The Poetics in its Aristotelian Context 9780367366117, 9780429347276

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The Poetics in its Aristotelian Context

This volume integrates aspects of the Poetics into the broader corpus of Aristotelian philosophy. It both deals with some old problems raised by the treatise, suggesting possible solutions through contextualization, and also identifies new ways in which poetic concepts could relate to Aristotelian philosophy. In the past, contextualization has most commonly been used by scholars in order to try to solve the meaning of difficult concepts in the Poetics (such as catharsis, mimesis, or tragic pleasure). In this volume, rather than looking to explain a specific concept, the contributors observe the concatenation of Aristotelian ideas in various treatises in order to explore some aesthetic, moral and political implications of the philosopher’s views of tragedy, comedy and related genres. Questions addressed include: Does Aristotle see his interest in drama as part of his larger research on human natures? What are the implications of tragic plots dealing with close family members for the polis? What should be the role of drama and music in the education of citizens? How does dramatic poetry relate to other arts and what are the ethical ramifications of the connections? How specific are certain emotions to literary genres and how do those connect to Aristotle’s extended account of pathe? Finally, how do internal elements of composition and language in poetry relate to other domains of Aristotelian thought? The Poetics in its Aristotelian Context offers a fascinating new insight to the Poetics, and will be of use to anyone working on the Poetics, or Aristotelian philosophy more broadly. Pierre Destrée is an Associate FNRS Research Professor of Ancient Philosophy at the University of Louvain. He has published a French translation with commentary of the Poetics, and he is the author of numerous articles on the Presocratics, Plato and Aristotle. He is the coeditor of several books, most recently: with Penelope Murray, The Blackwell Companion to Ancient Aesthetics (2015); with Zina Giannopoulou, Plato: Symposium: A Critical Guide (2017); with Radcliffe Edmonds, Plato and the Power of Images (2017); and with Franco Trivigno, Laughter, Humor and Comedy in Ancient Philosophy (2019).

Malcolm Heath is Professor of Greek Language and Literature at the University of Leeds. His publications include Interpreting Classical Texts (2002), Menander: A Rhetor in Context (2004), and Ancient Philosophical Poetics (2012). He has also translated Aristotle’s Poetics (1996). He is currently working on the place of poetry in Aristotle’s philosophical anthropology and on Longinus’s On Sublimity. Dana L. Munteanu is an Associate Professor in the Department of Classics at Ohio State University. She is the author of Tragic Pathos: Pity and Fear in Greek Philosophy and Tragedy (2012), the editor of Emotion, Genre and Gender in Classical Antiquity (2011) and the coeditor with Zara Torlone and Dorota Dutsch of A Handbook to Classical Reception in Eastern and Central Europe (2017). Her scholarly publications have concentrated on Greek drama, philosophy, and the reception of classics in opera and literature.

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Titles include: Memories of Utopia The Revision of Histories and Landscapes in Late Antiquity Edited by Bronwen Neil and Kosta Simic The Making of Identities in Athenian Oratory Edited by Jakub Filonik, Brenda Griffith-Williams and Janek Kucharski Homicide in the Attic Orators Rhetoric, Ideology, and Context Christine Plastow Underworld Gods in Ancient Greek Religion Ellie Mackin Roberts Bride of Hades to Bride of Christ The Virgin and the Otherwordly Bridegroom in Ancient Greece and Early Christian Rome Abbe Walker Intertextuality in Seneca’s Philosophical Writings Edited by Myrto Garani, Andreas Michalopoulos, Sophia Papaioannou Drama, Oratory and Thucydides in Fifth-Century Athens Teaching Imperial Lessons Sophie Mills The Poetics in its Aristotelian Context Edited by Pierre Destrée, Malcolm Heath and Dana L. Munteanu

For more information on this series, visit: https://www.routledge.com/ classicalstudies/series/RMCS

The Poetics in its Aristotelian Context

Edited by Pierre Destrée, Malcolm Heath and Dana L. Munteanu

First published 2020 by Routledge 2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN and by Routledge 52 Vanderbilt Avenue, New York, NY 10017 Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business © 2020 selection and editorial matter, Pierre Destrée, Malcolm Heath and Dana L. Munteanu; individual chapters, the contributors The right of Pierre Destrée, Malcolm Heath and Dana L. Munteanu to be identified as the authors of the editorial material, and of the authors for their individual chapters, has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered trademarks, and are used only for identification and explanation without intent to infringe. British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data A catalog record has been requested for this book ISBN: 9780367366117 (hbk) ISBN: 9780429347276 (ebk) Typeset in Times New Roman by codeMantra

Contents

List of contributors List of common abbreviations used

ix xiii



PART 1

Aristotle’s aesthetics: poetry and other arts – tradition and innovation

15



2 To kalon and the experience of art

34

H A L LVA R D J. FO S SH E I M

3 Aesthetic emotions

51

DAV I D KON S TA N

4 Was phthonos a comedic emotion for Aristotle? On the pleasure and moral psychology of laughter

66

F R A NC O V. T R I V IGNO

5 Painting as an aesthetic paradigm

88

E L SA B OUC H A R D

PART 2

Poetics, politics, and ethics: links and independence

111

6 Family bounds, political community, and tragic pathos

113

PI E R R E DE S T R É E

viii Contents

8 Varieties of characters: the better, the worse, and the like

145

DA NA L . M U N T E A N U

9 The ethical context of Poetics 5: comic error and lack of self-control 165 VA L E R I A C I NAGL I A

PART 3

Language and content: poetic puzzles in philosophical context

183





Afterword 12 Reading the Poetics in context

224

M A L C OL M H E AT H

References Index locorum Index Proper names

239 255 259 261

Contributors

Elsa Bouchard  is Associate Professor in ancient Greek language and literature at the Université de Montréal. She specializes in Greek poetic theory and the ancient reception of classical poets. She is the author of a monograph entitled Du Lycée au Musée: Théorie poétique et critique littéraire à l’époque hellénistique (Paris, 2016), as well as of articles touching on various aspects of Greek literature and its reception in ancient scholarship. Andrea Capra (Durham University) is Reader in Greek Literature. He has published widely on Plato, Aristophanes, lyric poetry, the reception of archaic epic, and the Greek novel. His work on Plato focuses on the dialogue form and emphasizes the philosophical appropriation of the poetic tradition. His books include a monograph on the Protagoras (Il Protagora di Platone tra eristica e commedia, Milan, 2001) and one on the implicit poetics of the dialogues as expressed mainly in the Phaedrus (Plato’s Four Muses: The Phaedrus and the Poetics of Philosophy, Washington DC – Cambridge MA 2014). Silvia Carli is Associate Professor of Philosophy at Skidmore College (Saratoga Springs, NY). She specializes in ancient Greek philosophy and has published articles in such journals as The Review of Metaphysics, Southern Journal of Philosophy, International Philosophical Quarterly, and Proceedings of the Boston Area Colloquium in Ancient Philosophy. Valeria Cinaglia is Honorary Research Fellow at the Department of Classics and Ancient History at University of Exeter. She has been Teaching Assistant in Exeter, King’s College London and UCL. She is the author of Aristotle and Menander on the Ethics of Understanding and various papers on Comedy, Menander, Aristotle and the reception of Greek and Roman Comedy. Thomas Cirillo is a Latin and Greek teacher at Montgomery Bell Academy in Nashville, TN. Before teaching at Montgomery Bell he received his Ph.D. in Classics from the University of Southern California with a dissertation on Aristotle’s ideas about science, classification, and multiculturalism. He also taught at USC for three years.

x Contributors Pierre Destrée  is an Associate FNRS Research Professor of Ancient Philosophy at the University of Louvain. He has published a French translation with commentary of the Poetics with Garner-Flammarion, and he is the author of numerous articles on the Presocratics, Plato, and Aristotle. He is the coeditor of several books, most recently: with Penelope Murray, The Blackwell Companion to Ancient Aesthetics (Malden, 2015); with Zina Giannopoulou, Plato’s Symposium: A Critical Guide (Cambridge, 2017); with Radcliffe Edmonds, Plato and the Power of Images (Leiden, 2017); with Franco Trivigno, Laughter, Humor and Comedy in Ancient Philosophy (Oxford, 2019). Hallvard Fossheim is Professor of Philosophy at the University of Bergen. He has published on Plato and Aristotle, focusing primarily on questions of motivation, interaction, and identity. Fossheim also has interests in virtue ethics and research ethics, as well as in questions of dialectic and dialogue. Malcolm Heath  is Professor of Greek Language and Literature at the University of Leeds. His publications include Interpreting Classical Texts (2002), Menander: a Rhetor in Context (2004), and Ancient Philosophical Poetics (2012). He has also translated Aristotle’s Poetics for Penguin Classics (1996). He is currently working on the place of poetry in Aristotle’s philosophical anthropology and on Longinus On Sublimity. David Konstan is Professor of Classics at New York University. Among his publications are Greek Comedy and Ideology; Friendship in the Classical World; Pity Transformed; The Emotions of the Ancient Greeks; Before Forgiveness: The Origins of a Moral Idea; Beauty: The Fortunes of an Ancient Greek Idea; and, most recently, In the Orbit of Love: Affection in Ancient Greece and Rome. He is a past President of the American Philological Association (now Society for Classical Studies), and a Fellow of the American Academy of Arts and Sciences and Honorary Fellow of the Australian Academy of the Humanities. Thornton Lockwood is an Associate Professor of Philosophy at Quinnipiac University. His scholarly research focuses on ancient Greek and Roman ethical and political thought, and he has published the coedited volumes Aristotle’s Politics: A Critical Guide (Cambridge, 2015) and Aristote Politique VII: La constitution « selon nos vœux » (Polis, 2019). His research on ancient thinkers such as Aeschylus, Plato, Aristotle, and Cicero has been published in journals such as Phronesis, the Journal of the History of Philosophy, Interpretation, Apeiron, Ancient Philosophy, and Archiv für Geschichte der Philosophie; he is also the Editor in Chief of Polis: The Journal for Ancient Greek and Roman Political Thought. Dana L. Munteanu is Associate Professor in the Department of Classics at Ohio State University. She is the author of Tragic Pathos: Pity and Fear in

Contributors  xi Greek Philosophy and Tragedy (Cambridge, 2012), the editor of Emotion, Genre and Gender in Classical Antiquity (London, 2011) and coeditor with Zara Torlone and Dorota Dutsch of A Handbook to Classical Reception in Eastern and Central Europe (Malden, 2017). Her scholarly publications have concentrated on Greek drama, philosophy, and the reception of classics in opera and literature. Franco V. Trivigno  is Professor of Philosophy in the Department of Philosophy, Classics, History of Art and Ideas at the University of Oslo. He is the coeditor (with Pierre Destrée) of Laughter, Humor and Comedy in Ancient Philosophy (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2019) and (with Nancy Snow) of The Philosophy and Psychology of Character and Happiness (New York: Routledge, 2014), and his recent articles include the following: “The Goodness of Death in Oedipus at Colonus,” in P. Woodruff (ed.), The Oedipus Plays of Sophocles: Philosophical Perspectives (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2018); “A Doctor’s Folly: Diagnosing the Speech of Eryximachus,” in P. Destrée and Z. Giannopoulou (eds.), Plato’s Symposium: A Critical Guide (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2017); and “The Moral and Literary Character of Hippias in the Hippias Major,” Oxford Studies in Ancient Philosophy 50 (2016).

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Common abbreviations used

Alcidamas Soph.

Concerning Sophists

Aristotle APo. APr. Ath. Pol. Cael. Cat. de An. de Se. EE EN Fr. GA GC HA IA Int. Magn. Mor. Met. Mete. PA Phys. Poet. Pol. Protr. Resp. Spir. Rhet. Top.

Posterior Analytics Prior Analytics Constitution of Athens On the Heavens Categories On the Soul On Sense Perception Eudemian Ethics Nicomachean Ethics Fragments Generation of Animals Generation and Corruption History of Animals Progression of Animals On Interpretation Great Ethics Metaphysics Meteorology Parts of Animals Physics Poetics Politics Protrepticus On Respiration On Breath Rhetoric Topics

xiv  Common abbreviations used

Aristophanes Ach. Ra. Eccl. Plu.

Acharnians Frogs Assembly Women Wealth

Demetrius De eloc. Hdt.

On Style. Herodotus, The Histories

Gorgias Hel.

Gorgias, Encomium of Helen

Homer Od.

Odyssey

Isocrates Ev.

Evagoras

Plato Grg. Lg. Phdr. Phd. Pol. Rep. Soph. Smp.

Gorgias Laws Phaedrus Phaedo Statesman Republic The Sophist Symposium

Pliny NH

Naturalis Historia

Plutarch Plu. Plutarch De gloria Ath. On the Fame of the Athenians Pericl. Life of Pericles

Thucydides Th.

Thucydides, History of the Peloponnesian War

Xenophon An. Mem. Symp.

