Aristotle's Poetics: Supplementary Texts

Aristotle Nicomachean Ethics 1.8

[1099a7] For pleasure is a state of soul, and to each man that which he is said to be a lover of is pleasant; e.g. not only is a horse pleasant to the lover of horses, and a spectacle to the lover of sights, but also in the same way just acts are pleasant to the lover of justice and in general virtuous acts to the lover of virtue. Now for most men their pleasures are in conflict with one another because these are not by nature pleasant, but the lovers of what is noble find pleasant the things that are by nature pleasant; and virtuous actions are such, so that these are pleasant for such men as well as in their own nature. Their life, therefore, has no further need of pleasure as a sort of adventitious charm, but has its pleasure in itself. For, besides what we have said, the man who does not rejoice in noble actions is not even good; since no one would call a man just who did not enjoy acting justly, nor any man liberal who did not enjoy liberal actions; and similarly in all other cases.

Aristotle Nicomachean Ethics 2.7-9

Of those who go to excess he who exceeds in fearlessness has no name (we have said previously that many states of character have no names), but he would be a sort of madman or insensible person if he feared nothing, neither earthquakes nor the waves, as they say the Celts do not; while the man who exceeds in confidence about what really is terrible is rash. The rash man, however, is also thought to be boastful and only a pretender to courage; at all events, as the brave man is with regard to what is terrible, so the rash man wishes to appear; and so he imitates him in situations where he can. Hence also most of them are a mixture of rashness and cowardice; for, while in these situations they display confidence, they do not hold their ground against what is really terrible. The man who exceeds in fear is a coward; for he fears both what he ought not and as he ought not, and all the similar characterisations attach to him. [1116a] He is lacking also in confidence; but he is more conspicuous for his excess of fear in painful situations. The coward, then, is a despairing sort of person; for he fears everything. The brave man, on the other hand, has the opposite disposition; for confidence is the mark of a hopeful disposition. The coward, the rash man, and the brave man, then, are concerned with the same objects but are differently disposed towards them; for the first two exceed and fall short, while the third holds the middle, which is the right, position; and rash men are precipitate, and wish for dangers beforehand but draw back when they are in them, while brave men are keen in the moment of action, but quiet beforehand.

As we have said, then, courage is a mean with respect to things that inspire confidence or fear, in the circumstances that have been stated; and it chooses or endures things because it is noble to do so, or because it is base not to do so. But to die to escape from poverty or love or anything painful is not the mark of a brave man, but rather of a coward; for it is softness to fly from what is troublesome, and such a man endures death not because it is noble but to fly from evil.

[8] Courage, then, is something of this sort, but the name is also applied to five other kinds.

(i) First comes the courage of the citizen-soldier; for this is most like true courage. Citizen-soldiers seem to face dangers because of the penalties imposed by the laws and the reproaches they would otherwise incur, and because of the honours they win by such action; and therefore those peoples seem to be bravest among whom cowards are held in dishonour and brave men in honour. This is the kind of courage that Homer depicts, e.g. in Diomedes and in Hector: 'First will Polydamas be to heap reproach on me then'; and: 'For Hector one day amid the Trojans shall utter his vaulting harangue: "Afraid was the son of Tydeus, and fled from my face".' This kind of courage is most like to that which we described earlier, because it is due to virtue; for it is due to shame and to desire of a noble object (i.e. honour) and avoidance of disgrace, which is ignoble. One might rank in the same class even those who are compelled by their rulers; but they are inferior, inasmuch as they do what they do not from shame but from fear, and to avoid not what is disgraceful but what is painful; for their masters compel them, as Hector does: 'But if I shall spy any dastard that cowers far from the fight, vainly will such an one hope to escape from the dogs'. And those who give them their posts, and beat them if they retreat, do the same, [1116b] and so do those who draw them up with trenches or something of the sort behind them; all of these apply compulsion. But one ought to be brave not under compulsion but because it is noble to be so.

(ii) Experience with regard to particular facts is also thought to be courage; this is indeed the reason why Socrates thought courage was knowledge. Other people exhibit this quality in other dangers, and professional soldiers exhibit it in the dangers of war; for there seem to be many empty alarms in war, of which these have had the most comprehensive experience; therefore they seem brave, because the others do not know the nature of the facts. Again, their experience makes them most capable in attack and in defence, since they can use their arms and have the kind that are likely to be best both for attack and for defence; therefore they fight like armed men against unarmed or like trained athletes against amateurs; for in such contests too it is not the bravest men that fight best, but those who are strongest and have their bodies in the best condition. Professional soldiers turn cowards, however, when the danger puts too great a strain on them and they are inferior in numbers and equipment; for they are the first to fly, while citizen-forces die at their posts, as in fact happened at the temple of Hermes. For to the latter flight is disgraceful and death is preferable to safety on those terms; while the former from the very beginning faced the danger on the assumption that they were stronger, and when they know the facts they fly, fearing death more than disgrace; but the brave man is not that sort of person.

(iii) Passion also is sometimes reckoned as courage; those who act from passion, like wild beasts rushing at those who have wounded them, are thought to be brave, because brave men also are passionate; for passion above all things is eager to rush on danger, and hence Homer's 'put strength into his passion' and 'aroused their spirit and passion and 'hard he breathed panting' and 'his blood boiled'. For all such expressions seem to indicate the stirring and onset of passion. Now brave men act for honour's sake, but passion aids them; while wild beasts act under the influence of pain; for they attack because they have been wounded or because they are afraid, since if they are in a forest they do not come near one. Thus they are not brave because, driven by pain and passion, they rush on danger without foreseeing any of the perils, since at that rate even asses would be brave when they are hungry; for blows [1117a] will not drive them from their food; and lust also makes adulterers do many daring things. (Those creatures are not brave, then, which are driven on to danger by pain or passion.) The 'courage' that is due to passion seems to be the most natural, and to be courage if choice and motive be added.

