Aristotle (384-322 B.C.)
Poetics
Some sections translated by Gerald F. Else (1967) – some by S. H. Butcher (1895)
The origin of poetry [Butcher translation]
Poetry in general seems to have sprung from two causes, each of them lying deep in our nature.
First, the instinct of imitation [mimesis] is implanted in man from childhood, one difference
between him and other animals being that he is the most imitative of living creatures, and through
imitation learns his earliest lessons; and no less universal is the pleasure felt in things imitated.
We have evidence of this in the facts of experience. Objects which in themselves we view with
pain, we delight to contemplate when reproduced with minute fidelity: such as the forms of the
most ignoble animals and of dead bodies. The cause of this again is, that to learn gives the
liveliest pleasure, not only to philosophers but to men in general; whose capacity, however, of
learning is more limited. Thus the reason why men enjoy seeing a likeness is, that in
contemplating it they find themselves learning or inferring, and saying perhaps, ‘Ah, that is he.’
For if you happen not to have seen the original, the pleasure will be due not to the imitation as
such, but to the execution, the coloring, or some such other cause.
Imitation, then, is one instinct of our nature. Next, there is the instinct for ‘harmony’ and rhythm,
meters being manifestly sections of rhythm. Persons, therefore, starting with this natural gift
developed by degrees their special aptitudes, till their rude improvisations gave birth to Poetry.
Poetry now diverged in two directions, according to the individual character of the writers. The
graver spirits imitated noble actions, and the actions of good men. The more trivial sort imitated
the actions of meaner persons, at first composing satires, as the former did hymns to the gods and
the praises of famous men.
On comedy [Else translation]
Comedy is, as we said it was, an imitation of persons who are inferior; not, however, going all the
way to full villainy, but imitating the ugly, of which the ludicrous is one part. The ludicrous, that
is, is a failing or a piece of ugliness which causes no pain or destruction; thus, to go on farther,
the comic mask is something ugly and distorted but painless.
On Tragedy and its Six Constituent Elements [Else translation]
Tragedy ... is a process of imitating an action which has serious implications, is complete, and
possesses magnitude; by means of language which has been made sensuously attractive, with
each of its varieties found separately in the parts; enacted by the persons themselves and not
presented through narrative; through a course of pity and fear completing the purification of
tragic acts which have those emotional characteristics. [The term translated “purgation” here is
catharsis – exactly what it means has been the subject of much discussion.] By "language made
sensuously attractive" I mean language that has rhythm and melody, and by "its varieties found
separately" I mean the fact that certain parts of the play are carried on through spoken verses
alone and others the other way around, through song.
On Plot 1450a14–1450b5 [[Else translation]
… tragedy is an imitation not of men but of a life, an action, and they have moral quality in
accordance with their characters but are happy or unhappy in accordance with their actions; hence
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they are not active in order to imitate their characters, but they include the characters along with
the actions for the sake of the latter. Thus the structure of events, the plot, is the goal of tragedy,
and the goal is the greatest thing of all.
Again: a tragedy cannot exist without a plot, but it can without characters: thus the tragedies of
most of our modern poets are devoid of character, and in general many poets are like that; so also
with the relationship between Zeuxis and Polygnotus, among the painters: Polygnotus is a good
portrayer of character, while Zeuxis's painting has no dimension of character at all. [Zeuxis (fl.
420-390 B.C.) developed a method of painting in which the figures were rounded and apparently
three-dimensional. Thus, he was an illusionistic painter, imitating life in a realistic style.
Polygnotus (c. 470-440 B.C.) was famous as a painter, and his works were on the Akropolis as
well as at Delphi. His draftsmanship was especially praised.]
Again: if one strings end to end speeches that are expressive of character and carefully worked in
thought and expression, he still will not achieve the result which we said was the aim of tragedy;
the job will be done much better by a tragedy that is more deficient in these other respects but has
a plot, a structure of events. It is much the same case as with painting: the most beautiful
pigments smeared on at random will not give as much pleasure as a black and white outline
picture.
Besides, the most powerful means tragedy has for swaying our feelings, namely the peripeties
[reversals of intention] and recognitions [anagnorises], are elements of plot.
Again: an indicative sign is that those who are beginning a poetic career manage to hit the mark
in verbal expression and character portrayal sooner than they do in plot construction; and the
same is true of practically all the earliest poets. So plot is the basic principle, the heart and soul,
as it were, of tragedy, and the characters come second: . . . it is the imitation of an action and
imitates the persons primarily for the sake of their action.