Anabasis Memorabilia Symposium

Introduction Pierre Destrée and Dana L. Munteanu

Purpose and scope How Aristotelian is Aristotle’s Poetics – a treatise often perceived as an oddity among its author’s own works? The contributors to this volume intend both to provide some answers to this question and to invite future readers to find additional responses. Our volume seeks to integrate aspects of the Poetics into the broader Aristotelian philosophy. It will both deal with some old problems raised by the treatise, suggesting possible solutions through contextualization, and also identify new ways in which poetic concepts could relate to Aristotelian philosophy. The last collections of essays on the Poetics were those edited decades ago by A.O. Rorty, Essays on Aristotle’s Poetics (Princeton 1992), and by O. Andersen and J. Haarberg, Making Sense of Aristotle. Essays in Poetics (London 2001), but contextualization of the Poetics within Aristotle’s philosophy was not their primary focus. Despite some excellent recent editions, essays, and numerous articles written independently on the subject since then, there has not been a systematic effort to uncover the “Aristotelian elements” in the Poetics.1 In the past, contextualization has most commonly been used by scholars in order to try to solve the meaning of difficult concepts in the Poetics (such as catharsis, mimesis, or tragic pleasure).2 There is nothing wrong with this type of contextualization, which has often yielded important results, but our purpose is different. Rather than looking to explain a specific concept, we aim to observe the concatenation of Aristotelian ideas in various treatises in order to explore some aesthetic, moral, and political implications of the philosopher’s views of tragedy, comedy, and related genres. Additionally, we focus on Aristotle’s ways of thinking, arguing, and presenting ideas that are shared between different areas of Aristotle’s writings, which include engaging with his predecessors and with broader cultural matters. By doing so, we believe that we can eliminate some of the modern prejudices against Aristotle’s views on drama and illuminate certain obscure details of his poetic theory. Since it is not feasible to cover all such connections in one volume, we will present the chapters as illustrations of a necessary adjustment of approaches to the Poetics, which we intend to promote. This is a programmatic

2  Pierre Destrée and Dana L . Munteanu and not a systematic volume: as such, it cannot realistically cover all possible contextualizations. Despite the limited number of essays and necessary selectiveness of this volume, we will touch upon connections between the Poetics and several other domains which occupy a prominent place among Aristotle’s interests, such as biology, politics, and ethics. It may be useful, therefore, to try to delineate briefly how we approach these topics, especially since our modern understanding of these fields may differ from Aristotle’s perspectives, and how, sometimes, our current expectations when approaching a topic may interfere with our understanding of Aristotle’s position. Biology. Aristotle’s analogies between tragedy and biological organisms in the Poetics seem strange to us, modern readers.3 How should we interpret them? Capra’s chapter makes fruitful use of Aristotelian biology in showing similarities in Aristotle’s method of investigation of two different fields. Heath’s chapter includes a warning that “biology” in our current sense is not an Aristotelian concept and argues that anthropology has more direct relevance to Aristotle’s views about human development and interest in mimetic productions. It further suggests that we could see Aristotle’s interest in drama as part of his larger research into the form of life that is natural to human beings. Politics. We do not deal with Aristotle’s views of theatre and its relation to Athenian politics. In our opinion, nevertheless, this does not mean that Aristotle’s understanding of poetry in general, and of dramatic genres in particular, is completely devoid of political implications. What we need to further clarify is the meaning of “politics.” Modern scholars have often emphasized the role of the dramatic festivals and performances in the political life of fifth-century Athens, the political implications embedded in various tragic plays, and, more recently, the geographical spread of tragedy beyond Athens in the fourth century. In fact, Aristotle probably separated the discussion of the history of dramatic festivals, which he seems to have dealt with in lost treatises, from his analysis of the essence of poetry. Additionally, he appears little interested in performance in the Poetics.4 Several of our chapters suggest why this may be the case (e.g., Lockwood, Capra). Conversely, other aspects of Aristotle’s views on drama are concerned with matters that are political in the philosopher’s system of thought, although we may not always classify them as such. Among these, we can list the role and regulation of music and drama within the polis (Lockwood), the interactions within the family, which play a crucial role in the Aristotelian polis, and whose disintegration should be at the center of good tragic plots (Destrée), as well as the role of drama and other arts in the education and relaxation of the citizens which several essays touch upon. Ethics. The Poetics does not propose a moralistic function of poetry, which, at times, previous scholars have tried to impose on the treatise, desiring a forceful response to Plato’s critique of dramatic poetry. And yet, this does not mean that there are no ethical implications in Aristotle’s description of dramatic genres. We explore some possible connections between the

Introduction  3 Poetics and Aristotelian ethical treatises (Cinaglia, Munteanu) as well as discussing some moral caveats which performances of comedy and playing certain musical instruments carry for audiences in the Politics (Lockwood). Logic. The description of lexis in the Poetics can find fascinating correspondences not only in the Rhetoric, which has been noted, but also in Aristotle’s logical treatises. Heath’s final essay draws attention to R. McKirahan’s pioneering article (Apeiron 43: 2010) on this subject. More in depth, Cirillo’s essay links the Poetics to Aristotle’s Categories to illuminate the use of metaphor in poetic genres. While our volume addresses the subject only in brief, we recognize this to be a promising area of research, worthy of future development. Engagement with predecessors and with broader cultural matters. Aristotle’s methods of thinking typically presuppose engaging with previous thinkers and with broader cultural matters. Fossheim’s and Trivigno’s essays illustrate well this aspect of contextualization, showing how Aristotle’s response to Platonic views often reframes the subject of discussion in a completely original manner. How, for Aristotle, philosophy, poetry, and history share in “the universal” becomes clear only if we connect the brief statement in the Poetics to other treatises (Carli). A fruitful area of investigation for our volume is, we think, the examination of Aristotle’s understanding of poetry in relation to other arts, particularly visual arts and music in various treatises (Bouchard, Lockwood), the meaning of artistic beauty (Fossheim), representation of comic and tragic characters (Munteanu), and representation of comic and tragic emotions (Trivigno, Konstan). Our styles in tackling contextualization vary. Some essays start with a broad survey of the Aristotelian corpus in order to zoom in and illuminate details of the Poetics that may be misunderstood, if they are taken out of context (e.g., Carli); others start with a puzzling aspect of the Poetics, zooming out in order to elucidate it in a larger context (e.g., Cinaglia, Trivigno). Most chapters observe or try to recover thematic correspondences among different facets of Aristotelian thought.

Background: a brief history of reception of the Poetics The Poetics occupies an unusual place both in Aristotle’s works, as we have inherited them, and in current scholarship. Unlike most other treatises, such as the Physics, Metaphysics, or the Nicomachean Ethics, the Poetics never found any scholar to write its commentary before being rediscovered in the Italian Renaissance. One other example of this sort is the Politics, which also almost disappeared until the late medieval period. Perhaps the apparent lack of interest in these two treatises from ancient commentators, from Aspasius to Philoponus, may have a common explanation. In both cases, Aristotle presents his views on subjects that seemed no longer to have been relevant: the classical Greek polis had disappeared and classical tragedy had ceased to be performed. Conversely, the Physics and the Ethics were

4  Pierre Destrée and Dana L . Munteanu still considered to be sources of wisdom, because they dealt with supposedly perennial topics. But, if the Politics was aimed at instructing future legislators or politicians, what direct use would the Politics offer to thinkers who wanted to reflect on their own political situation? From this viewpoint, it is not surprising that the treatise did not stir much interest after Aristotle’s death and the end of the Greek polis. Similarly, if the Poetics was seen as a sort of teaching manual addressed to would-be poets, it probably lost its appeal to later readers and, therefore, fell into temporary oblivion.5 From the late Middle Ages on, however, the Politics has been the object of various and multi-layered rediscoveries. Even though Albert the Great and Thomas Aquinas wrote commentaries on Aristotle’s Politics, which started a tradition of analysis, and, from a different perspective, Machiavelli meditated on its famous book 5 (on how to maintain bad regimes), the treatise was often disparaged by others, most notably by Bodin and Hobbes, for appearing obsolete.6 Here again, the fate of the Poetics seems to have been quite similar. This treatise also enjoyed an enthusiastic rediscovery from the fourteenth century on, first in Italy and then in the rest of Europe. Lessing still considered it to be an inspiring work before it was vehemently rejected during the Romantic period.7 Yet, despite sharing a similar fate to an extent, the reception of the two works has diverged in modern times. If the Politics has continued to be seen as an important work by philosophers and is still very popular in political science departments nowadays,8 the Poetics has become little by little a relatively marginal work in philosophical research, even in the scholarship on Aristotle. The objections to the treatise are diverse, as we shall see, but most stem from regarding the Poetics as an isolated work. It seems isolated with respect to its philosophical background, as not even Plato is explicitly cited. It can rarely be linked directly to other Aristotelian works.9 To be sure, the Poetics continues to be studied in classics departments. In particular, it is noteworthy that the Poetics is the treatise that, of all the Aristotelian works, has received the most numerous scholarly editions and translations; philological scholarship continues to produce some very fruitful scholarly works.10 And yet, the classicists and theater historians often appear to be irritated by Aristotle’s apparently idiosyncratic views: the Poetics is regularly criticized for failing to provide us with a better understanding of classical tragedy and epic. A first common complaint about the Poetics is that it lacks a “proper” defense of poetry against Plato’s accusations. The question of how Aristotle responds to Plato’s critique of poetry has obsessively preoccupied scholars and intellectuals. Susan Sontag, for example, prefaces her famous essay “Against Interpretation” with a brief history of art theory, which originates, in her view, with the Platonic ideas about mimesis: For Plato, art is neither particularly useful (the painting of a bed is no good to sleep on), nor, in a strict sense, true. And Aristotle’s arguments in defense of art do not really challenge Plato’s view that all art is an

Introduction  5 elaborate trompe l’oeil, and therefore a lie. But he does dispute Plato’s idea that art is useless. Lie or no, art has a certain value according to Aristotle, because it is a form of therapy. (Sontag 2007, 740) Sontag continues with an objection to Plato’s mimetic theory which assumes that literature and visual arts should be imitative, although we know they could also be abstract and subjective. However, she concludes: “from now to the end of consciousness, we are stuck with the task of defending art” (ibid.). It would be beside the point to discuss here Sontag’s oversimplification of the subject matter.11 What we want to draw attention to is Aristotle’s presumed failure to defend art, particularly poetic art, against Platonic accusations. To be sure, many scholars have tried to find a way to reconstruct what Aristotle’s answer to Plato might have been. Several have focused on catharsis in the definition of tragedy (Poet. 6.1449b24–8) as a subtle reply to Plato, interpreted either as a purification of tragic emotions or as an intellectual clarification of what those emotions convey regarding the tragic human condition.12 But whatever Aristotle may have meant by using the term once in the treatise,13 the importance we have conferred on it may reflect our tantalizing desire to see a clear response to Plato. Thus, perhaps Aristotle’s silence both about the meaning of catharsis and regarding Plato’s views about poetry might have a simple explanation: the Poetics is a treatise that focuses mainly on the intrinsic value of dramatic and epic poetry. Several scholars have rightly pointed out that generally Aristotle’s interests and methods differ from Plato’s.14 It should not be surprising, therefore, that the Poetics does not directly address Platonic concerns. Nevertheless, the expectation persists: Aristotle should have responded in the Poetics more precisely than he did to Plato’s accusations against tragedy. But why must that be so? Is this assumption reasonable? Contextualization can help us put matters in perspective in this case. Let us take as a point of comparison Plato’s critique of rhetoric and Aristotle’s subsequent treatment of the same subject. According to Plato’s Gorgias, for example, rhetoric has no concern for the truth and, therefore, no real substance. If persuasion represents its goal, it still lacks expertise, so skilled people with knowledge in various other fields ought to be more persuasive than rhetoricians. And yet, practitioners of rhetoric mesmerize their audience, leading them into false beliefs, no less than poets do. Certain similarities between poetry and rhetoric have been well noted in the Platonic dialogues:15 both can lack concern for truth, are able to manipulate their listeners, and raise moral questions. How does Aristotle in his Rhetoric reply to Plato’s views?16 He defines the subject and explores the methods most conducive to persuasive speech, with little interest in morally defending oratory.17 Occasionally, Aristotle may acknowledge, or even agree with a Platonic point,18 but, generally, he completely shifts the focus of his investigation. This is comparable to the Poetics, in which

6  Pierre Destrée and Dana L . Munteanu Aristotle demarcates the topic of exploration differently from Plato. His analysis concentrates on the features that make tragedies most successful in his opinion, reaching conclusions about plot and character that presuppose an ethically competent audience. Yet, our modern views on Aristotle’s approach to each subject appear to be quite dissimilar. While we readily accept both Plato’s critique of rhetoric,19 and, consequently, Aristotle’s independent treatment of this subject, we often continue to deplore the same state of affairs regarding poetry. This, then, may be “our” problem, deriving from a romanticized idea about literature’s immunity to certain kinds of criticism. From a Romantic perspective, poets are inspired and do not need rigid rules to follow in their creations.20 Aristotle, therefore, should not have been preoccupied with compositional criteria for drama. Because we perceive the Platonic censure of epic and tragedy as unfair, we expect Aristotle to have reacted to it; conversely, since we consider the Platonic treatment of rhetoric to be reasonable, we do not presume the necessity of an Aristotelian riposte. Yet, our way of thinking has little to do with Aristotle’s here. In fact, concentrating on a topic from a completely different perspective is in itself an answer to the Platonic philosophy, and one that is typically Aristotelian. Thus, instead of explaining why artistic mimesis should be considered valuable, in direct dialogue with Plato’s Republic, Aristotle notes that mimesis describes a useful biological process by which we learn from infancy in the Poetics 4.21 Aristotle’s emphasis on how tragedy should best arouse pity and fear remains at odds with Plato’s concerns about the tragic emotions, even if we have no explicit critique of the Platonic position.22 Apart from Plato, however, what does the Poetics have to do with the rest of Aristotle’s work? If the Poetics deals with the intrinsic value of poetry and with the best techniques that produce it, one should not necessarily take the treatise as addressing the would-be poet, as many Renaissance readers did. The Poetics can be seen primarily as a coherent, substantive, and reasoned (that is philosophical) investigation about how dramatic poetry could best achieve its goal. In this respect, the Poetics does not seem much different methodologically from the Ethics or the Politics, which are normative treatises: they do not describe an existing state of things. Instead, they suggest how certain features should be best implemented for the best results. In the Politics, an ideal city is supposed to work as a proposed paradigm; in the Poetics, a paradigmatic model of best tragedies is constructed from Aristotle’s principles. But if the Ethics and the Politics could be taken to have a practical purpose, as treatises addressed to future legislators, the Poetics does not appear primarily intended for would-be poets.23 One of the aims of the Poetics appears to have been to guide people towards a better understanding and appreciation of dramatic poetry.24 If this is the case, why should the Poetics reflect how tragedy was performed and received in the fifth- and fourth-century Athens? And here comes the second major complaint about the treatise in our times.