Men, then, as well as beasts, suffer pain when they are angry, and are pleased when they exact their revenge; those who fight for these reasons, however, are pugnacious but not brave; for they do not act for honour's sake nor as the rule directs, but from strength of feeling; they have, however, something akin to courage.

(iv) Nor are sanguine people brave; for they are confident in danger only because they have conquered often and against many foes. Yet they closely resemble brave men, because both are confident; but brave men are confident for the reasons stated earlier, while these are so because they think they are the strongest and can suffer nothing. (Drunken men also behave in this way; they become sanguine.) When their adventures do not succeed, however, they run away; but it was the mark of a brave man to face things that are, and seem, terrible for a man, because it is noble to do so and disgraceful not to do so. Hence also it is thought the mark of a braver man to be fearless and undisturbed in sudden alarms than to be so in those that are foreseen; for it must have proceeded more from a state of character, because less from preparation; acts that are foreseen may be chosen by calculation and rule, but sudden actions must be in accordance with one's state of character.

(v) People who are ignorant of the danger also appear brave, and they are not far removed from those of a sanguine temper, but are inferior inasmuch as they have no self-reliance while these have. Hence also the sanguine hold their ground for a time; but those who have been deceived about the facts fly if they know or suspect that these are different from what they supposed, as happened to the Argives when they fell in with the Spartans and took them for Sicyonians.

We have, then, described the character both of brave men and of those who are thought to be brave.

Aristotle Nicomachean Ethics 7.14

[1154b17] By things pleasant incidentally I mean those that act as cures; for because as a result people are cured, through some action of the part that remains healthy, for this reason the process is thought pleasant).

Aristotle Nicomachean Ethics 10.4

[1174b14] Since every sense is active in relation to its object, and a sense which is in good condition acts perfectly in relation to the most beautiful of its objects (for perfect activity seems to be ideally of this nature; whether we say that it is active, or the organ in which it resides, may be assumed to be immaterial), it follows that in the case of each sense the best activity is that of the best-conditioned organ in relation to the finest of its objects. And this activity will be the most complete and pleasant. For, while there is pleasure in respect of any sense, and in respect of thought and contemplation no less, the most complete is pleasantest, and that of a well-conditioned organ in relation to the worthiest of its objects is the most complete; and the pleasure completes the activity. But the pleasure does not complete it in the same way as the combination of object and sense, both good, just as health and the doctor are not in the same way the cause of a man's being healthy. (That pleasure is produced in respect to each sense is plain; for we speak of sights and sounds as pleasant. It is also plain that it arises most of all when both the sense is at its best and it is active in reference to an object which corresponds; when both object and perceiver are of the best there will always be pleasure, since the requisite agent and patient are both present.) Pleasure completes the activity not as the corresponding permanent state does, by its immanence, but as an end which supervenes as the bloom of youth does on those in the flower of their age. So long, then, as both the intelligible or sensible object and the discriminating or [1175a] contemplative faculty are as they should be, the pleasure will be involved in the activity; for when both the passive and the active factor are unchanged and are related to each other in the same way, the same result naturally follows.

How, then, is it that no one is continuously pleased? Is it that we grow weary? Certainly all human beings are incapable of continuous activity. Therefore pleasure also is not continuous; for it accompanies activity. Some things delight us when they are new, but later do so less, for the same reason; for at first the mind is in a state of stimulation and intensely active about them, as people are with respect to their vision when they look hard at a thing, but afterwards our activity is not of this kind, but has grown relaxed; for which reason the pleasure also is dulled.

One might think that all men desire pleasure because they all aim at life; life is an activity, and each man is active about those things and with those faculties that he loves most; e.g. the musician is active with his hearing in reference to tunes, the student with his mind in reference to theoretical questions, and so on in each case; now pleasure completes the activities, and therefore life, which they desire. It is with good reason, then, that they aim at pleasure too, since for every one it completes life, which is desirable. But whether we choose life for the sake of pleasure or pleasure for the sake of life is a question we may dismiss for the present. For they seem to be bound up together and not to admit of separation, since without activity pleasure does not arise, and every activity is completed by the attendant pleasure.

Aristotle Metaphysics 1.1-2

By nature animals are born with the faculty of sensation, and from sensation memory is produced in some of them, though not in others. [980b] Therefore the former are more intelligent and apt at learning than those which cannot remember; those which are incapable of hearing sounds are intelligent though they cannot be taught (e.g. the bee, and any other race of animals that may be like it); and those which besides memory have this sense of hearing can be taught.

The animals other than man live by appearances and memories, and have but little of connected experience; but the human race lives also by art and reasonings. Now from memory experience is produced in men; for the several memories of the same thing produce finally the capacity for a single experience. [981a] Experience seems pretty much like science and art; but really science and art come to men through experience - for 'experience made art,' as Polus says, 'but inexperience luck'. Now art arises when from many notions gained by experience one universal judgement about a class of objects is produced. For to have a judgement that when Callias was ill of this disease this did him good, and similarly in the case of Socrates and in many individual cases, is a matter of experience; but to judge that it has done good to all persons of a certain constitution, marked off in one class, when they were ill of this disease )e.g. to phlegmatic or bilious people when burning with fevers) - this is a matter of art.