On the structure of the plot 1450b20-1451b32 [Else translation]
With these distinctions out of the way, let us next discuss what the structuring of the events
should be like, since this is both the basic and the most important element in the tragic art. We
have established, then, that tragedy is an imitation of an action which is complete and whole and
has some magnitude (for there is also such a thing as a whole that has no magnitude). "Whole" is
that which has beginning, middle, and end. "Beginning" is that which does not necessarily follow
on something else, but after it something else naturally is or happens; "end," the other way
around, is that which naturally follows on something else, either necessarily or for the most part,
but nothing else after it; and "middle" that which naturally follows on something else and
something else on it. So, then, well constructed plots should neither begin nor end at any chance
point but follow the guidelines just laid down.
Furthermore, since the beautiful, whether a living creature or anything that is composed of parts,
should not only have these in a fixed order to one another but also possess a definite size which
does not depend on chance - for beauty depends on size and order; hence neither can a very tiny
creature turn out to be beautiful (since our perception of it grows blurred as it approaches the
period of imperceptibility) nor an excessively huge one (for then it cannot all be perceived at once
and so its unity and wholeness are lost), if for example there were a creature a thousand miles
long - so, just as in the case of living creatures they must have some size, but one that can be
taken in a single view, so with plots: they should have length, but such that they are easy to
remember. As to a limit of the length, the one is determined by the tragic competitions and the
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ordinary span of attention. (If they had to compete with a hundred tragedies they would compete
by the water clock, as they say used to be done [?].) But the limit fixed by the very nature of the
case is: the longer the plot, up to the point of still being perspicuous as a whole, the finer it is so
far as size is concerned; or to put it in general terms, the length in which, with things happening
in unbroken sequence, a shift takes place either probably or necessarily from bad to good fortune
or from good to bad - that is an acceptable norm of length.
But a plot is not unified, as some people think, simply because it has to do with a single person. A
large, indeed an indefinite number of things can happen to a given individual, some of which go
to constitute no unified event; and in the same way there can be many acts of a given individual
from which no single action emerges. Hence it seems clear that those poets are wrong who have
composed Heracleids, Theseids, and the like. They think that since Heracles was a single person
it follows that the plot will be single too. But Homer, superior as he is in all other respects,
appears to have grasped this point well also, thanks either to art or nature, for in composing an
Odyssey he did not incorporate into it everything that happened to the hero, for example how he
was wounded on Mt. Parnassus or how he feigned madness at the muster, neither of which
events, by happening, made it at all necessary or probable that the other should happen. Instead,
he composed the Odyssey - and the Iliad similarly - around a unified action of the kind we have
been talking about.
A poetic imitation, then, ought to be unified, in the same way as a single imitation in any other
mimetic field, by having a single object: since the plot is an imitation of an action, the latter ought
to be both unified and complete, and the component events ought to be so firmly compacted that
if anyone of them is shifted to another place, or removed, the whole is loosened up and
dislocated; for an element whose addition or subtraction makes no perceptible extra difference is
not really a part of the whole.
From what has been said it is also clear that the poet’s job is not to report what has happened but
what is likely to happen: that is, what is capable of happening according to the rule of probability
or necessity. Thus the difference between the historian and the poet is not in their utterances
being in verse or prose (it would be quite possible for Herodotus’ work to be translated into verse,
and it would not be any the less a history with verse than it is without it); the difference lies in the
fact that the historian speaks of what has happened, the poet of the kind of thing that can happen.
Hence also poetry is a more philosophical and serious business than history; for poetry speaks
more of universals, history of particulars. “Universal” in this case is what kind of person is likely
to do or say certain kinds of things, according to probability or necessity; that is what poetry aims
at, although it gives its persons particular names afterward; while the “particular” is what
Alcibiades did or what happened to him.
In the field of comedy this point has been grasped: our comic poets construct their plots on the
basis of general probabilities and then assign names to the persons quite arbitrarily, instead of
dealing with individuals as the old iambic poets did. [Aristotle may be referring to Archilochus
(fl. 650 B.C.) and the iambic style he developed. The iamb is a metrical foot of two syllables, a
short and a long syllable, and was the most popular metrical style before the time of Aristotle.
“Dealing with individuals” implies using figures already known to the audience rather than
figures whose names can be arbitrarily assigned because no one knows who they are.] But in
tragedy they still cling to the historically given names. The reason is that what is possible is
persuasive; so what has not happened we are not yet ready to believe is possible, while what has
happened is, we feel, obviously possible: for it would not have happened if it were impossible.