Introduction  7 Many classicists tend to reproach Aristotle for appearing blind to historical reality and unaware of the importance of the tragic theater for Athenian politics and festivals, subjects on which the Poetics has, indeed, little to say.25 As we have briefly suggested earlier, some of our areas of research may have seemed to Aristotle self-evident (e.g., the link between tragedy and democratic Athenian institutions), or outside the scope of his investigation in the Poetics, though of interest elsewhere (e.g., in treatises now lost), or not as clearly worth mentioning as they seem to us.26 From Aristotle’s own perspective, the inquiry into the art of poetry is philosophical, and the philosopher, therefore, adopts his own unique standpoints, as he does in his other treatises. There may be other explanations for why Aristotle does not reflect on the links between tragedy and Athenian democracy. This may have nothing to do with his being a non-citizen in Athens or with any such circumstantial consideration. As Aristotle himself emphasizes in the Poetics (4.1448b4–24), poetry is a natural phenomenon from the perspective both of the producer and of the consumer. Furthermore, in his Politics, Aristotle is rather critical of “democracy,” which amounts to a bad political system (e.g., 3.1279a–1280a). Thus, it would have been odd for him to highlight links between tragedy and democracy. There is an additional modern irritation with Aristotle’s relative disinterest in aspects of the performance of Greek tragedy (for example, role of the chorus, critique of visual effects), although there is forgiveness for Plato’s lack of concern for the same subjects. Presumably, we consider the Platonic silence justified because Plato finds drama indecorous and seems to have no particular reason to discuss the practicalities of staging. Conversely, Aristotle’s silence regarding such matters seems unpardonable to many, since he speaks of tragedy with admiration but in a manner that does not match our interests. But Aristotle wrote primarily as a philosopher who finds the essence of tragedy in the plot itself in the Poetics, which when it is well composed could be compelling even if only read (26.1462a11–12), and thus performance becomes an aspect of lesser importance in his analysis. This should not surprise us since the Poetics is a treatise on the art of poetry, that is the art of composing (i.e. writing) poetry. When Aristotle notes, for example, that spectacle is atechnotaton (6.1460b16–17), he probably does not mean, as classicists often interpret it, that it was “the least artistic thing” generally speaking, but he implies that opsis is something that least belongs to the particular technē of writing poetry.27 More importantly, this distinction reflects a specifically Aristotelian way of thinking: to each subject one technē, understood as a capability to create, involving reasoning (EN 6.1140a9–10). Thus, Aristotle’s philosophical method can explain why he did not pay much attention to particular performances and staging. Here again, then, reading the Poetics in isolation from Aristotle’s philosophical method and principles can lead to misunderstandings that are detrimental to a balanced appreciation of his approach.

8  Pierre Destrée and Dana L . Munteanu

Structure The essays in this volume offer ways of understanding various themes that appear in the Poetics as embedded, in one way or another, in Aristotle’s broader work. The Poetics must be read in the context of Aristotle’s philosophy – this is the guideline that all our contributors share despite their differences in emphasis and despite their occasional divergences on specific points. Part 1. Aristotle’s aesthetics: poetry and other arts – tradition and innovation Aristotle did not have a specific word for “aesthetic,” nor did any other Greek writer. Nevertheless, the lack of terminology did not prevent the philosopher from accessing and appreciating aesthetic experiences. In his opinion, poetic and artistic creations can be valued in themselves, grouped together with other types of contemplation. As Aristotle says in the Protrepticus (B44), we go to the Olympian festival for the sake of the spectacle, even if nothing else might come of it – for contemplation (theôria) itself is more valuable than money, and, just as we go to contemplate (theôroumen) at the festival of Dionysus not in order that we will gain anything from the actors (in fact, we pay to see them), so too the theôria of the universe must be honored above all things. Likewise, in the Politics (8.1339a11–26), he does not hesitate to advocate listening to music “for the sake of leisure.” But are these occasional observations, which seem to anticipate some of our modern views of “aesthetic experience,” relevant to the Poetics and to other treatises by Aristotle? What is specific to the Aristotelian views? These questions are addressed in the first part of our volume, which is focused on aesthetic principles. We modern scholars take aesthetics to be part of the humanities, and, therefore, have the tendency to read the Poetics from that perspective. However, as Andrea Capra argues in “Poetry and biology: the anatomy of tragedy,” the field of aesthetics ought not to be separated from Aristotle’s biological interests. Explicit and implicit parallels between crucial passages from the Poetics such as the examination of poetic plot (muthos), the account of the development of tragedy and comedy, and Aristotle’s observations regarding dead bodies of animals can help us understand the Poetics in relation to Aristotelian “scientific,” quasi-biological pursuits. This broader interest in human experiences fits the theme of the second essay, dealing with to kalon (which means “fine” and can denote either morally good, or functionally good, or beautiful). As Hallvard J. Fossheim shows in “To kalon and the experience of art,” while Plato asks whether the object of

Introduction  9 mimesis is kalon, Aristotle focuses his attention on whether the production of mimesis is kalon. What concerns the philosopher in the Poetics is not the moral value of such and such mimesis per se, but whether it can accomplish its function properly or not. Aristotle makes his case for the importance of muthos because in his view it can best evoke emotions. But what exactly are those emotions when they pertain to aesthetic mimesis? One may think that, contrary to the emotions felt in the real world, which are treated in the Rhetoric, the tragic pity and fear we experience when we witness events that we know are not real would be partial or inhibited emotions. However, as David Konstan argues in “Aesthetic emotions,” the pity and fear are real, but they respond to the kind of object that is uniquely represented in a work of art. The two emotions are aesthetic because, while tragedy imitates frightening and pitiable events that may occur in life, it distils them to their essence as mimetic actions that are complete and concentrated so as to be perceptible as a whole. If tragedy has to arouse typical emotions in the audience, what about comedy and its emotions? In what we have from the Poetics (as well as from other Aristotelian works), Aristotle never answers that kind of question. However, since comedy and tragedy are constantly compared, it is legitimate to seek parallels in this regard. In “Was Phthonos a comedic emotion for Aristotle?” Franco V. Trivigno argues that phthonos, a word that can include both our notions of “envy” and “malice,” must have been essential for Aristotle’s account of comedy. Given that the painful phthonos is felt by the audience for the characters on stage for their initial (or expected) good fortune, the pleasure of laughter is the result of having a desire for the comic target to lose his or her good fortune or to experience bad fortune. Aristotle’s (reconstructed) account can be linked to a famous passage in Plato’s Philebus, but contrary to the Platonic views, the comedic experience neutralizes, rather than indulges and strengthens the audience’s phthonos. If biology may be considered a sort of Aristotelian background for aesthetic ideas, interpreters have often underlined the importance of the numerous comparisons between poetry and painting in the Poetics. Elsa Bouchard argues, in “Painting as an aesthetic paradigm,” that visual arts, on which several treatises already existed, provided Aristotle with a model. The Greeks understood painting in a manner different from our modern definition, namely as an embodiment of a correspondence between art and the living subjects it represents. The paradigm of the visual arts and the biological models appears thus to be closely interrelated. Part 2. Poetics, politics, and ethics: links and independence Although the Poetics does not deal primarily with the role of tragedy in the education and formation of the young citizens, which preoccupied Plato, it nevertheless resonates with some of the themes that Aristotle explores in his Politics and Ethics. Our second part aims at exploring interactions between

10  Pierre Destrée and Dana L . Munteanu Aristotle’s poetical theory and his political and moral ideas from several different angles. Classicists have sometimes reproached Aristotle for being oblivious to any political implications that we do find in Greek tragedies. In a frequently cited paper, “Is there a polis in Aristotle’s poetics?” Edith Hall has written that Aristotle separated drama from its civic origins, and that he “conceptually depoliticized tragedy” (Hall 1996, 306). The first two papers in this section address this problem directly, offering different possible answers to Hall’s provocative argument. In “Family bounds, political community, and tragic pathos,” Pierre Destrée argues that the way Aristotle presents his claim for the “finest tragedy” is (if implicitly) embedded in some of his own, most central, political views. For, if in Poetics 14 Aristotle insists in such a univocal way on the importance of the familial love, philia, which is the raison d’être of tragic pathos, it is because he holds the family to be the basic, fundamental institution in the polis. Thus, staging a mother killing her son, or a son killing his mother or his father, or brothers and sisters killing one another, deeply reflects the destruction of the fabric of the polis. Thornton Lockwood’s “Is There a poetics in the politics?” offers another answer to Hall’s question. He emphasizes that a central connection between the Poetics and the Politics is their shared concern about the effects of performance. The problem of Aristotle’s silence about tragedy in his account of education in Politics 8 is explicable on the basis of a principle of the Poetics, namely that drama can produce its function independent of the public performances. Politics 8 displaces tragedy as the pre-eminent form of public education liberally educated citizen and, in its place, it supplies instrumental music. The next two essays concentrate on some possible ethical implications of literary genres. In “Varieties of characters: the better, the worse, and the like,” Dana L. Munteanu deals with the difficult question of the status and significance of characters, looking at their descriptions in various arts (painting, drama, and music) and genres (comedy and tragedy) comparatively, and at differences within the same genre (more idealized vs realistic characters). The morality of both tragic and comic characters appears to revolve around limited circumstances, and the tragic genre can further be related to ethical action, specifically to acting because of ignorance but not in ignorance (Nicomachean Ethics 3.1110b25). Aristotle emphasizes in the Politics some dangers of the lower genres for the education of the very young, but he does not explain in equal detail the specific moral benefits of the nobler genres. If the opposition between the mimesis of the actions of the “noble” and that of the “base” people is constitutive of the distinction between tragedy and comedy, these two genres share the idea that a form of error or mistake (hamartia, or hamartēma) is at the core of their respective muthos. In “The ethical context of comedy: comic error and lack of self-control,” Valeria

Introduction  11 Cinaglia, starting from a reading of the concept of comic error in Poetics 5, suggests that that there might be one kind of ethical mistake that is particularly suitable to Aristotle’s definition of comic hamartēma, that is the ethical lapse typical of the person “who lacks self-control” (akratēs). Part 3. Language and content: poetic puzzles in philosophical context This section deals with the hierarchies among different types of narratives that Aristotle establishes, on the basis of their content and stylistic variation. Specifically, the contributors examine the value embedded in metaphors and the importance ascribed to the ability of various genres to relate to the “universal” or the “particulars.” In “Taxonomic flexibility: metaphor, genos, and eidos,” Thomas Cirillo argues that all types of metaphor described in the Poetics by Aristotle appear to be modeled on the genus-species system of taxonomic classification developed in the Categories. The taxonomic backdrop of metaphors provides these figures of speech with a logical clarity that makes them intelligible at a cognitive level. Yet, at the same time, the free association of notions in well-conceived metaphors enables the composition of vivid expressions that bring the action of the drama before the eyes of the audience in a fresh and daring way. In Poetics 9, Aristotle famously says that poetry is more serious and philosophical than history without providing further explanations. In “Poetry and historia,” Silvia Carli offers an extensive review of the concept of historia in Aristotle’s corpus and compares it to dramatic poetry based on the concept of causality. She argues that history can certainly be written without interest in the causal relationship between events, but it can also be conceived, as Thucydides did, as a type of narrative in which causality plays a central role. In this latter case, then, history comes closer to the philosophical nature of poetry. Our final chapter, an afterword by Malcolm Heath, reviews the merits and limitations of the previous scholarship on contextualization. While noticing that, overall, the Poetics has been discussed in isolation, Heath points to some occasional contextual approaches. In doing so, he warns against importing concepts from other treatises to apply them uncritically to the Poetics, since Aristotle himself recognizes the relative autonomy of various fields of investigation, so, for example, politics, poetics, and metaphysics. Heath proposes some new horizons of linking the Poetics to Aristotle’s philosophy. We do not intend to give the final verdict on the subject but, rather, to provide an open invitation to reconsider the Poetics as part of Aristotelian thought, which can continue to produce robust debates and a fruitful scholarly line of interpretation. Our volume, we hope, will open the path in this direction.

12  Pierre Destrée and Dana L . Munteanu

Notes

Introduction  13

















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Part 1

Aristotle’s aesthetics Poetry and other arts – tradition and innovation

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1

Poetry and biology The anatomy of tragedy Andrea Capra

The Poetics may look like “un bloc erratique,” as Victor Goldshmidt once called it.1 In part, this depends on its strange isolation within the corpus, in that the Poetics, as we shall see, is not served by the abundant cross-references that help situate other works. To make things worse, in antiquity the Poetics was never the subject of a commentary, while Aristotle’s other works devoted to poetry were soon lost. By contrast, in modern times the relentless proliferation of non-philosophical readings has famously turned the Poetics into a handbook for playwrights or, more recently, into a historical/ critical essay of sorts, thus severing it from Aristotle’s philosophical project. This complicated background has prompted a widespread “humanistic” approach to the Poetics, with a focus on Rhetoric and, more recently, on Politics and on the Ethics.2 While emphasizing the relevance of these works to certain aspects of the Poetics, this chapter circumscribes their explanatory power. Unlike tragedy’s lesser constituents discussed in Poetics 6, Aristotle’s innovative notion of muthos, i.e. what is truly specific of poetry, proves to be hardly at home in the more “humanistic” areas of Aristotle’s thought. In search of an alternative path, I unravel the pre-Aristotelian premises that tacitly underlie what Malcolm Heath calls Aristotle’s “natural history of poetry.”3 Moreover, I survey certain templates of reasoning shared by Aristotelian poetics and biology, whose scientific twist, I argue, entails an unnoticed reference to Plato’s notion of poetic muthos, which in the course of Poetics comes to be superseded. In sum, this chapter advances a novel two-level model, whereby the “lower” parts of the poetic art confirm the expected “humanistic” affiliation, whereas its pinnacle, namely the new notion of muthos, turns out to be closely parallel Aristotle’s biological thinking.4

1.1 The isolation of the Poetics Aristotle is usually fond of pointing to other works of his, thus creating a rich network of cross-references that help situate a given work within his “encyclopedia.”5 However, this is not the case with the Poetics: surprisingly,

18  Andrea Capra no general preface orientates the reader,6 and references to Aristotle’s other works are few and frustratingly elusive. Let me briefly review them:7 1

2

3

4

I shall discuss epic mimesis and comedy later (hysteron eroumen). But let us deal with tragedy by taking up the definition of its essential nature which arises out of the things that have so far been said (ek tōn eirēmenōn). Tragedy, then, is a representation of an action which is serious and complete, and of a certain magnitude – in language which is garnished in various forms in its different parts – in the mode of dramatic enactment, not narrative – and through the arousal of pity and fear effecting (perainousa) the catharsis of such emotions. (Poet. 6.1449b21–8) In addition to observing these points the poet must guard against contraventions of the perceptions which necessarily attach to poetic art, since there are many ways of making mistakes in relation to these. But I have discussed these matters adequately in my published writings (en tois ekdedomenois logois). (Poet. 15.1454b15–18) Having discussed the other elements, it remains for me to discuss style and thought. The details of thought can be left to my discourses on rhetoric (en tois peri rhētorikēs keisthō), since they belong more integrally to that subject. Thought pertains to all those effects which must be produced by the spoken language; its functions are demonstration; refutation; the arousal of emotions such as pity, fear, anger, and such like; and arguing for the importance or unimportance of things. (Poet. 19.1456a33–b2) These sounds are distinguishable by the shape of the mouth; the points of contact; the presence or absence of the aspirate, length, and shortness; and pitch-accent (acute, grave, or intermediate): detailed consideration of all these points belongs to works on meter (en tois metrikois prosēkei theōrein). (Poet. 20.1456b31–4)