With a view to action experience seems in no respect inferior to art, and men of experience succeed even better than those who have theory without experience. (The reason is that experience is knowledge of individuals, art of universals, and actions and productions are all concerned with the individual. The physician does not cure man, except in an incidental way, but Callias or Socrates or some other called by some such individual name, who happens to be a man. If, then, a man has the theory without the experience, and recognises the universal but does not know the individual included in this, he will often fail to cure; for it is the individual that is to be cured.) But yet we think that knowledge and understanding belong to art rather than to experience, and we suppose artists to be wiser than men of experience (which implies that wisdom depends in all cases rather on knowledge); and this because the former know the cause, but the latter do not. For men of experience know that the thing is so, but do not know why, while the others know the 'why' and the cause. Hence we think also that the masterworkers in each craft are more honourable and know in a truer sense and are [981b] wiser than the manual workers, because they know the causes of the things that are done. (We think the manual workers are like certain lifeless things which act indeed, but act without knowing what they do, as fire burns. But while the lifeless things perform each of their functions by a natural tendency, the labourers perform them through habit.) Thus we view them as being wiser not in virtue of being able to act, but of having the theory for themselves and knowing the causes. And in general it is a sign of the man who knows and of the man who does not know, that the former can teach, and therefore we think art more truly knowledge than experience is. For artists can teach, and men of mere experience cannot.

Again, we do not regard any of the senses as wisdom; yet surely these give the most authoritative knowledge of particulars. But they do not tell us the 'why' of anything - e.g. why fire is hot; they only say that it is hot.

At first he who invented any art whatever that went beyond the common perceptions of man was naturally admired by men, not only because there was something useful in the inventions, but because he was thought wise and superior to the rest. But as more arts were invented, and some were directed to the necessities of life, others to recreation, the inventors of the latter were naturally always regarded as wiser than the inventors of the former, because their branches of knowledge did not aim at utility. Hence when all such inventions were already established, the sciences which do not aim at giving pleasure or at the necessities of life were discovered, and first in the places where men first began to have leisure. This is why the mathematical arts were founded in Egypt; for there the priestly caste was allowed to be at leisure.

We have said in the Ethics what the difference is between art and science and the other kindred faculties; but the point of our present discussion is this, that all men suppose what is called wisdom to deal with the first causes and the principles of things; so that, as has been said before, the man of experience is thought to be wiser than the possessors of any sense-perception whatever, the artist wiser than the men of experience, the masterworker than the mechanic, [982a] and the theoretical kinds of knowledge to be more of the nature of wisdom than the productive. Clearly then wisdom is knowledge about certain principles and causes.

[1.2] Since we are seeking this knowledge, we must inquire of what kind are the causes and the principles, the knowledge of which is wisdom. If one were to take the notions we have about the wise man, this might perhaps make the answer more evident.

We suppose first, then, that the wise man knows all things, as far as possible, although he has not knowledge of each of them in detail; secondly, that he who can learn things that are difficult, and not easy for man to know, is wise (sense-perception is common to all, and therefore easy and no mark of wisdom); again, that he who is more exact and more capable of teaching the causes is wiser, in every branch of knowledge; and that of the sciences, also, that which is desirable on its own account and for the sake of knowing it is more of the nature of wisdom than that which is desirable on account of its results, and the superior science is more of the nature of wisdom than the ancillary; for the wise man must not be ordered but must order, and he must not obey another, but the less wise must obey him.

Such and so many are the notions, then, which we have about wisdom and the wise. Now of these characteristics that of knowing all things must belong to him who has in the highest degree universal knowledge; for he knows in a sense all the instances that fall under the universal. And these things, the most universal, are on the whole the hardest for men to know; for they are farthest from the senses. And the most exact of the sciences are those which deal most with first principles; for those which involve fewer principles are more exact than those which involve additional principles, e.g. arithmetic than geometry. But the science which investigates causes is also instructive, in a higher degree, for the people who instruct us are those who tell the causes of each thing. And understanding and knowledge pursued for their own sake are found most in the knowledge of that which is most knowable (for he who chooses to know for the sake of knowing [982b] will choose most readily that which is most truly knowledge, and such is the knowledge of that which is most knowable); and the first principles and the causes are most knowable; for by reason of these, and from these, all other things come to be known, and not these by means of the things subordinate to them. And the science which knows to what end each thing must be done is the most authoritative of the sciences, and more authoritative than any ancillary science; and this end is the good of that thing, and in general the supreme good in the whole of nature. Judged by all the tests we have mentioned, then, the name in question falls to the same science; this must be a science that investigates the first principles and causes; for the good, i.e. the end, is one of the causes.

Aristotle Rhetoric 1.11

[1371a31] Learning things and wondering at things are also pleasant as a rule; wondering implies the desire of learning, so that the object of wonder is an object of desire; while in learning one is brought into one's natural condition...

[1371b4] Again, since learning and wondering are pleasant, it follows that such things as acts of imitation must be pleasant - for instance, painting, sculpture, poetry and every product of skilful imitation; this latter, even if the object imitated is not itself pleasant; for it is not the object itself which here gives delight; the spectator draws inferences ('That is a so-and-so') and thus learns something fresh. Dramatic turns of fortune and hairbreadth escapes from perils are pleasant, because we feel all such things are wonderful.

Aristotle Rhetoric 2.5

Aristotle Rhetoric 2.8

[1385b11] Let us now consider pity, asking ourselves what things excite pity, and for what persons, and in what states of our mind pity is felt.

