subject of the piece as to

  that of any other tragedy. They are, therefore, sung as mere

  interludes- a practice first begun by Agathon. Yet what difference

  is there between introducing such choral interludes, and

  transferring a speech, or even a whole act, from one play to another.

  POETICS|19

  XIX

  It remains to speak of Diction and Thought, the other parts of

  Tragedy having been already discussed. concerning Thought, we may

  assume what is said in the Rhetoric, to which inquiry the subject more

  strictly belongs. Under Thought is included every effect which has

  to be produced by speech, the subdivisions being: proof and

  refutation; the excitation of the feelings, such as pity, fear, anger,

  and the like; the suggestion of importance or its opposite. Now, it is

  evident that the dramatic incidents must be treated from the same

  points of view as the dramatic speeches, when the object is to evoke

  the sense of pity, fear, importance, or probability. The only

  difference is that the incidents should speak for themselves without

  verbal exposition; while effects aimed at in should be produced by the

  speaker, and as a result of the speech. For what were the business

  of a speaker, if the Thought were revealed quite apart from what he

  says?

  Next, as regards Diction. One branch of the inquiry treats of the

  Modes of Utterance. But this province of knowledge belongs to the

  art of Delivery and to the masters of that science. It includes, for

  instance- what is a command, a prayer, a statement, a threat, a

  question, an answer, and so forth. To know or not to know these things

  involves no serious censure upon the poet's art. For who can admit the

  fault imputed to Homer by Protagoras- that in the words, 'Sing,

  goddess, of the wrath, he gives a command under the idea that he

  utters a prayer? For to tell some one to do a thing or not to do it

  is, he says, a command. We may, therefore, pass this over as an

  inquiry that belongs to another art, not to poetry.

  POETICS|20

  XX

  Language in general includes the following parts: Letter,

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

  Phrase.

  A Letter is an indivisible sound, yet not every such sound, but only

  one which can form part of a group of sounds. For even brutes utter

  indivisible sounds, none of which I call a letter. The sound I mean

  may be either a vowel, a semivowel, or a mute. A vowel is that which

  without impact of tongue or lip has an audible sound. A semivowel that

  which with such impact has an audible sound, as S and R. A mute,

  that which with such impact has by itself no sound, but joined to a

  vowel sound becomes audible, as G and D. These are distinguished

  according to the form assumed by the mouth and the place where they

  are produced; according as they are aspirated or smooth, long or

  short; as they are acute, grave, or of an intermediate tone; which

  inquiry belongs in detail to the writers on meter.

  A Syllable is a nonsignificant sound, composed of a mute and a

  vowel: for GR without A is a syllable, as also with A- GRA. But the

  investigation of these differences belongs also to metrical science.

  A Connecting Word is a nonsignificant sound, which neither causes

  nor hinders the union of many sounds into one significant sound; it

  may be placed at either end or in the middle of a sentence. Or, a

  nonsignificant sound, which out of several sounds, each of them

  significant, is capable of forming one significant sound- as amphi,

  peri, and the like. Or, a nonsignificant sound, which marks the

  beginning, end, or division of a sentence; such, however, that it

  cannot correctly stand by itself at the beginning of a sentence- as

  men, etoi, de.

  A Noun is a composite significant sound, not marking time, of

  which no part is in itself significant: for in double or compound

  words we do not employ the separate parts as if each were in itself

  significant. Thus in Theodorus, 'god-given,' the doron or 'gift' is

  not in itself significant.

  A Verb is a composite significant sound, marking time, in which,

  as in the noun, no part is in itself significant. For 'man' or 'white'

  does not express the idea of 'when'; but 'he walks' or 'he has walked'

  d
oes connote time, present or past.

  Inflection belongs both to the noun and verb, and expresses either

  the relation 'of,' 'to,' or the like; or that of number, whether one

  or many, as 'man' or 'men'; or the modes or tones in actual

  delivery, e.g., a question or a command. 'Did he go?' and 'go' are

  verbal inflections of this kind.