Point 1 is a familiar and notorious riddle: by and large, the controversy about the existence of a second book of the Poetics stems from these words.8 Whatever we make of modern attempts at reconstructing it, no extant work of Aristotle corresponds to this reference, which in any case would be an internal one, pointing to another section of the Poetics itself. Point 2 is also tricky, but most scholars construe Aristotle’s words as a reference to his lost dialogue About the Poets. In the entire corpus, this is the only instance of the expression “published works” (ekdedomenoi logoi).9 However, the expression is found in a letter that Aristotle allegedly wrote to Alexander, containing the famous reference to his akroamatic writings and the distinction between published and unpublished works (Sixth Epistle). Point 3 is the clearest: this is an unequivocal reference to the Rhetoric, and I shall discuss it later. Point 4, however, is very dubious. Aristotle’s words are vague10: they may refer to metrical matters or, as Stephen Halliwell translates them, to works

Poetry and biology: the anatomy of tragedy  19 11

on meter. But even if that were the case, it would be by no means certain Aristotle’s reference should point to his own works. At any rate, we know nothing about metrical writings by Aristotle. All in all, we are left with a single reference to another known work, and this is the Rhetoric. Let me note that the preference given to this work is, so to say, reciprocated, in that the Rhetoric features no fewer than five references to the Poetics.12 First, Aristotle claims he has addressed the issue of laughter in the Poetics (Rhet. 1.11.1372a1–3); second, he has also discussed style (lexis) there, albeit partially (Rhet. 3.1.1404a37–9); third, he refers to nouns as a part of style he has discussed in the Poetics (Rhet. 3.2.1404b5–8); fourth, he mentions metaphors as a subject more pertinent to the Poetics (Rhet. 3.2.1405a3–6); fifth and last, he touches again on laughter and its divisions, which he claims he has discussed in the Poetics. The two references to laughter, of course, throw further fuel on the argument about the second book of the Poetics. The other references tell us that style is something shared by poetry and rhetoric. This may not seem very helpful, but together with Aristotle’s citation of the Rhetoric in the Poetics, they may help pinpoint the specificity of poetry against speech as such: I will return to that later. Apart from the five references in the Rhetoric, Aristotle cites the Poetics only another time, in an important passage towards the end of the Politics (8.7.1341b32–45). Once again, the reference is baffling. Aristotle promises a clear discussion of catharsis in the Poetics, which is precisely what nobody has ever managed to find there.13

1.2 The Politics Perhaps unsurprisingly, my survey results in a rather poor conclusion. Unless something can be made of Aristotle’s baffling promise in the Politics, all we learn is that thought (dianoia) and style (lexis) are common to poetry and speech: hardly a great achievement. The Poetics is in fact, at least prima facie, an isolated work. At best, the Poetics shares with the Rhetoric a reciprocal, if rather poor, consonance,14 but today hardly anyone would subscribe to Süß’s idea that Aristotle’s Poetics is “eine Ergänzung der Rhetoric.”15 What about the Politics, though? Does the Poetics “reciprocate”? The Poetics never mentions the Politics, so the answer should be in the negative. However, one interesting way to tackle the isolation of the Poetics lies precisely in an attempt to show that the Poetics, after all, does refer to the Politics. Let us get back to the catharsis passage, point 1 above. A few years ago, Pierluigi Donini has argued that this passage refers back to the Politics, which would provide the required “reciprocal” link to that work.16 In the light of a number of good parallels, Donini interprets the participle perainousa as meaning “to complete” rather than “to effect” and argues that in fact tragedy “completes” the musical catharsis as described in the Politics.

20  Andrea Capra Thus, he construes “the things that have been said” as a reference to the discussion of catharsis found in the Politics. Donini argues that this work discusses the educational benefits of catharsis at an early age, so that tragedy can be construed as the crowning touch, the mature counterpart of that educational process. The emphasis is on the intellectual force of tragedy, and on the understanding that it requires from both audiences and readers. All of a sudden, this conclusion would break up the isolation of the Poetics, and poetry would return to be a social and political phenomenon, only at a more advanced and elitist level. Donini’s solution is very tempting, as it would solve many thorny problems related to catharsis. Nevertheless, I think the temptation should be resisted. I will not get into general problems such as the role of catharsis in the Politics, where the notion is first introduced as a therapy to cure abnormal emotions and is distinguished from mathēsis (8.6.1341a21–4). I will limit myself to a remark about the expression found in the Poetics, namely “the things that have been said” (ek tōn eirēmenōn). At a formal level, a TLG survey of the almost 100 instances of this quasi-formulaic expression in Aristotle’s works would show that it refers to something found in the proximities of the text, within the same work, as is immediately clear in the two other instances found in the Poetics (9.1451a36 and 26.1461b24–5).17 This seriously undermines Donini’s otherwise attractive interpretation. For my present purposes, it is safer to look elsewhere for links to other works of the corpus.

1.3 The six parts of tragedy Despite the lack of explicit links to other works or to Aristotle’s philosophical project, Chapter 6, with its division of tragedy into its constitutive parts, offers a kind of “second sailing”, in the form of a few semi-explicit indications as to the place of the Poetics within Aristotle’s encyclopedia. Let us review tragedy’s six parts18: So then, tragedy as a whole must have six elements which make it what it is: they are plot-structure (muthos), character (ēthē), style (lexis), thought (dianoia), spectacle (opsis), song (melopoiia). (Poet. 6.1450a9–11) To begin from the last and least important elements, one may claim that spectacle and song, at least potentially, can be read against Aristotle’s psychology: for example, one would expect some reference to phantasia, be it from the point of view of the poet who “brings plots before his eyes” (Poet. 17.1455a23–4) or from the standpoint of the readers, who presumably “process” poetry through visual as well as intellectual patterns. And yet Aristotle never mentions phantasia in the Poetics. What is more, when it comes to these two parts of tragedy Aristotle seems to make them, albeit in

Poetry and biology: the anatomy of tragedy  21 different degrees, external to poetics.19 Song and spectacle, then, provide no clear indication as to the place of the Poetics. Style and thought pop up in reverse order a few lines later, which makes them a whole of sorts. Both are crucially interwoven with rhetoric: as we have seen, in the Poetics Aristotle tells us that the “details of thought” are discussed in the Rhetoric, whereas in the Rhetoric he says that many aspects of style, such as metaphors and names, are discussed in the Poetics. Style and thought have to do with both poetry and prose, and this is why they feature in Aristotle’s two relevant works. The connection with the Rhetoric, then, ranges from explicit to quasi-explicit. To this rather obvious fact, one may add that the couple formed by thought and style in the middle of Aristotle’s list points to an implicit anti-Platonic tenet.20 As we hear in the Gorgias, poetry is in fact garnished speech. If one were to strip tragedy of its spectacular and musical garnishing, “naked” poetry would prove to be nothing more than speech (Grg. 502c). But Aristotle’s “style”, at least in part, is integral to poetry regardless of its garnishing, the most obvious example being metaphors, which are specific and intrinsic to poetry. Character, “the element which reveals the nature of a moral choice,” has an obvious counterpart in Aristotle’s ethical works as well as in the Politics, given that the relationship of the latter with the Ethics, although notoriously complicated, is very strong. Let us not forget, moreover, the importance of the ethical and political dimension of thought. As one critic puts it, “in the Nicomachean Ethics the distinction between ethos and dianoia is central to Aristotle’s theory and plays a structural role in its elaboration.”21 Thought is also political in character, given that – so runs Aristotle’s definition – “thought is the capacity to produce pertinent and appropriate arguments, which is the task in prose speeches of the arts of politics and rhetoric” (Poet. 6.1450b5–7). This amounts to a semi-explicit reference to the Politics and the Rhetoric.

1.4 Ethics, rhetoric, and politics: poetry and the endoxa Before addressing muthos, the first and far most important part of tragedy, let us pause for a moment. As we have seen, the second, third, and fourth most important parts of tragedy provide (semi-)explicit links to Rhetoric, Politics, and the Ethics. A similar conclusion emerges from another crucial constituent of tragedy: as Dana L. Munteanu has argued, tragedy’s oikeia hēdonē is best explained through pleasure as discussed in Nicomachean Ethics 10 and through memory and mourning as discussed in the Rhetoric.22 By and large, all of this points to what can be construed as the area of the “humanities” within Aristotle’s encyclopedia. This humanistic “affiliation” of poetry is of course natural for us moderns and to some extent it holds for Aristotle too,23 especially at a time when “a view of Aristotle as a hard-core empiricist has given way to a picture of a humanist who is attuned to the nuances of his cultural milieu.”24 To what extent, though?

22  Andrea Capra At first sight, such an “affiliation” may be confirmed by examining the role of poetry in Aristotle’s rhetorical, political, and ethical works. Quotations from poetry and from poetic plots are ubiquitous and of paramount importance: poetry can be seen as the product of wise men but, more importantly, is consistent with common sense. In other words, poems, “almost invariably stripped of their performative context,”25 are seen as a vivid digest of endoxa, and as such they play a crucial dialectical role in any practical argument.26 As a consequence, most of the issues discussed in the ethical, rhetorical, and political works can be hardly conceived of outside the frame of poetry. Poetry, then, works as a kind of vivid repository of common sense, refined through the centuries. Far from being a shortcoming, this feature makes poetry a shortcut to endoxa: an invaluable dialectical tool, then. This being the case, one may begin to doubt that such an approach to poetry can be always construed as humanistic in our sense, and yet no conclusion is possible before we analyze the top item in Aristotle’s list, namely muthos. Before we touch on the new meaning that this word is given in the Poetics, it may be useful to remark how Aristotle uses the word to attack other figures of the Greek tradition. In the Generation of Animals he claims that “even the fishermen repeat the same simple tale, so much noised abroad, as does Herodotus the mythologist (muthologos), as if fish were conceived by the mother’s swallowing the milt” (GA 3.5.756b5–8). Here, as in many other cases, Aristotle uses myth as a polemical weapon, much like the historians themselves when they attack the poets.27 Remarkably, this usage of the word muthos and of its cognates is by far the commonest in Aristotle’s works other than the Poetics, and even the famous passage of the Metaphysics (A 2.982b11–21) where Aristotle suggests that “lovers of myths” are in a way philosophers can be seen in this light: qua mysterious and marvelous, myth fuels curiosity and urges people to ask questions and solve problems. In other words, myth is good to the extent that philosophers can supersede it and explain it away, as is the case in the passage from the Generation of Animals. To summarize: tragedy is the most important form of poetry, and muthos is the most important part of tragedy. And yet muthos does not mean “myth,” as elsewhere in Aristotle, but is something like plot or intelligible structure, as Michael Silk puts it: “in Aristotle’s special meaning” muthos is “a formal entity.”28 The novelty is signaled by the phrase “I define myth” (legō gar muthon, Poet. 6.1450a4).29 The new meaning, which is surely related with the anti-Platonic idea that poetry imitates actions rather than characters, seems to be by and large unparalleled and has been construed as proto-narratological.30 What is truly specific of poetry, then, cannot be found in the “humanistic” areas of Aristotle’s thought, nor is his frequent resort to poetry in political, ethical, and rhetorical works “humanistic” in our sense. All in all, we are facing a strange paradox. Where does the unprecedented meaning of muthos in the Poetics come from?

Poetry and biology: the anatomy of tragedy  23

1.5 Poetics and biology Sometimes, paradoxes call for paradoxical explanations. Within Aristotle’s encyclopedia, the one area where poetry and the poets seem to play no significant role is biology. This is true as regards the early History of Animals, and is even truer if we turn to Aristotle’s mature biological works.31 Could it be the case, then, that poetic muthos, along with other surprising features of the Poetics, can be understood in the light of Aristotle’s biology? Malcolm Heath’s Ancient Philosophical Poetics features an entire chapter entitled “The natural history of poetry: Aristotle.”32 Heath’s discussion provides a very convenient framework for my own argument. As Heath remarks, Aristotle “thinks biologically” in a number of ways, and the same can be proven true in the case of the Poetics. In particular, Heath shows that Aristotle’s hierarchical conception of kinds, although it is part of a non-evolutionary conception of nature, closely parallels the development of poetry described in the Poetics, which has eventually given birth to its most perfect and “natural” product, namely tragedy. Accordingly, Heath can plausibly say, for example, that iambus is defective relative to more perfect and recent forms of poetry just as – say – inferior species are defective relative to superior species in Aristotle’s biology. I fully agree with this view. Let me only add that, in this specific case, Aristotle’s tendency to “think biologically” found fertile ground in a still more general tendency of Greek thought. I am thinking of phenomena such as the structural function of certain myths and narratives: diachronic narration could work as a device to highlight a synchronic taxonomy, as is clear, for example, in the myth of Prometheus and the animal species in Plato’s Protagoras.33 Also, it is interesting to note that space and time are often two interchangeable dimensions: myth, that is the events of the age of the demigods, is the stuff tragedies are usually made of. When that is not the case, as it happens with Aeschylus’ Persians or Phrynihcus’ Capture of Miletus, myth is replaced by a fabulous setting: both tragedies are set in far off Persia, governed by a semi-divine king, as Xerxes and Darius are described by Aeschylus. The idea is nicely captured, many centuries later, by Plutarch, who begins the Life of Theseus by saying that myth is out of map boundaries for the historian just like faraway and fabulous lands are out of map boundaries in geographical terms, with a telling conflation of space and time. Finally, Greek religion – and here I am referring to the whole set of stories of the Gods prior to the kingdom of Zeus – suggests that the opposition between evolutionary and non-evolutionary models, however natural it may seem to us, is not exhaustive. Tertium datur: the gods were born and had to struggle to become what they are, but once they have reached their perfect and final stage, they are “frozen” forever, and no further change, either political or biological, will ever occur.34

24  Andrea Capra These typically Greek patterns of thought help explain why Aristotle ended up construing two very different phenomena such as poetry and biology through one and the same theoretical frame, whereby synchrony and diachrony, space and time easily merge. On the one hand, this occasionally leads Aristotle to speak of nature as if it were the result of a process: nature “proceeds” (metabainei) from species to species (e.g. HA 8.1.588b4 and PA 4.5.681a12). On the other hand, conversely, poetry does evolve through time, and yet Aristotle’s “narrative” ultimately amounts to a static taxonomy, which is the product of what Aristotle seems to construe as an impersonal and – let me stress it – natural necessity, where the individual poets play a totally marginal role.35 Evolutionary time and taxonomical space are interchangeable and can be both described as a movement or progression. All in all, the fact that poetry – unlike Aristotelian biology – has emerged through time seems to be ultimately irrelevant for Aristotle.