Aristotle Rhetoric 2.9

We will first consider indignation - reserving the other emotions for subsequent discussion - and ask with whom, on what grounds, and in what states of mind we may be indignant. These questions are really answered by what has been said already. Indignation is pain caused by the sight of undeserved good fortune. It is, then, plain to begin with that there are some forms of good the sight of which cannot cause it. Thus a man may be just or brave, or acquire moral goodness: but we shall not be indignant with him for that reason, any more than we shall pity him for the contrary reason. Indignation is roused by the sight of wealth, power, and the like - by all those things, roughly speaking, which are deserved by good men and by those who possess the goods of nature - noble birth, beauty, and so on. Again, what is long established seems akin to what exists by nature; and therefore we feel more indignation at those possessing a given good if they have as a matter of fact only just got it and the prosperity it brings with it. The newly rich give more offence than those whose wealth is of long standing and inherited. The same is true of those who have office or power, plenty of friends, a fine family, etc. We feel the same when these advantages of theirs secure them others. For here again, the newly rich give us more offence by obtaining office through their riches than do those whose wealth is of long standing; and so in all other cases. The reason is that what the latter have is felt to be really their own, but what the others have is not; what appears to have been always what it is is regarded as real, and so the possessions of the newly rich do not seem to be really their own. Further, it is not any and every man that deserves any given kind of good; there is a certain correspondence and appropriateness in such things; thus it is appropriate for brave men, not for just men, to have fine weapons, and for men of family, not for parvenus, to make distinguished marriages. Indignation may therefore properly be felt when any one gets what is not appropriate for him, though he may be a good man enough. It may also be felt when any one sets himself up against his superior, especially against his superior in some particular respect - whence the lines: 'Only from battle he shrank with Aias Telamon's son; Zeus had been angered with him, had he fought with a mightier one'. [1387b] But also, even apart from that, when the inferior in any sense contends with his superior; a musician, for instance, with a just man, for justice is a finer thing than music.

Enough has been said to make clear the grounds on which, and the persons against whom, Indignation is felt - they are those mentioned, and others like him. As for the people who feel it; we feel it if we do ourselves deserve the greatest possible goods and moreover have them, for it is an injustice that those who are not our equals should have been held to deserve as much as we have. Or, secondly, we feel it if we are really good and honest people; our judgement is then sound, and we loathe any kind of injustice. Also if we are ambitious and eager to gain particular ends, especially if we are ambitious for what others are getting without deserving to get it. And, generally, if we think that we ourselves deserve a thing and that others do not, we are disposed to be indignant with those others so far as that thing is concerned. Hence servile, worthless, unambitious persons are not inclined to Indignation, since there is nothing they can believe themselves to deserve.

From all this it is plain what sort of men those are at whose misfortunes, distresses, or failures we ought to feel pleased, or at least not pained: by considering the facts described we see at once what their contraries are. If therefore our speech puts the judges in such a frame of mind as that indicated and shows that those who claim pity on certain definite grounds do not deserve to secure pity but do deserve not to secure it, it will be impossible for the judges to feel pity.

Aristotle Rhetoric 3.10

Aristotle Rhetoric 3.14

[The description of line 774 as 'somewhere in the prologue' is so surprising that attempts have been made to emend the text (reading e.g. 'if not right at the start, like Euripides, in the prologue, at any rate somewhere...'), so as to rescue Aristotle from the apparent error.]

Aristotle Parts of Animals 1.5

[645a6] It now remains to speak of the nature of animals. We will, so far as possible, omit nothing, irrespective of how much esteem it enjoys or how little. For there are animals which are unattractive to the senses when one studies them; but even in these, nature's craftsmanship provides innumerable pleasures for those who can discern the causes. It would be unreasonable - in fact, absurd - if we got pleasure from studying pictures of these things, because then we are at the same time studying the art which crafted them (e.g. the art of painting or sculpture), but did not get even more pleasure from studying the actual products of nature - at least when we can make out their causes. So we must have any childish aversion from the study of the more lowly animals. In every work of nature there is something to astonish us.

Aristotle On Poets fr. 70

Aristotle Politics 8.7

Aristotle Homeric Questions

[This is a selection of the surviving fragments of Aristotle's Homeric Questions, which covered more extensively the kinds of problem discussed in a very compressed manner in ch. 25 of the Poetics.]

fr. 143 [on Iliad 2.183]: It seems unseemly for Odysseus to to throw off his cloak and run through the camp just in his tunic, and especially for someone such as Odysseus is taken to be. Aristotle says that it is so the crowd will turn round in amazement and his voice will reach further, with people assembling from different directions; Solon is said to have done something of the kind when he gathered a crowd with reference to Salamis.

fr. 144: One may feel surprise (Aristotle says) that nowhere in the Iliad has Homer represented a concubine as sleeping with Menelaus, although he has assigned women to all the men. In his poem, for example, even the old men Nestor and Phoenix sleep with women [Iliad 11.624; cf. Iliad 9.658-88]. These two had not allowed their bodies to become enervated in the period of their youth either by hard drinking or by sexual indulgence or by digestive disorders arising from gluttony; hence, of course, they were vigorous in their old age. It is plain, then, that the Spartan [Menelaus] had respect for Helen, his wedded wife, for whose sake, in fact, he had gathered the expedition together; hence he refrains from any association with another woman. Agamemnon, on the other hand, is taunted by Thersites with having numerous women: "Your huts are filled with bronze, and there are women enough in your quarters choice girls, offered to you before all others by us Achaeans” [Iliad 2.226-8]. But it is not probable (Aristotle continues), that the great number of women were given to him as concubines, but rather as a mark of honour, any more than that he procured his large quantities of wine [Iliad 7.467] for the purpose of getting drunk.