Nevertheless, it is a fact that even in our tragedies, in some cases only one or two of the names
are traditional, the rest being invented, and in some others none at all. It is so, for example, in
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Agathon’s Antheus – the names in it are as fictional as the events – and it gives no less pleasure
because of that. Hence the poets ought not to cling at all costs to the traditional plots, around
which our tragedies are constructed. And in fact it is absurd to go searching for this kind of
authentication, since even the familiar names are familiar to only a few in the audience and yet
give the same kind of pleasure to all.
So from these considerations it is evident that the poet should be a maker of his plots more than
of his verses, insofar as he is a poet by virtue of his imitations and what he imitates is actions.
Hence even if it happens that he puts something that has actually taken place into poetry, he is
none the less a poet; for there is nothing to prevent some of the things that have happened from
being the kind of things that can happen, and that is the sense in which he is their maker.
Simple and Complex Plots 1451b32-1452b2 [Else translation]
Among simple plots and actions the episodic are the worst. By "episodic" plot I mean one in
which there is no probability or necessity for the order in which the episodes follow one another.
Such structures are composed by the bad poets because they are bad poets, but by the good poets
because of the actors: in composing contest pieces for them, and stretching out the plot beyond its
capacity, they are forced frequently to dislocate the sequence.
Furthermore, since the tragic imitation is not only of a complete action but also of events that are
fearful and pathetic and these come about best when they come about contrary to one's
expectation yet logically, one following from the other; that way they will be more productive of
wonder than if they happen merely at random, by chance - because even among chance
occurrences the ones people consider most marvelous are those that seem to have come about as
if on purpose: for example the way the statue of Mitys at Argos killed the man who had been the
cause of Mitys' death, by falling on him while he was attending the festival; it stands to reason,
people think, that such things don't happen by chance - so plots of that sort cannot fail to be
artistically superior.
Some plots are simple, others are complex; indeed the actions of which the plots are imitations
already fall into these two categories. By "simple" action I mean one the development of which
being continuous and unified in the manner stated above, the reversal comes without peripety or
recognition, and by "complex" action one in which the reversal is continuous but with recognition
or peripety or both. And these developments must grow out of the very structure of the plot itself,
in such a way that on the basis of what has happened previously this particular outcome follows
either by necessity or in accordance with probability; for there is a great difference in whether
these events happen because of those or merely after them.
"Peripety" is a shift of what is being undertaken to the opposite in the way previously stated, and
that in accordance with probability or necessity as we have just been saying; as for example in the
Oedipus the man who has come, thinking that he will reassure Oedipus, that is, relieve him of his
fear with respect to his mother, by revealing who he once was, brings about the opposite; and in
the Lynceus, as he (Lynceus) is being led away with every prospect of being executed, and
Danaus pursuing him with every prospect of doing the executing, it comes about as a result of the
other things that have happened in the play that he is executed and Lynceus is saved. And
"recognition" is, as indeed the name indicates, a shift from ignorance to awareness, pointing in
the direction either of close blood ties or of hostility, of people who have previously been in a
clearly marked state of happiness or unhappiness.
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The finest recognition is one that happens at the same time as a peripety, as is the case with the
one in the Oedipus. Naturally, there are also other kinds of recognition: it is possible for one to
take place in the prescribed manner in relation to inanimate objects and chance occurrences, and
it is possible to recognize whether a person has acted or not acted. But the form that is most
integrally a part of the plot, the action, is the one aforesaid; for that kind of recognition combined
with peripety will excite either pity or fear (and these are the kinds of action of which tragedy is
an imitation according to our definition), because both good and bad fortune will also be most
likely to follow that kind of event. Since, further, the recognition is a recognition of persons,
some are of one person by the other one only (when it is already known who the "other one" is),
but sometimes it is necessary for both persons to go through a recognition, as for example
Iphigenia is recognized by her brother through the sending of the letter, but of him by Iphigenia
another recognition is required.
These then are two elements of plot: peripety and recognition; third is the pathos. Of these,
peripety and recognition have been discussed; a pathos is a destructive or painful act, such as
deaths on stage, paroxysms of pain, woundings, and all that sort of thing.
On plot construction 1452b13 – 1454a14 [Butcher translation]
As the sequel to what has already been said, we must proceed to consider what the poet should
aim at, and what he should avoid, in constructing his plots; and by what means the specific effect
of tragedy will be produced.