1.6 Biological templates of reasoning: the redemption of the ugly In this and in the next paragraph I will further pursue the analogy between Aristotelian biology and poetics, before addressing, in my final paragraph, the crucial issue of muthos. How can we define the format and features of such analogies? Let me borrow a viable method from Stephen Halliwell’s Between Ecstasy and Truth (Halliwell 2011). Halliwell stresses the continuity between such areas as poetics, ethics, politics, and psychology in Aristotle’s discussion of poetry. To this effect, among other things, he makes the following point: Now it is clearly the case that, for Aristotle, ethical judgment must always take account of the identity of the agent, the circumstances, the aim of the action, etc. We find him expressly invoking such variables in his own ethical writings. When specifying, for instance, in book 3 of the Nicomachean Ethics, the factors which can make an action ‘involuntary’ … he lists all the possible objects of a person’s ignorance: ‘who he is, what he is doing, what or whom he is acting on, what instrument he is using, and to what end’ (EN 3.1.1111a3–5). Although in this passage Aristotle is speaking of an agent’s own knowledge or ignorance, the close match between the set of terms used here and those adduced in Poetics 25 shows that in the latter he is thinking with, so to speak, a template of reasoning which he has carried over from his ethical philosophy in general. (217–8; emphasis mine) This suggests a conveniently flexible level where to look for analogies, namely “templates of reasoning,” complete with lexical matches. I will focus on a couple of biological “templates” that Aristotle arguably applied to the Poetics.

Poetry and biology: the anatomy of tragedy  25 The first template I want to discuss may be called “the redemption of the ugly,” and is best exemplified in a deservedly famous passage from the Parts of Animals: Having already treated of the celestial world, as far as our conjectures could reach, we proceed to treat of animals, without omitting, to the best of our ability, any member of the kingdom, however ignoble (atimoteron). For if some have no graces to charm the sense, yet even these, by disclosing to intellectual perception the artistic spirit that designed them, give immense pleasure to all who can trace links of causation, and are inclined to philosophy. Indeed, it would be strange if mimic representations of them were attractive (tas men eikonas autōn theōrountes chairomen), because they disclose the mimetic skill of the painter or sculptor, and the original realities themselves were not more interesting, to all at any rate who have eyes to discern the reasons that determined their formation. (1.5.645a4–15; transl. W. Ogle) I agree with Andrew Ford and Pierluigi Donini that this passage is relevant to the Poetics, although neither poetry nor tragedy are mentioned.36 The whole train of thought calls to mind – irresistibly I would say – Chapter 4 of the Poetics, where Aristotle discusses the pleasure inherent to imitation: For we take pleasure in contemplating the most precise images of things (tas eikonas … chairomen theōrountes) whose sight in itself causes us pain – such as the appearance of the basest (atimotatōn) animals, or of corpses. Here too the explanation lies in the fact that great pleasure is derived from exercising the understanding, not just for philosophers but in the same way for all men, though their capacity for it may be limited. (1448b10–15) I would only add that a close examination of Aristotle’s lexical choices, as should be clear from the Greek words in brackets, reinforces the idea. Unlike “base animals” per se, the contemplation of which is the privilege of the philosophers, the images of base animals can give pleasure to both common people and philosophers. The reaction of the former possibly implies the kind of detachment provided by phantasia37: as we hear in the On the Soul, “when we merely imagine (kata tēn phantasian) we remain as unaffected as persons who are looking at a painting of some dreadful or encouraging scene” (de An. 3.3.427b23–4).38 Only philosophers, however, are capable of theoretical contemplation. The philosopher’s analysis of tragic plots is not performed through phantasia, which is shared by all men and many animals. Rather, it calls to mind the “intellectual perception” (aisthēsis kata tēn theōrian) referred to in the passage from the Parts of animals, which is why, I submit, Aristotelian criticism may be said to grant its practitioners

26  Andrea Capra “a supervenient pleasure … one that goes beyond our enthrallment by the work or our admiration for the artist’s technique.”39 In doing so, the contemplating philosophers may be called “biologists of art” or “biologists of poetry,” given that Aristotle resorts to painting as a minimal model for the consumption of poetry.40

1.7 Biological templates of reasoning: synopsy vs haphazardness The second template may be called “synopsy versus haphazardness,” and is in fact closely related to the first one. This time, let me start from the Poetics, Chapters 7 and 23: Any beautiful object, whether an animal (zōon) or any other structure of parts, must possess not only ordered arrangement but also a non-haphazard (mē to tuchon) scale (for beauty is grounded in both size and order). An animal (zōon) could not be beautiful if it is either too small – for perception of it is practically instantaneous and so cannot be experienced – or too great, for contemplation of it cannot be a single experience, and it is not possible to derive a sense of unity and wholeness from our perception of it (imagine an animal – zōon – a thousand miles long). Just, therefore, as regards beautiful bodies or animals (zōōn) there must be some size, but one which allows it to be perceived all together, so muthoi should be of a length which can be easily held in the memory. (Poet. 7.1450b34–1451a6) As for the narrative art of mimesis in spoken verse, it is evident that its muthoi should have a dramatic coherence, just as in tragedy, and that they should concern an action which is unitary and complete (with beginning, middle and end), so that, as with a living animal (zōon), the single and entire structure may yield the pleasure which belongs to it. The corollary of this is that poetic organization (suntheseis) should not resemble histories, in which one need not find the exposition of a unitary action but of all the events which, at a given time, happened to one or more persons, in such a way that the reciprocal connection of the events is haphazard (hos etuchen) … and this is one respect in which Homer’s inspired superiority is evident, because of his refusal to attempt to make a plot about the entire war … such a muthos would be too bulky, and could not be perceived as a unity; or, if moderate in size, would be too intricately detailed. (Poet. 23.1459a17–34) These passages provide an interesting confirmation: works of poetry can be construed as animals, whose structure – provided it is perceivable as a

Poetry and biology: the anatomy of tragedy  27 unity – is bound to give pleasure to rational observers. This repeated comparison with animals calls to mind the famous passage of Plato’s Phaedrus in which speeches are equated to animals that only a good butcher can cut up properly so as to respect their internal structure (Phdr. 265a). In fact, structure is crucial to Aristotle as well, and to this effect poems should not be too “bulky,” Homer being a kind of surprising and happy exception.41 If we now move to the observation of “real” animals, it may be interesting to note that Aristotle, time and again, insists that in order for their structure to be fully visible a given animal should not be too small – embryos under a certain age have an undistinguishable structure (HA 7.3.583b9–11) – or too fat. For example, in the third book of the History of Animals, he says the following: For the veins have the shape of the entire body, like a sketch of a mannequin (en tois graphomenois konabois); in such a way that the whole frame seems to be filled up with little veins in attenuated subjects-for the space occupied by flesh in fat individuals is filled with little veins in thin oneswhereas the sinews are distributed about the joints and the flexures of the bones. Now, if the sinews were derived in unbroken sequence from a common point of departure, this continuity would be discernible in attenuated specimens. (HA 3.5.515a34–b6; transl. D’Arcy Wentworth Thompson) This and other similar passages are crucial in that, groundbreakingly, the notion of biological system emerges: it is not the single organs or parts that count, but their complex organization, forming a continuum.42 From this point of view, of great interest is also Aristotle’s emphasis on “poetic organization” (sunthesis) as something that should be kept carefully distinct from the haphazard events that form the raw material of history. This calls to mind what follows in the passage from the Parts of Animals I have quoted earlier: Absence of haphazard (tuchontōs) and conduciveness of everything to an end are to be found in Nature’s works in the highest degree, and the resultant end of her generations and combinations is a form of the beautiful. If any person thinks the examination of the rest of the animal kingdom an unworthy task, he must hold in like disesteem the study of man. For no one can look at the primordia of the human frame-blood, flesh, bones, vessels, and the like-without much repugnance. Moreover, when any one of the parts or structures, be it which it may, is under discussion, it must not be supposed that it is its material composition to which attention is being directed or which is the object of the discussion, but the relation of such part to the total form. Similarly, the true object of architecture is not bricks, mortar, or timber, but the house; and so the principal object of natural philosophy is not the material elements, but

28  Andrea Capra their composition, and the totality of the form (peri tēs suntheseōs kai tēs holēs ousias), independently of which they have no existence. (PA 1.5.645a23–36; transl. W. Ogle) In both poetry and biology, sunthesis as opposed to haphazardness is the key to make sense of things. Even though sunthesis is not identical with body system, it is clear that the two notions are very close, and they both depend on soul as defined a few pages earlier in the Parts of Animals: and inasmuch as it is the presence of the soul that enables matter to constitute the animal nature, much more than it is the presence of matter which so enables the soul, the inquirer into nature is bound on every ground to treat of the soul rather than of the matter. For though the wood of which they are made constitutes the couch and the tripod, it only does so because it is capable of receiving such and such a form. (1.1.641a27–32)

1.8 Muthos and the soul of tragedy: towards a biological reading With sunthesis and soul, pointing to the implicit notion of biological system, my argument comes full circle, in that they correspond precisely to the above-mentioned attempt at definition, which is in fact the only explicit one found in the Poetics: By this term muthos I mean the organisation of the events (sunthesin tōn pragmatōn) …. (Poet. 6.1450a4–5) The idea is further developed a few lines later: And so, the muthos is the first principle and, so to speak, the soul of tragedy, while characterization is the element of second importance. An analogous point holds for painting: a random distribution of the most attractive colours would never yield as much pleasure as a black-andwhite sketch. (Poet. 6.1450a38–b4) The biological image implicit in these words seems to leap off the page. As early as 1895, Samuel Butcher pointed out that Aristotle’s biological works provide the appropriate parallels to understand the equation of muthos and soul correctly.43 However, we are now in a position to construe biologically the entire passage, including the by now familiar comparison with painting and the emphasis on a clear sketch: just remember the “sketch of a

Poetry and biology: the anatomy of tragedy  29 mannequin” referred to in the passage from the History of Animals quoted above, when Aristotle discusses veins. Needless to say, I do not contend that biology is the only key to interpret Aristotle’s quasi-definition of muthos, as the shared templates may depend in part on Aristotle’s more general assumptions. Yet, whatever the extent of essentialism in Aristotle’s biology, his biological works feature what may be cautiously labeled a “scientific” approach, which is specific to them.44 The parallels between the Poetics and these works, supported as they are by textual matches, suggest that Aristotle was “thinking biologically” when he devised his unprecedented notion of muthos.45 It should be noted that the “Aristotelian” meaning of muthos does not emerge immediately in the Poetics. The very beginning of the work, I think, has a strange Platonic flavor.46 Aristotle wants to explore its force and the organization of muthoi, something that is crucial for the success of poetry. This closely recalls the beginning of the Phaedo, where Socrates devises a kind of poetics in miniature, when he states that muthos is crucial for the very definition of poetry.47 Yet Socrates is speaking of poetic images, and he exemplifies this traditional meaning of muthos through Aesop. By contrast, the following chapters of the Poetics take leave of old myth and of Aesop’s speaking animals. An ultimately anti-Platonic notion of muthos seems to emerge, as Aristotle firmly places muthoi in a “scientific,” quasi-biological context.48 In Aristotle’s world, Aesop’s animals are replaced by the dissected corpses that formed the empirical basis of Aristotle’s zoology. This made possible the “invention” of body systems paralleled by that of structural plots (muthoi), which he construes as the soul (psuchē) of tragedy. In this respect, it may be interesting to note that Plato’s Phaedrus, from which Aristotle seems to have borrowed the analogy between plays and animals, unfavorably contrasts written works with their “living and animate” (zōn kai empsuchos) counterpart, i.e. with oral logos (276a). The implication is that written works can be construed as dead images. This adds to the parallel between Aristotle’s biological and literary researches: as I will suggest in a moment, the empirical basis of the latter, much like that of the former, is in a sense formed by corpses. Was Aristotle entirely original in his biological reading of poetry? Perhaps not, if we listen for a moment to Aristophanes’ Euripides in the underworld setting of the Frogs: I am ready … to bite into the poetry, the songs/limbs (melē), the sinews of tragedy (ta neura tēs tragōidias). (Ra. 860–2) Intriguingly, Euripides’ proto-biological analysis is a sort of autopsy, as both he and Aeschylus are dead.49 The death of (great) tragedy possibly explains why Dyonisus, at the beginning of the play, resorts to the highly

30  Andrea Capra unusual practice of “reading to himself” Euripides (Ra. 52–4). However, Aristophanes’ Euripides is performing on stage and, more importantly, he is joking, as is Dionysus. Even more importantly, the Frogs envisages the (wishful) resurrection and reintegration of great tragedy into the community. By contrast, Aristotle had no such dreams and was content – so to speak – with the corpses.50 According to the Vita Marciana, he was nicknamed “the Mind” and “the Reader,” presumably for his wholly serious habit of reading books to himself.51 In fact, the Poetics often claims or implies that tragedy can be fully appreciated by mere reading “as well” (kai) (6.1450b18, 14.1453b4–7, 26.1462a11–17), regardless of its actual performance and social context, and this has major consequences on his understanding of poetry.52 Here, too, Aristotle may be said to be thinking biologically. His anatomical turn led him to disregard the behavior and the habitat of animals, which were still prominent in the Historia Animalium, and to devote his later biological work to the study of organic structures in isolation from their environment.53 Similarly, he ended up analyzing fifth-century tragedy in the Poetics in isolation from its performative and ritual environment, which he may have discussed elsewhere.54 By dissecting tragedy, and by privileging the forms of tragedy over the individual plays and the personality of their authors, Aristotle studied the anatomy of this genre and possibly invented literature as opposed to living performance.55 Contrary to the more or less tacit assumptions of modern scholars, however, the invention of literature was hardly a “humanistic” achievement in our traditional understanding of the notion.

Notes

Poetry and biology: the anatomy of tragedy  31





















32  Andrea Capra























Poetry and biology: the anatomy of tragedy  33 usually render with “even.” Needless to say, kai can mean anything from “also” to “even” (cf. LSJ. Interestingly, modern Greek has akoma kai to distinguish the latter from the former). In my opinion, however, Aristotle is not saying that tragedy can be appreciated “even” without performance, as if reading were a pis-aller. Rather, kai is likely to mean something like “equally well.” Presumably, reading is Aristotle’s usual way to access fifth-century drama, and although he shows some sensitivity to performance issues it is important for him to stress he is in a position to appreciate it no less fully than fifth-century spectators. This is especially clear at Poet. 26.1462a12–13, as Aristotle claims that tragedy and its qualities are conspicuous (phanera opoia tis estin) through reading. A few lines later, he says that tragedy “can achieve vividness either (kai) in a reading or (kai) in performance” (Poet. 26.1462a17–18). This further suggests that in the three previous instances kai should be construed as meaning “equally well.” However, certainty cannot be achieved and different interpretations are possible: Destrée (2016) defends a reading of kai (1453b4 and 1462a11) as meaning “even” as part of an argument that rehabilitates music as an important feature of tragedy in the Poetics. See also, in this volume, Lockwood’s discussion on this topic.