fr. 146 [Iliad 2.649;: Why has he written "and the others who lived in the hundred cities of Crete" here, but in Odyssey when he says that Crete is "lovely... and ocean- rounded" [Odyssey 19.174], he adds "those who live in this land are many, indeed past counting, and there are ninety cities there"? Saying ninety in one place and a hundred in another seems to be a contradiction. Heraclides and others tried to solve the problem thus. There is a story that those who sailed back from Troy with Idomeneus sacked Lyctus and the neighbouring cities, occupied by Leucon the son of Talus when he made war on those who had returned from Troy; so it would resonably be seen as precision on the part of the poet, rather than a contradiction: for those who went to Troy came from one hundred cities, but when Odysseus arrived home in the tenth year after the capture of Troy and word had spread that the ten cities had been sacked and were no longer inhabited, it would seem to be reasonable of Odysseus to say that Crete had ninety cities. Thus the fact that he does not say the same thing about the same thing does not mean that he is is for that reason being untruthful. Aristotle says it is not surprising if the characters are not all represented as saying the same as Homer (for in that case they would have to say completely the same as each other). And perhaps "one hundred" is a metaphor, like the "hundred tassels" [Iliad 2.448] (they were not arithmetically one hundred), and "there are a hundred planks to a cart" [Hesiod Works and Days 456]. Then again, he nowhere says that there were only ninety cities; the one hundred includes ninety.

fr. 147 [on Iliad 3.236]: Why has he portrayed Helen as ignorant of her brothers’ absence, though the war has lasted ten years and many prisoners had been taken? It is irrational. And even if she was ignorant, there was no reason for her mention them, since Priam has not asked about them; and the mention of them has no function with respect to the poem. Aristotle says that perhaps Paris kept her from the prisoners; or to make her character appear better and less interfering she did not even know where her brothers were.

fr. 148 [on Iliad 3.276]: Why, when the poet wanted the Trojans to break their oath to give a good reason for their destruction, did he not make them break the oath? The oath was that if Menelaus killed Paris, Helen would be given back [Iliad 3.281-7]; since he was not killed they did nothing wrong in not returning her, and did not break their oath. Aristotle says that the poet does not say they broke their oath... but that they were cursed. They cursed themselves when they said "Zeus, greatest and most glorious, and you other immortal gods: whichever side first offends against these oaths, may their brains spill on the ground as this wine is spilled" [Iliad 3.298-300]. They did not break the oath, but they were dishonest and "offended" against the oath; and so they were cursed.

fr. 150 [on Iliad 3.441]: Why does he portray Paris as such a miserable wretch that he is not only beaten in ingle combat, but also flees and immediately thinks of sex and says that he has never felt such lust and is so hopelessly dissolute? Aristotle says that it is reasonable: he was of a lustful disposition even before that, and it intensified on this occasion; for everyone longs most for what they do not have, or fear they will lose. This is why reproof intensifies desire; the duel had the same effect on him.

fr. 151 [Iliad 4.88]: Why did Athene not choose one of the Trojans for the breaking of the truce, but one of the allies? After all, the increase in favour with Paris would have been greater if he had been someone related to him. And why, among the allies, did she choose Pandarus? Aristotle says that none of the Trojans was chosen, because they all hated him [Paris], as the poet says "he was hated by all of them like black death" [Iliad 3.454]; and among the allies she chose Pandarus because he was greedy for money (a sign of this is the fact that he left his horses at home, to avoid expense [Iliad 5.202]), and because he was by nature a perjurer (at any rate, the nation he was from is thought even now to be prone to breaking its oaths).

fr. 159 [on Iliad 10.98]: Aristotle wondered why he made the leaders take council at night outside the walls of the camp, when it was possible to do so inside in safety. He says: first, there was no likelihood that the Trojans would take the risk of a night attack (since those who have the upper hand do not take risks); secondly, it was the custom to take council on such matters in a deserted place, free from interruption. And the decision to send men to infiltrate the Trojan camp would have been odd if they had not dared to go even a little way outside their own. Further, it was the generals' duty to avoid nocturnal disturbances; assembling at night to take council inside the camp would have raised the suspicion of a new crisis and caused alarm.

fr. [not included in the collections of Aristotle's fragments by Rose and Gigon]: [on Iliad 11.636, the description of Nestor's cup: "Another man would strain to move it from the table when it was full, but Nestor, the old man, could lift it with ease"] Why does he portray only Nestor lifting the cup? It is not likely that he could lift it more easily than younger men... Aristotle said that "Nestor the old man" must be understood in common with "another man", meaning: ‘Another old man would strain to move it from the table, but Nestor the old man could lift it with ease.'

fr. 165: For example, there is a suspicion that Agamemnon accepted a bribe to exempt from military service that rich man [Echepolus] who made a present to him of the horse Aethe, "a gift made so that he should not have to go with him to windy Ilios, but could stay at home and enjoy his life" [Iliad 23.296-99]; but he did right, as Aristotle says, in preferring a good horse to a man like that.

fr. 166 [on Iliad 24.15]: Why does Achilles drag Hector's body round Patroclus' tomb? ... The solution, according to Aristotle relates to contemporary custom; even now in Thessaly they drag round the tomb.

fr. 174 [on Odyssey 9.525]: Why does Odysseus show such thoughtless disregard for Poseidon when he says "no one shall heal that eye of yours, not the Earthshaker [Poseidon] himself"? ... Aristotle says that the point is not that he will not be able to heal him, but that he will not want to do so because of the Cyclops' wickedness. Why, then, was Poseidon angry — being annoyed not by the utterance but by the blinding itself ("he is angry because of the Cyclops, whom Odysseus blinded" [Odyssey 1.69]), even though he was extremely wicked and ate the companions? Aristotle's solution is that the relation of free man to slave is not the same as that of slave man to free; likewise with those close to the gods and those remote from them. The Cyclops did indeed deserve to be punished, but it was not for Odysseus to punish him but Poseidon. Alternatively, it is always legitimate to come to the aid of one's son when he is being injured, and the companions had begun the injustice.

fr. 178 [on Odyssey 23.337]: Why, when Calypso offered him immportaltiy, did Odysseus not accept the offer? Aristotle says that Odysseus makes this claim to the Phaeacians to make himself seem more impressive and more concerned with other things; for it was in his interest to be sent home more quickly. Then it seems plausible to say that he refused this gist not because he was not won over by it, but because he did not believe what Calypso was saying; she said she would do it, but he did not trust her, and because he did not trust her he declined the offer.