A perfect tragedy should, as we have seen, be arranged not on the simple but on the complex
plan. It should, moreover, imitate actions which excite pity and fear, this being the distinctive
mark of tragic imitation. It follows plainly, in the first place, that the change of fortune presented
must not be the spectacle of a virtuous man brought from prosperity to adversity: for this moves
neither pity nor fear; it merely shocks us. Nor, again, that of a bad man passing from adversity to
prosperity: for nothing can be more alien to the spirit of tragedy; it possesses no single tragic
quality; it neither satisfies the moral sense nor calls forth pity or fear. Nor, again, should the
downfall of the utter villain be exhibited. A plot of this kind would, doubtless, satisfy the moral
sense, but it would inspire neither pity nor fear; for pity is aroused by unmerited misfortune, fear
by the misfortune of a man like ourselves. Such an event, therefore, will be neither pitiful nor
terrible. There remains, then, the character between these two extremes—that of a man who is not
eminently good and just, yet whose misfortune is brought about not by vice or depravity, but by
some error or frailty. [Aristotle’s term here – hamartia – is often translated as “tragic flaw”, but it
literally means “missing the mark”, as when shooting at a target.] He must be one who is highly
renowned and prosperous—a personage like Oedipus, Thyestes, or other illustrious men of such
families.
A well-constructed plot should, therefore, be single in its issue, rather than double as some
maintain. The change of fortune should be not from bad to good, but, reversely, from good to bad.
It should come about as the result not of vice, but of some great error or frailty, in a character
either such as we have described, or better rather than worse. The practice of the stage bears out
our view. At first the poets recounted any legend that came in their way. Now, the best tragedies
are founded on the story of a few houses—on the fortunes of Alcmaeon, Oedipus, Orestes,
Meleager, Thyestes, Telephus, and those others who have done or suffered something terrible. A
tragedy, then, to be perfect according to the rules of art should be of this construction. Hence they
are in error who censure Euripides just because he follows this principle in his plays, many of
which end unhappily. It is, as we have said, the right ending. The best proof is that on the stage
and in dramatic competition, such plays, if well worked out, are the most tragic in effect; and
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Euripides, faulty though he may be in the general management of his subject, yet is felt to be the
most tragic of the poets.
In the second rank comes the kind of tragedy which some place first. Like the Odyssey, it has a
double thread of plot, and also an opposite catastrophe for the good and for the bad. It is
accounted the best because of the weakness of the spectators; for the poet is guided in what he
writes by the wishes of his audience. The pleasure, however, thence derived is not the true tragic
pleasure. It is proper rather to Comedy, where those who, in the piece, are the deadliest
enemies—like Orestes and Aegisthus—quit the stage as friends at the close, and no one slays or
is slain.
Fear and pity may be aroused by spectacular means; but they may also result from the inner
structure of the piece, which is the better way, and indicates a superior poet. For the plot ought to
be so constructed that, even without the aid of the eye, he who hears the tale told will thrill with
horror and melt to pity at what takes place. This is the impression we should receive from hearing
the story of the Oedipus. But to produce this effect by the mere spectacle is a less artistic method,
and dependent on extraneous aids. Those who employ spectacular means to create a sense not of
the terrible but only of the monstrous, are strangers to the purpose of tragedy; for we must not
demand of tragedy any and every kind of pleasure, but only that which is proper to it. And since
the pleasure which the poet should afford is that which comes from pity and fear through
imitation, it is evident that this quality must be impressed upon the incidents.
Let us then determine what are the circumstances which strike us as terrible or pitiful. Actions
capable of this effect must happen between persons who are either friends or enemies or
indifferent to one another. If an enemy kills an enemy, there is nothing to excite pity either in the
act or the intention—except so far as the suffering in itself is pitiful. So again with indifferent
persons. But when the tragic incident occurs between those who are near or dear to one another—
if, for example, a brother kills, or intends to kill, a brother, a son his father, a mother her son, a
son his mother, or any other deed of the kind is done—these are the situations to be looked for by
the poet. He may not indeed destroy the framework of the received legends—the fact, for
instance, that Clytemnestra was slain by Orestes and Eriphyle by Alcmaeon—but he ought to
show of his own, and skillfully handle the traditional material. Let us explain more clearly what is
meant by skilful handling.