54 E.g., in the works mentioned by Diogenes Laertius, which are now lost, such as Didaskaliae and Victories at Dionysia; see also the introduction to this volume.

2

To kalon and the experience of art Hallvard J. Fossheim

In the Republic, Plato seems to advocate the banning of most extant poetry, because of its corrupting effect on the soul. Aristotle in his Poetics does not have any such qualms. Why the difference? I shall suggest that there are identifiable reasons for their divergent views. Central among them is that, while Plato asks whether the object of mimesis is kalon, Aristotle focuses his attention on whether the production of mimesis is kalon.1 This allows Aristotle to present his views not directly in opposition to Plato’s, but as a reinterpretation of the question. Aristotle’s reframing is intimately tied up with his presenting kalon as accessible to us in a more intellectual way than what is allowed for in Plato’s Republic, or, indeed, in other works by Aristotle himself.

2.1 Two central terms: kalon and thumos So, first of all, what does it mean to say that something is kalon? Among its more specific senses in the tradition down to and including Aristotle are ‘beautiful’ and “functionally excellent.” Accordingly, in the Gorgias, for example, “those persons who exhibit a disorderly soul cannot perform their function or, therefore, achieve the kalon.”2 Aristotle, furthermore, fleshes out to kalon in terms of the characteristics order (taxis), symmetry (summetria), and definiteness (hōrismenon).3 These three are criteria of beauty, and they are criteria of functionality as well.4 Having a right view of to kalon affords one what we might call a broadly aesthetic access to what reason, or the reasonable person, also sees as teleologically good. Reason has its reasons, while something’s being kalon allows us to see what is fitting. It should straightaway be noted that “beautiful” and “aesthetic” do not mean “pretty” in this context. Paradigms of what is kalon are impressive victories in battle, people displaying grandness and nobility, and the well-ordered, awesome canopy of the night sky. What is kalon is worthy, admirable, grand, praiseworthy, besides carrying with it the notion of harmony and order. There is often honor in what is kalon. Correspondingly, a primary opposite of kalon is not simply “ugly,” but aischron – what

To kalon and the experience of art  35 is shameful, disgusting, or degrading, usually with the connotations improper, indecorous, unmannerly. So kalon in Plato and Aristotle is often better translated as “fine,” “admirable,” or “noble” than as “beautiful.” I shall build part of the argument in this chapter on both philosophers’ claim that kalon stands in a special relationship to the psychological dimension which they call thumos. To also provide something like a characteristic of thumos (often rendered into English as ‘spirit’), it should be noted first of all that both Plato and Aristotle seem to treat this as a psychological part or faculty in a tripartition which also includes intellect and the appetites. The logistikon, the intellective faculty, is reason as a regard for the whole as well as the parts, and with a view to the ultimate good. In a harmonious and well-developed individual, intellect rules the other two parts. The difference between those two parts – appetite and thumos – can be spelled out as follows. While appetites relate directly to objects in the world that the subject desires, thumos is at heart always about the subject. If it is appetite that motivates me to take the last piece of the cake, I take it because I want the cake. If it is thumos which motivates me, I take the piece of cake because I feel I deserve it more than you do, or because I feel it is a nice way of getting back at you for having slighted me earlier. So while appetite is simply desire for an external object, thumos or spirit is desire that involves the agent. If we glance to the Phaedrus for a readily available representation of thumos, the noble horse reacts not simply to the object of desire, but to the shamefulness of the desire of the appetitive horse. This is an exact parallel to Leontius, the famous necrophiliac in Republic book 3: his thumos is raging at his own appetites, represented by his eyes, and not at the corpses.5 So thumos is not only a desire for something, but a desire to be someone.6 It is an evaluation of someone as being worthy, or unworthy, of admiration and emulation. A central claim in the next section will be that thumos as a specific module or capacity of the soul, as this is depicted in the Republic, is supposed to be trained to respond to what is kalon. In this respect, the cake example also brings out a further aspect of thumos. Thumos works motivationally in the way it does because it is essentially competitive. Both Plato and Aristotle take victory and honor to be primary objects of thumos. What we take to be kalon, we experience as a special sort of pleasure. This pleasure is not like that of the mere appetites that define the lowest part of the soul. The pleasures of thumos are the pleasures of transcending the commonplace, of living up to some ideal, and of being, or being witness to, greatness. It is all about admiration: wanting to be looked up to, praised, and recognized for one’s own fine acts, and looking up to and wishing to emulate someone else or some act of theirs. So thumetic esteem is always, at the same time, an expression of self-esteem. Suitably, the well-ordered soul according to the Republic is characterized by harmonia and sumphonia, and is as such itself kalē (430a; cf. 443c–444a).

36  Hallvard J. Fossheim

2.2 Art, kalon, and thumos in Plato and Aristotle In this section, I shall try to set out the relations between art, thumos, and to kalon in our two authors. A central claim in what follows will be that Plato in the Republic, no less than Aristotle, sees the issue of what is kalon as central to the shaping of thumos, and vice versa that thumos is the main faculty to be affected by to kalon in a successful upbringing according to the Republic’s pedagogical theory. The present chapter’s main argument concerning the Poetics, namely, that Aristotle strikingly utilizes the term kalon primarily not for the objects of artistic representation, but for the craftsmanship behind the production of such representations, is logically independent of this contention. But only purely logically: the two are still substantially related, in that they provide us with a vantage point from which to see the most dramatic development in the Platonico-Aristotelian corpus as a whole as not a shift towards a thumos/kalon correspondence in Aristotle (as a development marking a contrast with Plato), but as a shift from a thumos/kalon correspondence shared by both Plato and Aristotle generally to an intellectualized notion of to kalon in Aristotle’s dealings with the arts in the Poetics.7 In the case of Aristotle, there is little reason to doubt the broad link between kalon and thumos. According to John M. Cooper’s explicating translation of a passage from the second book of the Nicomachean Ethics: there are three objects of choice (ta eis tas haireseis) and three of avoidance: the kalon [the noble, fine, beautiful], the advantageous, and the pleasant, and their opposites, the aischron [the base, shameful, ugly], the harmful, and the painful. In relation to all these the good person gets things right, while the bad person gets things wrong, but especially in relation to pleasure. (EN 2.3.1104b30–4) In very general terms, the three objects of choice named in this passage form part of a grand view of human motivation, human goods, and human development. In the wording of Myles Burnyeat, there are three things to get right […]. Pursuit of pleasure is an inborn part of our animal nature; concern for the noble depends on a good upbringing; while the good, here specified as the advantageous, is the object of mature reflection.8 Cooper, in reference to the Burnyeat paper, clarifies his agreement as follows. “I am in agreement with Burnyeat in seeing that Nicomachean Ethics 1104b30–36, refers to three ‘irreducibly distinct categories of value’ that ‘connect each with a distinct set of desires and feelings’.”9 Aristotle is discussing what we might call different sources of motivation for an agent.10 To begin with, humans come into existence equipped with an ability to

To kalon and the experience of art  37 respond to their surroundings in terms of pleasure and pain (hēdonē kai lupē). Ethical development then implies acquiring a notion of the noble or fine (to kalon). Finally, the perfection of the agent’s goodness means that he or she comes to possess a conception of the good (to agathon), sometimes interchangeably rendered by Aristotle as the advantageous (to sumpheron).11 To bring out that Aristotle thinks art broadly construed is crucial for forming us, we need only glance at the last two books of his Politics. An example of what can have a detrimental effect on children is the stories they hear, as all such exposition prepares the way for their later pursuits. And the main dimension of the ethical shaping concerns steering the children away from what is shameful. According to Aristotle, [t]he legislator should altogether outlaw shameful talk from the city state, as he would any other shameful thing, since by speaking lightly of a shameful activity one comes closer to doing it. He should particularly outlaw it among children, so that they neither say nor hear anything of the sort. (7.17.1336b3–8; transl. Reeve)12 And – still unambiguously with the children in mind – since shameful talk is outlawed, “it is evident that we should also outlaw looking at unseemly pictures or stories” (1336b13f). In the same vein is his advice to minimize contact with slaves in order to avoid the “taint of servility” (1336b2f). In proffering his message as to what the child should be allowed to see and hear as preparation, Aristotle in all likelihood does not primarily think of stories about weaving for weavers, or about pottery for potters, and not only because the children he is theoretically providing for are not artisans but Greek freemen; rather, the settings must only be close enough for the child imaginatively to start creating a vision of the great or noble (that is, ultimately, the good) man. Similarly, children must be taught drawing not because it is useful in any narrow way, “but rather because it makes them contemplate the beauty of bodies” (to peri ta sōmata kallous, Pol. 8.1338b1–2). This also means that certain parts of Homer, for instance, might be excellent for inspiring courage and justice, although their purely instructive value is limited – the weapons are different in Aristotle’s time, and war only an extreme expression of civic virtue. The need for protection from the wrong impressions stems primarily from the fact that the bad or lowly make their mark on one before one realizes what they are, or what they are signs of, or what they lead to or go along with. As much as providing the right models, or the right advice, or the right associations, steering in habituation will be a limiting of what is available. This is part of the basis for Aristotle’s claim, also in a later passage of Politics 8: everyone who listens to representations (tōn mimēseōn) comes to have similar emotions, even apart from the rhythms and melodies of those representations. And since it so happens that music is one of the

38  Hallvard J. Fossheim pleasures, and virtue has to do with enjoying, loving, and hating in the right way, obviously one must learn and become accustomed to nothing so much as correctly judging and enjoying decent characters and noble actions. In rhythms and melodies there is the greatest likeness to the true natures of anger and gentleness, and also of courage and temperance, all of their opposites, and the other characters. (1340a12–21) There is no doubt in Aristotle either that a sensitivization to what is kalon happens through an activation and shaping of our thumetic qualities, or that art is paramount in this process. But we need to contextualize this insight in order to see how what Aristotle then does in the Poetics might relate to his main interlocutor, Plato. And the claim that thumos13 relates to the dimension of the kalon and the aischron in the case of Plato is not universally accepted among scholars.14 I will try to indicate the correctness of this claim by pointing out how the education in music and poetry in the ideal city is designed to make the guardians’ thumos able to recognize and value to kalon. According to the social design of the Republic, the guardians are to be trained with poetry and music, including stories, even before physical training (2.376d-e). As Socrates says, this is the most important part of the training, since here, a pattern is established in their souls.15 Especially while people are young, the soul is extremely malleable. The degree to which one can shape young souls is, for better or worse, extreme, so that “they will shape their children’s souls with stories much more than they shape their bodies by handling them” (377c). For this reason, the stories to which the young are exposed must be kaloi. This is the one and only criterion for which stories should be told: “we’ll select their stories whenever they are fine or beautiful and reject them when they aren’t” (ib.). So here, we already have an indication that early cultural input is seen as contributing to attuning the young vis-à-vis what is kalon.16 The requirement of the stories’ being kaloi applies even to such a degree that what is correctly described as truths and falsehoods about the gods is to a certain extent cashed out in terms of what is kalon and what is not. The very notion of truth seems at times to be considered primarily in terms of impact with regard to the kalon. It is in this sense that “telling the greatest falsehood about the most important things does not make a fine story (ho eipōn kalōs)” (377e). According to a related passage, “even if it [the story in question] were true, it should be passed over in silence” (378a) and not told to the young. What is at issue is not primarily literal truth as we moderns tend to think of it, but developing an optimal use of stories and of history (repeated at 383d), with kalon as the ruling criterion.17 A striking use of the “kalon over truth”-methodology, if we can call it that, is “the noble lie” (414b ff.), which robs the citizens of any insight into their actual identities. Correspondingly, all stories that portray the gods – objects

To kalon and the experience of art  39 of fascination and admiration – as “warring, plotting, or warring against one another” (378bc) are banned for the reason that such acts should be seen by the citizens as shameful (aischiston, 378bc). Similarly, gods cannot be represented as changing, not least because this would mean changing themselves not into “something better and more beautiful (kallion)”, but something “worse and uglier [or more shameful – aischion]” (381b). The weight throughout these passages is unambiguously on the kalon, more than on the agathon, as the object of representation and appreciation. The auxiliaries’ education is not least supposed to make them love to kalon (403c). This happens to a great extent through poetry and music, that is, art (401d–402a). As already mentioned, policy choices relating to the arts in books 2 and 3 are characterized in terms of their effects on psychological patterns, tupoi. The very fact that the means for shaping the young are patterns, and not arguments, is significant, because it tells us that the soul shaping does not relate directly to to logistikon, whose characteristic is its ability to calculate with a view to the good as a whole. As already indicated, the various choices concerning material culture, stories, and practices throughout these books are set out in terms of what is kalon (episodes depicting courage and moderation) and what is aischron (episodes depicting horror or lewdness or impiety or hubristic aggression). Crucially, this non-intellectualist, self-regarding economy of shame and pride clearly points forward to the tripartition to follow in the text of the Republic. It is on this background we should also consider the claim that the well turned-out man will be ashamed (aischuneisthai, 3.396d) to imitate, in the narrow sense of enactment, anything that belongs to worse patterns. That the discussion after this (from 398c) moves on to consider modes and varieties of music only confirms the focus on to kalon – for instance, music imitates the tone of voice of someone moderate and courageous (399bc). More generally, the proper education in music and poetry is supposed to render the person graceful, euschēmōn (401de). That this is a shaping of thumos rather than of reason in any more direct sense is also brought out by the fact that such coming to love what is noble paves the way for reason’s later entry: He’ll rightly object to what is shameful, hating it while he’s still young and unable to grasp the reason, but, having been educated in this way, he will welcome the reason when it comes and recognize it easily because of its kinship with himself. (3.401e–402a) It is then explicitly stated in the text that this is the very reason for providing education in music and poetry (ib.). That is to say, the education in music and poetry “ought to end in love of the fine and beautiful” (dei de pou teleutan ta mousika eis ta tou kalou erōtika, 403c).