Aristophanes Thesmophoriazusae 146-156

[Agathon] Old man, old man, your jealousy's spite I heard, its bite I did not feel. I wear my clothing in accordance with my thinking. A man who is a poet should adapt his ways to fit the plays he must compose. If, for example, one is writing plays about women, one's body must undergo a change of habits... But if one is writing plays about men, that is already present in one's body. But what we do not possess, imitation [mimêsis] must seek that out.

Aristophanes Frogs 923-32

[Euripides] Then, when he had gone through this rigmarole and we were already half-way through the play, he would speak a dozen words made out of ox-hide, with lowering brows and crests, terrible, hideous- looking things, that the audience had never heard before... He would never say anything clearly... It was all Scamanders and ditches and things blazoned on shields, wyverns forged in bronze, stallion-steep utterances one could scarcely understand.

[Dionysus] Yes, yes, that's right. I myself was once kept awake all night trying to work out what sort of bird a golden hippocock is.

Aristophanes Frogs 1177-1195

[Aeschylus] What about you? How did you write prologues?

[Dionysus] I'll tell you - and if you find me saying the same thing twice, or catch sight of any padding irrelevant to the story, then you can spit on me.

[Aeschylus] Go on, then: speak. I really must listen to the precision of your prologues' expression.

[Euripides] "Oedipus at first was a fortunate man..."

[Aeschylus] No he wasn't. Not at all. He was unfortunate by birth. After all, before he was born Apollo said he was going to kill his father - before he even existed. So how could he have been 'at first a fortunate man'?

[Euripides] "... but then he became the most wretched of mortals".

[Aeschylus] No he didn't. Not at all. He never stopped. How could he? First of all, when he was born, in the middle of winter, he was exposed in a bit of old pot, to stop him growing up and killing his father; then he dragged himself off to Polybus on his swollen feet; then he married an old woman, when he himself was still a young man; and then it turned out she was his own mother; then he blinded himself!

Gorgias Helen fr. 11.9

All poetry I consider and name as speech possessing metre. Into those who hear it enter fearful shuddering and tearful pity and a yearning that is fond of grief; for the good fortune and mischances of others' affairs and bodies, the soul undergoes a passion of its own through speech.

Plato Republic 3

[392c] So much for what is said. We must next, I think, consider its expression. When that is done we shall have considered exhaustively the subject of what is to be said and how it is to be said. - I don't know what you mean.

You should do; but perhaps you'll understand better if I put it this way. Everything that story-tellers or poets say is a narrative of past, present or future events. - Of course.

And they execute it either by simple narrative or by narrative conveyed by imitation or by both. - I would like a clearer explanation of that too.

I seem to be an absurdly obscure teacher. But I'll do what incompetent speakers do, and try to show you what I mean by taking one part, and not the whole topic. Tell me: you know the beginning of the Iliad, where the poet says that Chryses asked Agamemnon to release his daughter, Agamcmnon was angry, and Chryses, failing in his attempt, [393a] cursed the Achaeans to the god? - I do.

Then you know that as far as the lines 'and he begged all the Achaeans, and especially the two sons of Atreus, the generals of the host' [Il. 1.15f.] the poet speaks in his own person, and does not try to divert us into think that anyone else is speaking apart from himself. But from there on he speaks as if he were Chryses himself, and tries his best to make us think that it is not Homer talking, but the old priest. And he composes practically all the rest of his narrative in this way, both the events at Troy and those in Ithaca and the whole Odyssey. - Yes.

Well, then, it is narrative both when he makes the various speeches and in the passages between the speeches. - Of course.

But when he makes a speech as if he were someone else, shall we not say that he is making his own expression as far as possible like that of each speaker? - We shall.

And to make oneself like another in voice or gesture is to imitate the person one is likening oneself to? - Yes.

So in this sort of thing it seems that Homer himself and the other poets are composing their narrative by means of imitation? - Certainly.

Now if the poet never concealed himself, his whole poetry and narrative would be free of imitation. So that you won't say you don't understand again, I'll explain how it would be. If Homer, having said that Chryses came with his daughter's ransom as a suppliant of the Achaeans, and particularly of the kings, after that had spoken not as Chryses but as Homer, you understand that it would not have been imitation, but pure narrative. It would have gone something like this; I'll speak it without metre, since I am not much of a poet. 'The priest came and prayed that the gods might grant them to capture Troy and return home safely, but that as for his daughter they might free her, accepting the ransom and holding the god in reverence. The rest of them respected what he said and agreed; but Agamemnon was angry, and told him to go away and never come back, lest his staff and the god's garlands might prove of no avail to him; before the daughter was freed, she would grow old in Argos with him. [394a] And he told him to go away and not stir up trouble, if he wanted to get home safe. On hearing this, the old man was frightened and departed in silence; but when he had left the camp he prayed long to Apollo, calling on the god by his special names, reminding him and begging him, if he had ever given him before an acceptable gift in temple-buildings or sacrifices; in return for this, he prayed to him to avenge his tears on the Achaeans with his arrows.' Like that, it is pure narrative without imitation. - I understand.

