The Poetics - Aristotle (romance book recommendations txt) 📗

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the parts of which have a certain significance by themselves. It may

be observed that a Speech is not always made up of Noun and Verb; it

may be without a Verb, like the definition of man; but it will always

have some part with a certain significance by itself. In the Speech

‘Cleon walks’, ‘Cleon’ is an instance of such a part. A Speech is said

to be one in two ways, either as signifying one thing, or as a union

of several Speeches made into one by conjunction. Thus the Iliad is

one Speech by conjunction of several; and the definition of man is one

through its signifying one thing.

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Nouns are of two kinds, either (1) simple, i.e. made up of

nonsignificant parts, like the word ge, or (2) double; in the latter

case the word may be made up either of a significant and a

nonsignificant part (a distinction which disappears in the compound),

or of two significant parts. It is possible also to have triple,

quadruple or higher compounds, like most of our amplified names; e.g.’

Hermocaicoxanthus’ and the like.

 

Whatever its structure, a Noun must always be either (1) the ordinary

word for the thing, or (2) a strange word, or (3) a metaphor, or (4)

an ornamental word, or (5) a coined word, or (6) a word lengthened

out, or (7) curtailed, or (8) altered in form. By the ordinary word I

mean that in general use in a country; and by a strange word, one in

use elsewhere. So that the same word may obviously be at once strange

and ordinary, though not in reference to the same people; sigunos,

for instance, is an ordinary word in Cyprus, and a strange word with

us. Metaphor consists in giving the thing a name that belongs to

something else; the transference being either from genus to species,

or from species to genus, or from species to species, or on grounds of

analogy. That from genus to species i.e.emplified in ‘Here stands my

ship’; for lying at anchor is the ‘standing’ of a particular kind of

thing. That from species to genus in ‘Truly ten thousand good deeds

has Ulysses wrought’, where ‘ten thousand’, which is a particular

large number, is put in place of the generic ‘a large number’. That

from species to species in ‘Drawing the life with the bronze’, and in

‘Severing with the enduring bronze’; where the poet uses ‘draw’ in the

sense of ‘sever’ and ‘sever’ in that of ‘draw’, both words meaning to

‘take away’ something. That from analogy is possible whenever there

are four terms so related that the second (B) is to the first (A), as

the fourth (D) to the third (C); for one may then metaphorically put B

in lieu of D, and D in lieu of B. Now and then, too, they qualify the

metaphor by adding on to it that to which the word it supplants is

relative. Thus a cup (B) is in relation to Dionysus (A) what a shield

(D) is to Ares (C). The cup accordingly will be metaphorically

described as the ‘shield of Dionysus‘ (D + A), and the shield as the

‘cup of Ares‘ (B + C). Or to take another instance: As old age (D)

is to life (C), so i.e.ening (B) to day (A). One will accordingly

describe evening (B) as the ‘old age of the day‘ (D + A)—or by the

Empedoclean equivalent; and old age (D) as the ‘evening’ or ‘sunset of

life” (B + C). It may be that some of the terms thus related have no

special name of their own, but for all that they will be

metaphorically described in just the same way. Thus to cast forth

seed-corn is called ‘sowing’; but to cast forth its flame, as said of

the sun, has no special name. This nameless act (B), however, stands

in just the same relation to its object, sunlight (A), as sowing (D)

to the seed-corn (C). Hence the expression in the poet, ‘sowing around

a god-created flame‘ (D + A). There is also another form of

qualified metaphor. Having given the thing the alien name, one may by

a negative addition deny of it one of the attributes naturally

associated with its new name. An instance of this would be to call the

shield not the ‘cup of Ares,’ as in the former case, but a ‘cup

that holds no wine‘. * A coined word is a name which, being

quite unknown among a people, is given by the poet himself; e.g. (for

there are some words that seem to be of this origin) hernyges for

horns, and areter for priest. A word is said to be lengthened out,

when it has a short vowel made long, or an extra syllable inserted; e.

g. polleos for poleos, Peleiadeo for Peleidon. It is said to

be curtailed, when it has lost a part; e.g. kri, do, and ops in

mia ginetai amphoteron ops. It is an altered word, when part is left

as it was and part is of the poet’s making; e.g. dexiteron for

dexion, in dexiteron kata maxon.

 

The Nouns themselves (to whatever class they may belong) are either

masculines, feminines, or intermediates (neuter). All ending in N, P,

S, or in the two compounds of this last, PS and X, are masculines. All

ending in the invariably long vowels, H and O, and in A among the

vowels that may be long, are feminines. So that there is an equal

number of masculine and feminine terminations, as PS and X are the

same as S, and need not be counted. There is no Noun, however, ending

in a mute or i.e.ther of the two short vowels, E and O. Only three

(_meli, kommi, peperi_) end in I, and five in T. The intermediates, or

neuters, end in the variable vowels or in N, P, X.