40  Hallvard J. Fossheim Considering the distinction between physical training and training of the soul makes the kalon-focus of the latter even more evident. The focus on what is kalon is almost exclusively seen as modifiable by music and poetry right to the end of book 2 (385c). Only in book 3 does courage, which has often been thought to be the only function of a well-turned-out thumos in Plato’s Republic, come importantly into focus.18 The relevance of to kalon to courage is, among other things, that physical training unaccompanied by music and poetry makes people more savage than they should be (410b-d). Someone with only physical training and no musical training will be full of spirit, but he will hate philosophy and music, and act like a savage with no grace (411de).19 We can thus see one reason why the thumos/kalon relation is so important in the Republic. This is about what one aspires to be, and negatively about what one would be ashamed to be, depending on what sort of ideals are present in a culture.

2.3 The acknowledgment of ethical risk in shaping thumos To take a more synoptic view, Plato and Aristotle also seem to agree on the following. Every burst of reaction from my thumos is available to me on the experiential level, as an integral part of what thumos is. This is always an emotive reaction to something, which is at the same time an expression of how I perceive myself and my own worth. But, on another level, every thymetic eruption is also a contribution to shaping and developing thumos itself. It is as if thumos is rehearsing a script, with me in a main role. As clearly indicated by the characterizations in terms of tupoi, the problem is that thumos does not have the capacity to transform the innumerable episodes into anything like one consistent script. Thumos, in this sense, is local. Only a proper upbringing can help us form the right sort of notions of what is fine and what is shameful. A successful upbringing is, perhaps more than anything else, an attunement and development of thumos to make us see what is fine and noble, and shun what is shameful and disgraceful.20 This is the import of Plato’s saying, echoed by Aristotle, that it is all important to get into the right habits right from early youth. The right habituation is most of all about shaping our motivational settings and giving us a desire for to kalon. The kalon seems to fulfil a purpose or design. But in itself, it needn’t actually be purposive; not least, the kalon-motivated agent needn’t understand how it is purposive. The fine soldier in this minimal sense does not have to know in detail what the war is fought for, for example. The psychological economy of the perfect agent is such that reason and thumos are in alignment: only that which is judged by reason to be good is seen by thumos as being beautiful or fine. On the other hand, for people who are on the right track, but not yet fully developed as rational beings, a well-shaped thumos will generally let them react in the right way to situations and options by seeing them in this more ‘aesthetic’ manner.

To kalon and the experience of art  41 In this connection, however, it is crucial to realize that we can be mistaken about to kalon.21 Nothing guarantees a well-shaped thumos. The admired object of thumos is what the agent or person thinks or experiences as fine and beautiful. And one can be very wrong about what is in fact fine and beautiful. In such cases, thumos can, for instance, make one react to insults that are not really insults, or it makes one overreact or underreact in an unseemly manner. More dramatically, one can even be so ethically degenerate that one systematically sees as fine and great what is in fact disgusting or even horrendous.22 That we can be mistaken about to kalon here also means that we can be mis-shaped in a process where evil accumulates in the soul without our being aware of it.23 That is to say: we are designed in such a way that our ethical shaping through thumos happens by a piecemeal process. And this is a process that we don’t even know is going on. In sum, the practical process of hooking thumos up with to kalon implies serious ethical risk for the individual. Given this broad agreement between the two thinkers, the question now becomes, what is happening in the Poetics? As we shall see, Aristotle in this work alters the framework for his discourse (the rules of engagement, one might say) in a way which minimizes ethical risk for the poetic sphere.

2.4 Aristotle’s reframing of kalon When we turn to the Poetics, we find a striking change of perspective on Aristotle’s part. While Aristotle still, like Plato, evaluates extant art in terms of whether it is kalon, when it comes to the evaluation of art, thumos and what is kalon are no longer aligned. I will argue that, while the direct effect of art according to both Plato and the Aristotle of the Politics is primarily its effect on thumos, the effect is a more complex and intellectual one in Aristotle’s account in the Poetics.24 I first want to emphasize that my claim concerning the Poetics’ usage is not meant to deny the role of a reasonably well-shaped thumos, as part of one’s character, as a prerequisite for experiencing and judging art works like tragedies according to that same work. In the Poetics, an emphasis on character is evident already from Aristotle’s partial definition of tragedy in terms of it being about people “better than us.” To Aristotle, there is no understanding of practical matters apart from character. Whether inside or outside drama, it is not possible to grasp a good character, or a bad character as bad, if one has not had a taste of to kalon.25 This means that, in order to understand and judge the mimesis in question, you must have a thumos that is relatively well-shaped and virtuously integrated. Someone like ho deinos, the person who is good at calculating but lacks a view of the good, will not be able to get the proper pleasure out of a tragedy because he does not sufficiently recognize the object of the mimesis. Aristotle reveals his view of character

42  Hallvard J. Fossheim as central, not only to watching or reading, but to producing mimesis, in his account of the origin of comedy and tragedy: Poetry branched into two, according to its creators’ characters (kata ta oikeia ethē): the more serious (semnoteroi) produced mimesis of noble (kalas) actions and the actions of noble people, while the more vulgar depicted the actions of the base (tōn phaulōn), in the first place by composing invectives (just as the others produced hymns and encomia). (4.1448b23–27)26 It may look strange to us that Aristotle places the sort of weight he does on character in his Poetics, even defining the basic genres in terms of something that would seem to be external to the craft because it belongs to the object being depicted and not to the craft as such. But to Aristotle, character’s being part of the object does not mean that it does not also form part of the demands on the artist. Tragedy, like comedy, is to Aristotle radically character-driven in that the author’s character remains a source of the mimesis. This does not mean that the author has to be perfectly good, and it certainly does not mean that he has to have the sort of desires or plans that his characters do. But it does mean that he has to be acquainted with what is kalon in life: he must be someone who sees the world as a place for the admirable and the beautiful, for greatness and nobility. Only thus can he realize what it means when a given desire or plan aimed at its realization is thwarted, or what it means to such a person to find herself with a desire or plan which is evil or shameful. In fact, only then can he recognize that someone finds herself with such a desire or plan. Strikingly, however, the passage quoted above is a rare bird in the Poetics.27 In contradistinction to what he does in the Nicomachean Ethics and in the Politics, Aristotle generally does not in this work utilize kalon and its cognates to characterize the objects of mimesis. In the two places where he discusses the ethical qualities of the objects of mimesis, Chapters 2 (1447b29–1448a5) and 13 (1452b30–1453a10), Aristotle uses a wide variety of terms known from the Ethics. An individual seen as object of mimesis is elevated (spoudaios), base (phaulos), superior (chreissōn), better (beltiōn), or inferior (cheirōn), and has vice (kakia) or virtue (arēte) (all Chapter 2). He can be decent (epieikēs) or depraved (mochthēros), he can be very wicked (sphodra ponēros) or someone not pre-eminent in virtue or justice (ho mēte aretē (i) diapherōn kai dikaiosunē(i)) (all Chapter 13). But the object of mimesis is generally not said to be kalos, or to instantiate to kalon. However, this is not to say that Aristotle does not avail himself of kalon-terminology in the Poetics. Far from it, the text abounds in such talk. But remarkably, Aristotle reserves it for characterizing the artist’s work: the crafting itself, and the artists’ products qua products. The following three passages seem to me to provide clear instances of the former. Significantly,

To kalon and the experience of art  43 first among them is the initial declaration of the purpose of the Poetics, its opening words: We are to discuss both poetry in general and the capacity of each of its genres; the canons of plot construction needed for poetic excellence [ei mellei kalōs echein hē poiēsis) […]. (1.1447a6–9) Homer, in keeping with his general superiority, evidently grasped well, whether by art or by nature, this point too (kai tout’ eoiken kalōs idein, ētoi dia technēn ē dia phusin) [i.e., that a plot is not unified if built around an individual, but by structuring it around a unitary action]. (9.1451a22–4) […] the poet should be inventive as well as making good use of (chrēsthai kalōs) traditional stories. Let me explain more clearly what I mean by ‘good use’ (kalōs). (14.1453b24–6) What is kalon in all three instances is the act of making – the craft of composing – art. (It thus only makes sense that we encounter the adverb in place of the adjective.) It is not the model or object of mimesis which is kalon, but the artist’s competence in composing a unity from the material. Distillation into a unified whole is here what is kalōs according to Aristotle. The first instance quoted here, the Poetics’ opening lines, tells us that the agenda for the work is to uncover what is required in order for the poet’s constructive activity to be kalon. Being kalon is thus here unequivocally taken as a status or standard for poetic activity, not for what is portrayed or even for the product considered in isolation. Similarly, the quoted Chapter 9 usage displays the adverbial form being applied to the poet over all poets, Homer, thus forging a link from the general activity to the particular poet. The normative weight of the term is perhaps even clearer in the Chapter 14 instance, where Aristotle applies the adverbial form of kalon to specifics of how the poet should go about his business. Immediately following the quote, Aristotle goes on to detail and evaluate the possible varieties in terms of the agent’s knowing or not knowing what (s)he is doing as well as the action’s being carried out or not – both central examples of choices in the poet’s construction of plot structures. The majority of kalon tokens in the Poetics can be seen to follow this paradigm. Most often, the term is used to commend poetic structures that are artfully structured or unified. The following are related passages with explicit use of kalon. •

7.1451a9–11: it is stressed that magnitude is a requirement for being kalliōn. In further commenting on this stricture, Aristotle is careful to

44  Hallvard J. Fossheim

•

• •

point out that the criterion cannot refer simply to water clocks (rules of competition) or a given audience’s limited resources (powers of attention), but must first of all concern the nature of the matter, as this is intrinsic to the art. 11.1452a31–2: the kallistē recognition occurs simultaneously with reversal. This too is obviously a feature that concerns the structure – or structuring – of the events and thus the poet’s product qua the poet’s product, not a reference to, e.g., which real-life models might be most suitable. 13.1452b30–1: the structure (sunthesis) of the kallistē tragedy is complex. This refers back to the definition in Chapter 10 of a complex plot as one with recognition and/or reversal. 13.1453a22–3: summary of specifics kata tēn technēn (character, change to adversity, cause in error, single plot) of which structure makes for the kallistē tragedy (cf. 1453a19). As for all the kalon instances in this group, this concerns specific qualities or features of the product, but seen as a result of the process of composition, as was announced as his topic in the beginning of the work, and remains the focus of Aristotle’s interest.

A rare instance of kalon as merely what has an effect (the inclusion of loan words and similar ploys to create an out of the ordinary impression), seemingly without regard to any greater structure, is 22.1458b18–21. More typically, however, Aristotle has something to say about what makes the kalē structures and plots kalē, beyond the fact that they are unified. They are so structured for a purpose. And as we gather from Chapter 7 that purpose has to do with understanding: A whole is that which has a beginning, middle, and end. A beginning is that which does not itself follow necessarily from something else, but after which a further event or process naturally occurs. And end, by contrast, is that which itself naturally occurs, whether necessarily or usually, after a preceding event, but need not be followed by anything else. A middle is that which both follows a preceding event and has further consequences. Well-constructed plots, therefore, should neither begin nor end at an arbitrary point, but should make use of the patterns stated. Besides, a beautiful (kalon) object, whether an animal or anything else with a structure of parts, should have not only its parts ordered but also an appropriate magnitude: beauty consists in magnitude and order, which is why there could not be a beautiful animal which was either minuscule (as contemplation of it, occurring in an almost imperceptible moment, has no distinctness) or gigantic (as contemplation of it has no cohesion, but those who contemplate it lose a sense of unity and wholeness), say an animal a thousand miles long. So just as with our bodies and with animals beauty requires magnitude,

To kalon and the experience of art  45 but magnitude that allows coherent perception, likewise plots require length, but length that can be coherently remembered. (Poet. 7.1450b25–1451a6) No doubt, the requirement that a whole is something with nothing outside it from which it follows or nothing to which it leads, with necessity or likeliness, is also a cognitive demand. Thus, a kalon plot is one tailored to our understanding is also brought forth by Aristotle’s claim at 9.1452a9–10 that plots which manage to make the events seem to stem from design (as when Mitys’ statue killed his murderer) are more kalon.28 Aristotle takes the artist’s activity and product to be kalon in being ideally suited to create a special form of cognitive experience in the spectator or reader. This is the experience of realizing that one is confronted with a unified structure of the appropriate kind. In tragedy, the ideal form the experience takes is when the unity of the plot dawns upon one, the moment when all the parts that have been set forth one by one are suddenly grasped as parts.29 It does not seem likely that the Poetics’ striking usage of the term kalon and its cognates are a mere coincidence. We know that Aristotle treated the text of the Republic as an articulation of Plato’s views, and we know that he agreed with Plato’s general notion of thumos as the aspect of our moral psychological setup which can be trained to recognize and value to kalon as the bedrock for ethical development and motivation. Taking this into account, a not unlikely interpretation of his surprising, and surprisingly consistent, usage in the Poetics is that it constitutes a response, if not a reply, to what Aristotle takes to be Plato’s worries. While Plato focuses primarily on the effects on the audience, Aristotle dedicates the main bulk of his treatment to the issue of the poetry being well-crafted and ultimately to the crafting itself. This means that, first, Aristotle shifts the focus away from the audience; second, while very much delving on both producer and product, the Poetics gives a priority to the poet’s activity. For even though the product is the end and the production is a means to that end, the product’s quality of being kalon constitutes an indication of the nature of the productive process more than anything else. Mastering a craft means being able to construct the appropriate product, and it is this very mastery or competence that yields the relevant quality. That is to say, what is primarily kalon about poetry is the successful making of it, while the product is derivatively kalon by being well made. This is not something that can be proven, of course. But even without speculating about its author’s intentions, we can conclude that Aristotle’s usage in the Poetics contributes to a drastic reframing of the question of how to evaluate and judge art. The one big worry in the Republic had been that the things actually portrayed through mimesis lead to a destructive

46  Hallvard J. Fossheim fragmentation of the soul. The single most dramatic innovation from the Republic – and Politics – to the Poetics is a shift in focus to the craft of portraying. And this shift allows Aristotle to argue that art offers not a source of fragmentation but of unity.