Then understand that the opposite happens when one removes the parts between the speeches and leaves just the dialogue. - I understand that, too; it is the kind of thing we have in tragedies.

Exactly so. I think I am now making clear to you what I couldn't before: that there is one kind of poctry and story-telling which is entirely by means of imitation (this is tragedy and comedy, as you say); and there is another kind by means of the poet's own report (you will find this particularly in dithyrambs); and there is another kind, by means of both, in epic and in many other places, if you see what I mean. -I understand what you meant then.

Remember also what we said before that: that we've dealt with the question what is to be said, but still have to consider how it is to be said.. - I remember.

Well, what I meant was that we must come to an agreement as to whether we are to allow the poets to compose their narratives by imitation, or by imitation in part and in part not (and if so, what parts), or not to imitate at all. - I have a suspicion that you are asking whether we should receive tragedy and comedy into the city or not.

Perhaps; or perhaps even more than that. I don't know yet. But we must go where the wind of the argument blows. - That's right.

Well then, Adeimantus, consider this: should our guardians ought to be imitative people, or not? Or does this follow from what we said earlier, that each individual can do one thing well, but not many things; and if he tries to do so, in putting his hand to many he things he is liable to fail in them all, so far as real distinction is concerned? - Of course it does.

Does not the same apply to imitation: one individual cannot imitate many things well, though he can one? - He cannot.

[395a] Still less will one man be able to pursue some worthwhile pursuit and at the same time imitate many things, and be an imitative. Even forms of imitations that seem to be closely related to each other cannot be performed successfully by the same people, such as comedy and tragedy; you did just call these forms of imitation, didn't you? - I did.

The same people are not rhapsodes and actors. - True.

Nor are the same people actors in comedy as in tragedy. All these are forms of imitation, aren't they? - They are.

And it seems to me, Adeimantus, that we can subdivide human nature still more finely, so that it is impossible to imitate many things well, or to do the things of which the imitations are likenesses? - Very true.

So if we keep to our former argument, our guardians must set aside all other kinds of work and be whooly devoted to the work of preserving the city's freedom, and perform or imitate any other occupation that does not conduce to this end. If they imitate, they must imitate people who are fitted to this role right from childhood: brave men, self- controlled, holy, free and everything like that. They must not be clever in doing or imitating anything unworthy of them, nor anything that is disgraceful, so that they do not through imitation come to take pleasure in the reality. Or don't you see that imitations, if we persist in them from youth, form our character and our nature, both in physique and utterance and thought? - Very much so.

Then we will not allow those who we say we care for and who must themselves be good men, to imitate a woman, though they are men, whether a young woman or an old one, one abusing her husband or one taking issue with the gods and exulting in her supposed good fortune, or one immersed in disaster and grief and lamentation; a woman sick or in love or giving birth is completely out of the question. - Certainly!

Nor slaves, female or male, behaving like slaves. - No.

Nor bad man, I think, cowards who do the opposite of what we were just saying, abusing and making fun of each other and uttering obscenities, [396a] drunk or sober, or doing the other wrongs in word or deed that such people commit against themselves and others. Nor do I think they are to be allowed to liken themselves to madmen in word or deed. They must know that there are mad men and wicked men and women, but they must not do or imitate the behaviour of these people. - Very true.

What then? Are they to imitate smiths or other workmen, or rowers in triremes or their officers, or anything else of that kind? - Of course not. They are not permitted to pay attention to any of these things.

What abut horses neighing and bulls bellowing and rivers splashing and the roar of the sea and the crack thunder - will they imitate all that kind of thing? - We have already forbidden them to be mad or to liken themselves to madmen.

If I understand what you're saying, there is a kind of expression and narrative which the really good man would use to narrate, if he had to say anything; and there is another kind, quite unlike that, which the person opposite to him in nature and education would always use for his narratives. - What are these kinds?

In my view, the decent man, when he comes in his narrative to the words or action of a good man, will want to report it as if he himself were that good man, and will not be ashamed of such imitation. He will be especially prepared to imitate the good man who is secure and sane in his actions; less so, the good man tripped up by sickness, love, drink, or some other misfortune. But when he comes to a man unworthy of himself, he will not want seriously to liken himself to his own inferior, except momentarily, when he does something good; he will be ashamed; he will have had no practice in imitating such characters, and at the same time he will feel disgust at modelling himself on, and inserting himself into, the patterns of behaviour of his inferiors, who he despises in his own mind, except as a game. - Probably so.

He will therefore use the kind of narration that we described a little while ago in connection with Homer's epic. His expression will have elements both of imitation and of narrative, but with very little imitation in a long story. Am I right? - Yes: that must be the pattern of a speaker of this kind.

[397a] But consider the other kind. The worse he is, the readier he will be to imitate everything. He won't regard anything as beneath him. He will try to imitate everything, seriously and in public, even what we were speaking of just now, thunder and the noise of wind and hail, axle and pulley, the sound of trumpets, oboes, pipes, and all kinds of instruments, the cries of dogs, sheep, and birds. His expression will be entirely by means of imitation, in voice and gesture, or at most it will have a little narration in it. - Necessarily so.

These, then, are the two kinds of expression I mentioned. - That is right.

One of them has very little variation, and if one assigns the appropriate melody and rhythm to the expression, the result is that someone speaking correctly speaks in one melody (the variations being slight), and indeed more or less in the same rhythm likewise. - That is certainly so.

What about the other kind? Does it not have the opposite needs, all the melodies, and all the rhythms, if it is going to be spoken suitably, because it has all manner of variation? - Very much so.