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The perfection of Diction is for it to be at once clear and not mean.

The clearest indeed is that made up of the ordinary words for things,

but it is mean, as is shown by the poetry of Cleophon and Sthenelus.

On the other hand the Diction becomes distinguished and non-prosaic by

the use of unfamiliar terms, i.e. strange words, metaphors,

lengthened forms, and everything that deviates from the ordinary modes

of speech.—But a whole statement in such terms will be either a

riddle or a barbarism, a riddle, if made up of metaphors, a barbarism,

if made up of strange words. The very nature indeed of a riddle is

this, to describe a fact in an impossible combination of words (which

cannot be done with the real names for things, but can be with their

metaphorical substitutes); e.g. ‘I saw a man glue brass on another

with fire’, and the like. The corresponding use of strange words

results in a barbarism.—A certain admixture, accordingly, of

unfamiliar terms is necessary. These, the strange word, the metaphor,

the ornamental equivalent, etc.. will save the language from seeming

mean and prosaic, while the ordinary words in it will secure the

requisite clearness. What helps most, however, to render the Diction

at once clear and non-prosaic is the use of the lengthened, curtailed,

and altered forms of words. Their deviation from the ordinary words

will, by making the language unlike that in general use.g.ve it a

non-prosaic appearance; and their having much in common with the words

in general use will give it the quality of clearness. It is not right,

then, to condemn these modes of speech, and ridicule the poet for

using them, as some have done; e.g. the elder Euclid, who said it was

easy to make poetry if one were to be allowed to lengthen the words in

the statement itself as much as one likes—a procedure he caricatured

by reading ‘Epixarhon eidon Marathonade Badi—gonta, and _ouk han g’

eramenos ton ekeinou helle boron_ as verses. A too apparent use of

these licences has certainly a ludicrous effect, but they are not

alone in that; the rule of moderation applies to all the constituents

of the poetic vocabulary; even with metaphors, strange words, and the

rest, the effect will be the same, if one uses them improperly and

with a view to provoking laughter. The proper use of them is a very

different thing. To realize the difference one should take an epic

verse and see how it reads when the normal words are introduced. The

same should be done too with the strange word, the metaphor, and the

rest; for one has only to put the ordinary words in their place to see

the truth of what we are saying. The same iambic, for instance, is

found in Aeschylus and Euripides, and as it stands in the former it is

a poor line; whereas Euripides, by the change of a single word, the

substitution of a strange for what is by usage the ordinary word, has

made it seem a fine one. Aeschylus having said in his Philoctetes:

 

phagedaina he mon sarkas hesthiei podos

 

Euripides has merely altered the hesthiei here into thoinatai. Or

suppose

 

nun de m’ heon holigos te kai outidanos kai haeikos

 

to be altered by the substitution of the ordinary words into

 

nun de m’ heon mikros te kai hasthenikos kai haeidos

 

Or the line

 

diphron haeikelion katatheis olingen te trapexan

 

into

 

diphron moxtheron katatheis mikran te trapexan

 

Or heiones boosin into heiones kraxousin. Add to this that Ariphrades

used to ridicule the tragedians for introducing expressions unknown in

the language of common life, doeaton hapo (for apo domaton),

sethen, hego de nin, Achilleos peri (for peri Achilleos), and

the like. The mere fact of their not being in ordinary speech gives

the Diction a non-prosaic character; but Ariphrades was unaware of

that. It is a great thing, indeed, to make a proper use of these

poetical forms, as also of compounds and strange words. But the

greatest thing by far is to be a master of metaphor. It is the one

thing that cannot be learnt from others; and it is also a sign of

genius, since a good metaphor implies an intuitive perception of the

similarity in dissimilars.

 

Of the kinds of words we have enumerated it may be observed that

compounds are most in place in the dithyramb, strange words in heroic,

and metaphors in iambic poetry. Heroic poetry, indeed, may avail

itself of them all. But in iambic verse, which models itself as far as

possible on the spoken language, only those kinds of words are in

place which are allowable also in an oration, i.e. the ordinary word,

the metaphor, and the ornamental equivalent.

 

Let this, then, suffice as an account of Tragedy, the art imitating by

means of action on the stage.

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As for the poetry which merely narrates, or imitates by means of

versified language (without action), it i.e.ident that it has several

points in common with Tragedy.

 

I. The construction of its stories should clearly be like that in a

drama; they should be based on a single action, one that is a complete

whole in itself, with a beginning, middle, and end, so as to enable

the work to produce its own proper pleasure with all the organic unity

of a living creature. Nor should one suppose that there is anything

like them in our usual histories. A history has to deal not with one

action, but with one period and all that happened in that to one or

more persons, however disconnected the several events may