  A Sentence or Phrase is a composite significant sound, some at least

  of whose parts are in themselves significant; for not every such group

  of words consists of verbs and nouns- 'the definition of man,' for

  example- but it may dispense even with the verb. Still it will

  always have some significant part, as 'in walking,' or 'Cleon son of

  Cleon.' A sentence or phrase may form a unity in two ways- either as

  signifying one thing, or as consisting of several parts linked

  together. Thus the Iliad is one by the linking together of parts,

  the definition of man by the unity of the thing signified.

  POETICS|21

  XXI

  Words are of two kinds, simple and double. By simple I mean those

  composed of nonsignificant elements, such as ge, 'earth.' By double or

  compound, those composed either of a significant and nonsignificant

  element (though within the whole word no element is significant), or

  of elements that are both significant. A word may likewise be

  triple, quadruple, or multiple in form, like so many Massilian

  expressions, e.g., 'Hermo-caico-xanthus [who prayed to Father Zeus].'

  Every word is either current, or strange, or metaphorical, or

  ornamental, or newly-coined, or lengthened, or contracted, or altered.

  By a current or proper word I mean one which is in general use among

  a people; by a strange word, one which is in use in another country.

  Plainly, therefore, the same word may be at once strange and

  current, but not in relation to the same people. The word sigynon,

  'lance,' is to the Cyprians a current term but to us a strange one.

  Metaphor is the application of an alien name by transference

  either from genus to species, or from species to genus, or from

  species to species, or by analogy, that is, proportion. Thus from

  genus to species, as: 'There lies my ship'; for lying at anchor is a

  species of lying. From species to genus, as: 'Verily ten thousand

  noble deeds hath Odysseus wrought'; for ten thousand is a species of

  large number, and is here used for a large number generally. From

  species to species, as: 'With blade of bronze drew away the life,' and

  'Cleft the water with the vessel of unyielding bronze.' Here arusai,

  'to draw away' is used for tamein, 'to cleave,' and tamein, again

  for arusai- each being a species of taking away. Analogy or proportion

  is when the second term is to the first as the fourth to the third. We

  may then use the fourth for the second, or the second for the

  fourth. Sometimes too we qualify the metaphor by adding the term to

  which the proper word is relative. Thus the cup is to Dionysus as

  the shield to Ares. The cup may, therefore, be called 'the shield of

  Dionysus,' and the shield 'the cup of Ares.' Or, again, as old age

  is to life, so is evening to day. Evening may therefore be called,

  'the old age of the day,' and old age, 'the evening of life,' or, in

  the phrase of Empedocles, 'life's setting sun.' For some of the

  terms of the proportion there is at times no word in existence;

  still the metaphor may be used. For instance, to scatter seed is

  called sowing: but the action of the sun in scattering his rays is

  nameless. Still this process bears to the sun the same relation as

  sowing to the seed. Hence the expression of the poet 'sowing the

  god-created light.' There is another way in which this kind of

  metaphor may be employed. We may apply an alien term, and then deny of

  that term one of its proper attributes; as if we were to call the

  shield, not 'the cup of Ares,' but 'the wineless cup'.

  A newly-coined word is one which has never been even in local use,

  but is adopted by the poet himself. Some such words there appear to

  be: as ernyges, 'sprouters,' for kerata, 'horns'; and areter,

  'supplicator', for hiereus, 'priest.'

  A word is lengthened when its own vowel is exchanged for a longer

  one, or when a syllable is inserted. A word is contracted when some

  part of it is removed. Instances of lengthening are: poleos for

  poleos, Peleiadeo for Peleidou; of contraction: kri, do, and ops, as

  in mia ginetai amphoteron ops, 'the appearance of both is one.'