Do not all poets, and all speakers, settle on one pattern of expression or the other, or produce some combination from them both? - Necessarily.

What shall we do, then? Shall we admit all these patterns into the city, or one or other of the unmixed ones, or the mixed one? - If my vote prevails, the imitator of the good, unmixed.

But, Adeimantus, the mixed pattern is pleasing; and by far the most pleasing to children and their attendants and to the multitude is the one that is opposite to your choice. - It is.

But perhaps you will say that it is not suitable for our state, since among us there is no one who is double or multiple, but everyone does one single thing. - It is not suitable.

So this is the only kind of city in which we will find that the cobbler is a cobbler, and not a steersman as well as a cobbler, and the farmer a farmer, and not a juryman as well as a farmer, and the soldier a soldier, and not a businessman as well as a soldier, and so on and so forth? - True.

[398a] Then suppose that a man who could make himself into anything by his own skill, and could imitate everything, arrived in our city along with his poems and wanted to give a display. It seems that we should salute him as divine, wonderful, a pleasure-giver, but say that there is no one of his sort in our city and it is not allowed that there should be; and we should therefore send him off to another city, anointing his head and giving him a garland of wool; and we should employ the more austere and unpleasing poet and story-teller, for the good he does us; he would imitate the expression of the good man and say what he has to say within the patterns for which we legislated at the beginning, when we were trying to educate the soldiers. - That is exactly what we should do, if it were in our power.

So now, my friend, perhaps we have fully completed our discussion of the art of speech and stroty-telling. We have stated what is to be said, and how it is to be said. - I agree.

Plato Republic 10

[598d] We must next consider tragedy and its leader, Homer. For we hear it said by some that tragedians know all arts, all things human, where vice and virtue are involved, and all things divine. They say the good poet, if he is to compose well on any subject, must compose with knowledge. We must therefore consider whether these people have fallen in with a set of imitators [599a] who have deceived them, and although they see their works they fail to realise that they are at a third remove from reality, and are easy to make even if you do not know the truth, that what they make are images, not realities; or whether they are right, and good poets do know the things they seem to most people to speak about well.

Plato Laws 2

[657d] So we don't we altogether dissent from the common view concerning entertainers, that the man to be regarded as most skilful and to be awarded first prize is the one who delights us most and gives us most pleasure. Since on such occasions we are permitted to amuse ourselves, the man who produces the widest and greatest pleasure must be regarded most highly and, as I said just now, carry off the prize. [658a] Don't you agree this is rightly said, and that it would be rightly done if this was what heppened? - Perhaps.

But, my friend, let us not reach such a conclusion too hastily. Let us divide the question up into parts, and consider it in this light. Suppose somebody were to arrange a competition, leaving its nature entirely open, not specifying whether it was to be gymnastic, artistic or equestrian. He gathers together all the inhabitants of the city and offers a prize, proclaiming that anyone who wishes should come and compete solely in giving pleasure; the competitor who gives the audience most pleasure, subject to constraints as to the manner, will win provided he excels in this one respect, and will be judged the most pleasing of the competitors. What do we think the result of such an announcement would be? - In what respect?

Probably, I suppose, one competitor will recite epic poetry as a rhapsode, like Homer; another will sing lyric songs; another will put on a tragedy, and another a comedy; and it will be no surprise if somebody even reckons his best chance of winning lies in putting on a puppet show. Now, which of all these competitors and the thousands of others who enter, can we say would really deserve to win? - That is a curious question. How can one give an intelligent answer without hearing them, and attending in person at the various competirors' perforamcnes?

Well, do you want me to give a curious answer to this curious question? - By all means.

Suppose the decision rests with the little children. They'll decide for the exhibitor of puppets, won't they? - Of course.

If it rests with the older children, they will choose the producer of comedies. Tragedy will be chosen by educated women, young men, and perhaps nearly the entire population. - Yes, perhaps.

We old men would probably get most pleasure from listening to a rhapsode performing the Iliad or Odyssey, or an extract from Hesiod, well, and we would say that he was the clear winner. So who would be the proper winner? That's next question, isn't it? - Yes.

Clearly you and I have to say that the proper winners would be those chosen by men of our own age. To us, from among all the customs followed in every city all over the world today, this looks like the best. - Surely.

So I agree to this limited extent with the majority view. Pleasure is indeed a proper criterion in the arts, but not the pleasure of anybody and everybody. The Muse is at her best when she delights men of high calibre and proper education, and particularly if she succeed pleases the single individual who excels in virtue and education...

Plato Laws 2

'Correctness' in such cases would I suppose in general depend on the accurate representation of the size and qualities of the original, rather than one pleasure? - Well said.

So pleasure would be the proper criterion only in the case where a work of art is produced which affords nothing by way of usefulness, truth or accurate representation (nor, of course, harm), but is produced solely for the sake of this element that normally accompanies the others: I mean charm, which one might best name 'pleasure' it is not accompanied by any of these factors. - You mean only harmless pleasure?

Yes, and it is precisely this that I call 'play', when it has no particular good or bad effect worth taking seriously or giving thought to. - You are right.

Should we conclude from what we have just said that no imitation at all should be judged by the criterion of pleasure or of opinions that or false; the same applies to any equivalence. [668a] It is not someone's opinion or what someone likes that makes equality equal or proportionality proportional; it is the truth in all these cases, and not anything else? - Certainly.

Don't we say that all art is productive of images, and is imitative? - Yes.

So when anyone says that the criterion of judgement in art is pleasure, we cannot possiblt accept his claim. It is is not that kind, should it exist at all, that we should seek out and seriously, but that which has a likeness to the imitation of what is good. - Very true.