The action may be done consciously and with knowledge of the persons, in the manner of the
older poets. It is thus too that Euripides makes Medea slay her children. Or, again, the deed of
horror may be done, but done in ignorance, and the tie of kinship or friendship be discovered
afterwards. The Oedipus of Sophocles is an example. Here, indeed, the incident is outside the
drama proper; but cases occur where it falls within the action of the play: one may cite the
Alcmaeon of Astydamas, or Telegonus in the Wounded Odysseus. Again, there is a third case— to
be about to act with knowledge of the persons and then not to act. The fourth case is when some
one is about to do an irreparable deed through ignorance, and makes the discovery before it is
done. These are the only possible ways. For the deed must either be done or not done—and that
wittingly or unwittingly. But of all these ways, to be about to act knowing the persons, and then
not to act, is the worst. It is shocking without being tragic, for no disaster follows. It is, therefore,
never, or very rarely, found in poetry. One instance, however, is in the Antigone, where Haemon
threatens to kill Creon. The next and better way is that the deed should be perpetrated. Still better,
that it should be perpetrated in ignorance, and the discovery made afterwards. There is then
nothing to shock us, while the discovery produces a startling effect. The last case is the best, as
when in the Cresphontes Merope is about to slay her son, but, recognizing who he is, spares his
life. So in the Iphigenia, the sister recognizes the brother just in time. Again in the Helle, the son
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recognizes the mother when on the point of giving her up. This, then, is why a few families only,
as has been already observed, furnish the subjects of tragedy. It was not art, but happy chance,
that led the poets in search of subjects to impress the tragic quality upon their plots. They are
compelled, therefore, to have recourse to those houses whose history contains moving incidents
like these.
Enough has now been said concerning the structure of the incidents, and the right kind of plot.
On Kinds of Recognition 1454b19 – 1455a20 [Butcher translation]
What Recognition is has been already explained. We will now enumerate its kinds.
First, the least artistic form, which, from poverty of wit, is most commonly employed—
recognition by signs. Of these some are congenital—such as ‘the spear which the earth-born race
bear on their bodies,’ or the stars introduced by Carcinus in his Thyestes. Others are acquired after
birth; and of these some are bodily marks, as scars; some external tokens, as necklaces, or the
little ark in the Tyro by which the discovery is effected. Even these admit of more or less skilful
treatment. Thus in the recognition of Odysseus by his scar, the discovery is made in one way by
the nurse, in another by the swineherds. The use of tokens for the express purpose of proof—and,
indeed, any formal proof with or without tokens—is a less artistic mode of recognition. A better
kind is that which comes about by a turn of incident, as in the Bath Scene in the Odyssey.
Next come the recognitions invented at will by the poet, and on that account wanting in art. For
example, Orestes in the Iphigenia reveals the fact that he is Orestes. She, indeed, makes herself
known by the letter; but he, by speaking himself, and saying what the poet, not what the plot
requires. This, therefore, is nearly allied to the fault above mentioned—for Orestes might as well
have brought tokens with him. Another similar instance is the ‘voice of the shuttle’ in the Tereus
of Sophocles.
The third kind depends on memory when the sight of some object awakens a feeling: as in the
Cyprians of Dicaeogenes, where the hero breaks into tears on seeing the picture; or again in the
Lay of Alcinous, where Odysseus, hearing the minstrel play the lyre, recalls the past and weeps;
and hence the recognition.
The fourth kind is by process of reasoning. Thus in the Choephori: ‘Some one resembling me has
come: no one resembles me but Orestes: therefore Orestes has come.’ Such too is the discovery
made by Iphigenia in the play of Polyidus the Sophist. It was a natural reflection for Orestes to
make, ‘So I too must die at the altar like my sister.’ So, again, in the Tydeus of Theodectes, the
father says, ‘I came to find my son, and I lose my own life.’ So too in the Phineidae: the women,
on seeing the place, inferred their fate—‘Here we are doomed to die, for here we were cast forth.’
Again, there is a composite kind of recognition involving false inference on the part of one of the
characters, as in the Odysseus Disguised as a Messenger. A said [that no one else was able to
bend the bow; ... hence B (the disguised Odysseus) imagined that A would] recognize the bow
which, in fact, he had not seen; and to bring about a recognition by this means—the expectation
that A would recognize the bow—is false inference.
But, of all recognitions, the best is that which arises from the incidents themselves, where the
startling discovery is made by natural means. Such is that in the Oedipus of Sophocles, and in the
Iphigenia; for it was natural that Iphigenia should wish to dispatch a letter. These recognitions
alone dispense with the artificial aid of tokens or amulets. Next come the recognitions by process
of reasoning.
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