  An altered word is one in which part of the ordinary form is left

  unchanged, and part is recast: as in dexiteron kata mazon, 'on the

  right breast,' dexiteron is for dexion.

  Nouns in themselves are either masculine, feminine, or neuter.

  Masculine are such as end in N, R, S, or in some letter compounded

  with S- these being two, PS and X. Feminine, such as end in vowels

  that are always long, namely E and O, and- of vowels that admit of

  lengthening- those in A. Thus the number of letters in which nouns

  masculine and feminine end is the same; for PS and X are equivalent to

  endings in S. No noun ends in a mute or a vowel short by nature. Three

  only end in I- meli, 'honey'; kommi, 'gum'; peperi, 'pepper'; five end

  in U. Neuter nouns end in these two latter vowels; also in N and S.

  POETICS|22

  XXII

  The perfection of style is to be clear without being mean. The

  clearest style is that which uses only current or proper words; at the

  same time it is mean- witness the poetry of Cleophon and of Sthenelus.

  That diction, on the other hand, is lofty and raised above the

  commonplace which employs unusual words. By unusual, I mean strange

  (or rare) words, metaphorical, lengthened- anything, in short, that

  differs from the normal idiom. Yet a style wholly composed of such

  words is either a riddle or a jargon; a riddle, if it consists of

  metaphors; a jargon, if it consists of strange (or rare) words. For

  the essence of a riddle is to express true facts under impossible

  combinations. Now this cannot be done by any arrangement of

  ordinary words, but by the use of metaphor it can. Such is the riddle:

  'A man I saw who on another man had glued the bronze by aid of

  fire,' and others of the same kind. A diction that is made up of

  strange (or rare) terms is a jargon. A certain infusion, therefore, of

  these elements is necessary to style; for the strange (or rare)

  word, the metaphorical, the ornamental, and the other kinds above

  mentioned, will raise it above the commonplace and mean, while the use

  of proper words will make it perspicuous. But nothing contributes more

  to produce a cleanness of diction that is remote from commonness

  than the lengthening, contraction, and alteration of words. For by

  deviating in exceptional cases from the normal idiom, the language

  will gain distinction; while, at the same time, the partial conformity

  with usage will give perspicuity. The critics, therefore, are in error

  who censure these licenses of speech, and hold the author up to

  ridicule. Thus Eucleides, the elder, declared that it would be an easy

  matter to b
e a poet if you might lengthen syllables at will. He

  caricatured the practice in the very form of his diction, as in the

  verse:

  Epicharen eidon Marathonade badizonta,

  I saw Epichares walking to Marathon,

  or,

  ouk an g'eramenos ton ekeinou elleboron.

  Not if you desire his hellebore.

  To employ such license at all obtrusively is, no doubt, grotesque; but

  in any mode of poetic diction there must be moderation. Even

  metaphors, strange (or rare) words, or any similar forms of speech,

  would produce the like effect if used without propriety and with the

  express purpose of being ludicrous. How great a difference is made

  by the appropriate use of lengthening, may be seen in Epic poetry by

  the insertion of ordinary forms in the verse. So, again, if we take

  a strange (or rare) word, a metaphor, or any similar mode of

  expression, and replace it by the current or proper term, the truth of

  our observation will be manifest. For example, Aeschylus and Euripides

  each composed the same iambic line. But the alteration of a single

  word by Euripides, who employed the rarer term instead of the ordinary

  one, makes one verse appear beautiful and the other trivial. Aeschylus

  in his Philoctetes says:

  phagedaina d'he mou sarkas esthiei podos.

  The tumor which is eating the flesh of my foot.

  Euripides substitutes thoinatai, 'feasts on,' for esthiei, 'feeds on.'

  Again, in the line,

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

  Yet a small man, worthless and unseemly,

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

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

  Yet a little fellow, weak and ugly.

  Or, if for the line,

  diphron aeikelion katatheis oligen te trapezan,

  Setting an unseemly couch and a meager table,