2.5 Aristotle’s reevaluation of the audience It is a rather drastic measure on Aristotle’s part to set up the poet’s perspective as a new focal point, both generally when it comes to poetry, and specifically when it comes to judgments in terms of what is kalon. As a pendant to this drastic measure, Aristotle also changes the corresponding notion of the audience. The author perspective allows him to demand a certain form of competence on their part to match that of the author. Most important among these innovations is Aristotle’s well-known claim that, in order to enjoy the pleasure proper to representational art, you have to be familiar with the relevant models. In order to recognize the product, you must have seen the original. And as far as the representation of ethical matters is concerned, to love them is to know them: the correct appreciation of characters better than us, and of what happens to them, requires decency on the part of the recipient. Without this experience and insight, you are simply not in a position to judge properly the qualities of the work of art, and will be stuck admiring it as just so many fragments of spectacle without reference. With it, on the other hand, you don’t even need the trimmings afforded by staging.30 This is a far cry from the picture invoked by Plato in his Symposium. At the drinking party, which takes place the night after Agathon has won a victory for his tragedy at the festival, Socrates turns to him and cries: “Agathon! […] How forgetful do you think I am? I saw how brave and dignified you were when you walked right up to the theater platform along with the actors and looked straight out at that enormous audience. You were about to put your own writing on display, and you weren’t the least bit panicked. After seeing that, how could I expect you to be flustered by us, when we are so few?” “Why Socrates”, said Agathon, “you must think I have nothing but theater audiences on my mind! So you suppose I don’t realize that, if you’re intelligent, you find a few sensible men much more frightening than a senseless crowd?” (194a–b) This exchange constitutes a rather dramatic take on how the masses rule the day at the theater. In this very elegant display of an elitist perspective, Socrates even pokes fun at Agathon for partaking in, and setting himself up to be judged in, such a populist setting.31 To very briefly recapitulate the two philosophers’ paradigmatic art recipients, then, Plato’s audience is a mass of people, some of them very young, corrupted (without even realizing it) on a psychological level below the

To kalon and the experience of art  47 threshold of rational or even conscious processing. In his properly ethical writings, Aristotle seems to share this vision. But when we turn to the Poetics, the paradigmatic recipient is the experienced and decent reader, grasping at the same time both the representation’s link to its real-life model and its inherent qualities as a unified whole.32 What could explain this difference in presumed audience? It is possible that its basis is a philosophical one, such as a difference in their psychological theories. Aristotle might have allowed for other cognitive abilities among cultivated and mature individuals than did Plato. But at least when it comes to the young and the many, Aristotle is as adamant as Plato’s dramatis personae about the critical psychological impact of art, and we have no direct indication that the two thinkers should differ drastically in their evaluation of the relevant cognitive abilities of the well brought up. Part of the explanation might also be historical. Although new tragedies continued to be churned out well into the second century ad, the acknowledged greats belonged to the fifth century bc. And it may be that already in Aristotle’s time, something about the reception of tragedy had changed. In Plato, it is always taken for granted that tragedy works through being staged at festivals. The Republic, the Symposium, and the Laws testify to tragedy as primarily encountered in its realization on stage. And as is clearly demonstrated by the exchange between Socrates and Agathon in the Symposium, quoted above, these occasions are seen as boisterous, popular, even vulgar events. At the same time, the passage indicates that even the elitist group in question normally depended on being present there as their source for knowing about the play’s qualities. As Socrates says, “we were at the theater too, you know, part of the ordinary crowd” (194c). Aristotle, by contrast, stresses how one gets all the relevant material out of a tragedy by treating it as text – that is, by reading it. And his very definition, and discussion, demarcates what a tragedy is by distinguishing its essence from all the stuff that can be added on stage as part of the dramatization. To Aristotle, the important tragedies are in a way already documents from an age gone by. Perhaps they, in his eyes, are so to a greater extent than they are integral parts of cultural training and weaving of the social web.33 This would at any rate help explain why Aristotle, while he is as adamant as Plato’s dramatis personae about the critical psychological impact of art on the young, allows himself to professionalize and perhaps even “aestheticize” the experience of tragedy in the Poetics. I submit that Aristotle managed to respond to Plato’s challenge by drastically reframing the question of art experience. By means of that same reframing, he reminds us that it can be part of the artist’s job to surprise, and to surprise in a particular way: through intellectual satisfaction, so that even elements that at first seemed jarring are tentatively integrated into one’s experience. Aristotle thus produced an analysis which is still unsurpassed of how we in one complex epiphany can judge the artist, the work, and ethical goodness.34

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Notes

To kalon and the experience of art  49

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20 21 22 23

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aiming at to kalon; what is new is primarily that the noble is now also seen via a view of the whole into which it fits. The statement about the effects of stories children hear is at 1336a30–4. (Cf. Plato’s Republic 3.401b-d, where the impact of symbols, traces, or likenesses of what is bad is presented as dangerous to the young people who are exposed to them, but unable to judge about them.) The part is often in Plato called thumoeidēs. John Cooper has argued that Aristotle invents in saying thumos aims at to kalon, while Gabriel Richardson Lear suggests that this is clear in Plato as well: (cf. Lear 2004), esp. Chapter 6, “Moral Virtue and to kalon” (123–146), note 36 at 139; Cooper (1999), at 263. Cooper argues that thumos according to the Republic aims only at timē. The Greek term translated as ‘pattern’ is tupos. In most of Socrates’ analysis, the word occurs in the plural. While the final tripartition happens in book four, the material we are presently considering is in books two and three. We should presume, however, that its author took seriously the tripartition to come, and tailored the pedagogical treatment in the earlier books to it. Cf. 3.389b, where falsehood is termed useful as a sort of drug. An explicit instance of the application of the methodology is found at 3.408bc. In the background here is of course the presupposition that (real) reality is beautiful. And even here, appreciating to kalon relates to courage, in that courage is the most extreme motivational job to kalon must do for the young guardians. Here, ugly is shameful, and beautiful is noble. The cultivating part is called ‘philosophical’ at 410de. The denomination ‘philosophical’ here means that the education in question provides cultivation more generally. (As said, at this point the text is still about the guardians, and the main psychological division has yet to be made.) – In the summary at 3.410e–411b, the result of the educative process is a harmony between the two parts that render the individual both moderate and courageous. One might think this means that the parts in question are appetite and thumos, respectively. However, if harmony is not reached, the individual is cowardly and savage, both of which are thumoeidetic qualities. And at 411ab, it is the spirited part that is melted and dissolved by sweet, soft, and plaintive musical tunes from a flute. Thumos is conceived as directed towards what it supposes to be noble, harmonious, and just throughout the Republic (cf., e.g., 4.439e–440d), but spirit that lacks the required music-and-poetry education will not be directed towards the later realization of reason’s rule (and the best among them will not be proper philosophers, 8.549ab). For evidence of the corresponding contention in Aristotle, cf. EN 4.9.1128b15–19. Cf., e.g., Rep. 378b–e. This is probably one reason why the Republic’s interlocutors agree that “everything fine is difficult” (chalepa ta kala, 435c). As an example, imagine groups of thugs who actually think they are wonderful and admirable in beating up innocent single individuals. The Republic’s guardians represent thumos, and are accordingly shaped by what I have called aesthetic means: art, imitations, images. If the images are fine and noble, the guardians are led unwittingly to the beauty of reason. If they are “images of evil (…], the guardians will “little by little (…] unwittingly accumulate a large evil in their souls” (Rep. 3.401b-d). ‘Unwittingly’ translates lanthane(i). One caveat is in order. I sometimes speak of tragedy, sometimes more generally about poetry or even more generally about art. Although the sources usually speak about a specific genre, my use of the wider denominations indicates that I take the texts to be intended to apply equally widely. Those who do not concur can simply substitute the species for the genus in the relevant passages.

50  Hallvard J. Fossheim













3

Aesthetic emotions David Konstan

Does Aristotle’s analysis of poetry in his Poetics take account of specifically aesthetic emotions? The answer to this question depends in part on what one understands by “aesthetic emotion.” In this chapter, I canvas five ways in which the concept may be parsed. Of these, I dismiss one as uninteresting, and I reject three more as irrelevant to Aristotle’s view; the fifth, however, which is less commonly identified as a response to art, constitutes, I argue, an important insight on Aristotle’s part and allows for a positive answer to the question.

3.1 Ordinary emotions: pity and fear If by “aesthetic emotion” we mean an emotional response of any sort that happens to be aroused by a work of art, then of course Aristotle recognized such emotions, most notably pity and fear. As he famously wrote in the Poetics: “tragedy, then, is a representation of a serious and complete action that has magnitude…, effecting, through pity and fear, the catharsis of such sentiments (pathēmata)” (6.1449b24–8). Aristotle’s account of comedy does not survive, and we do not know whether he identified a pair of emotions suitable to comedy or other genres, in the way that he deemed pity and fear to be both characteristic of and appropriate to tragedy (various emotions have been identified by scholars as possible candidates in the case of comedy).1 But whereas we may experience pity and fear, and no doubt other emotions, while watching a play or reading a book or viewing a work of pictorial or plastic art, and perhaps too while listening to music, there is nothing that distinguishes these emotions as specific to art. This is the uninteresting sense of aesthetic emotion, which is perhaps not wholly without consequence, since it may be worth examining why art can and does elicit the same emotions as events in real life, but since Aristotle straightforwardly affirms, without further explanation, that we do feel these emotions in response to tragedy, we can simply take this kind of emotional response as given, and proceed to more relevant conceptions.

52  David Konstan

3.2 Beauty and the aesthetic faculty On a view that gained especial salience with the emergence of aesthetics as a discipline in the eighteenth century, there exists unique and distinct emotion or feeling that responds specifically to art, or rather to that quality that finds its principal embodiment in art, namely beauty. David Hume, for example, affirmed in his Enquiry concerning Human Understanding, published in 1748: “beauty, whether moral or natural, is felt, more properly than perceived.”2 The modern critic Jesse Prinz, in turn, asserts categorically that “when we appreciate a work, the appreciation consists in an emotional response.”3 So understood, the aesthetic emotion is neither pity nor fear nor any other such feeling, but a unique kind of affect elicited by beauty as such. The emotion is sometimes associated with the idea of an aesthetic faculty, a particular capacity of the soul to appreciate beauty, as distinct from other objects of experience.4 Ancient Greek thinkers, however, seem never to have identified a specific emotional response to art as such, or to beauty as the signal quality of art (beauty may also be perceived in nature, of course). This is perhaps the less surprising in that there is no Greek term that corresponds precisely to the modern notion of “art.” More significantly, the Greeks seem not to have taken beauty to be the essential characteristic of a work of art, and Aristotle pays scant attention to beauty in the Poetics. To the extent that beauty was understood to arouse a specific response, it was more commonly taken to be a form of desire, most often erotic. A figure represented in a painting or statue, or described in a narrative, might be described as possessing beauty, of course, but the word for “beauty,” that is kállos, was rarely if ever applied to a work of art as such. Some confusion has arisen around the use of the adjective kalós, which broadly means “fine” or “excellent,” though it can signify “beautiful” when applied specifically to bodily appearance. When applied to works of art, the term typically referred to the excellence of their execution and mimetic fidelity to the object represented. A statue of an ugly person, or a poem about an immoral or otherwise repellent character, might be described as well-wrought (kalós or, as an adverb, kalōs), but would not have been regarded as possessing beauty or kállos.5 Indeed, I know of no passage in which an ancient Greek wondered whether a representation of an unattractive or repulsive object might nevertheless be said to be beautiful as a work of art, though the problem has beset modern art critics. There was, in any event, no emotion (as distinct from desire) that was specifically associated with beauty in our Greek sources, and the absence of any mention of an aesthetic emotion in this sense in Aristotle is therefore unsurprising. Although the noun kállos commonly designates physical or visible beauty, it can by extension be applied to attractive items such as a well-wrought cup or, indeed, a word or phrase; Aristotle himself wrote that the beauty (kállos) of a word lies in the sounds or the sense (Rhet. 3.1405b5–8). But Aristotle nowhere, to my knowledge, applies this term to a work of art as a whole, for example a tragedy or lyric

Aesthetic emotions  53 poem, and I doubt that he would have thought of beauty as the feature of art that elicits an aesthetic emotion. This is probably just as well, since he avoided the difficulties that have arisen in modern controversies concerning beauty in art.

3.3 Proto-emotions On another view of aesthetic emotion, the response to art consists not in an affect of a unique kind, different from all other feelings, but rather in a particular inflection of ordinary emotions. For all that a tragedy may inspire pity and fear, the fear we experience in the theater does not seem to be precisely like that which is felt in the presence of an actual danger – we do not get up and race out of the theater, as we would were we facing a genuine threat. Did Aristotle, then, understand the pity and fear that tragedy ideally elicits as conditioned by our knowledge that the play is a representation or mimēsis, and that the characters in it are merely acting in accord with a script and not truly suffering the catastrophes to which they are apparently exposed? When we frame the question in this way, the answer is rather more difficult to ascertain, since Aristotle nowhere in the Poetics explicitly distinguishes between what we may call normal pity and fear, or other emotions that figure prominently in his rhetorical and ethical writings, and the kind of feelings that tragedy or other works of art elicit. Is there something about the tragic emotions that marks them as specifically aesthetic? Later thinkers, and the Stoics in particular, did indeed draw a distinction between responses to a work of art, whether on the stage, in literature, or in painting and sculpture, and emotions proper. Thus, Seneca, writing several centuries after Aristotle, makes it clear that our responses to drama and literature are different in kind from the emotions that real events, or events we take to be real, may arouse. Near the beginning of the second book of his treatise, On Anger, Seneca describes a set of responses that, he says, are not emotions (adfectus), strictly speaking, but rather “the initial preliminaries to emotions” (principia proludentia adfectibus, 2.2.6). These are defined as “motions that do not arise through our will,” and are therefore irresistible and do not yield to reason. Seneca provides a lengthy and, at first blush, rather puzzling list of these proto-emotions, which include such responses as shivering or goose-pimples when one is sprinkled with cold water, aversion to certain kinds of touch (presumably slimy things and the like: the idea is that of disgust), the rising of one’s hair at bad news, blushing at obscene language, and vertigo produced by heights, along with responses to theatrical spectacles and narratives of historical events, songs and martial trumpeting, horrible paintings, and the sight of punishments, even when deserved, and contagious laughter and sadness, which is no more genuine grief that the frown evoked by seeing a shipwreck in a play, just as it is not real fear one feels, Seneca says, when reading about the Roman disaster in the battle of Cannae.

54  David Konstan What these preliminaries to emotion have in common is that we do not give our assent to them, which is required, according to the Stoics, if a response is to be characterized as a true emotion. As Seneca states in the case of anger: “we are investigating whether anger follows immediately upon the impression itself and runs over without the mind agreeing, or is stimulated when the mind assents” (On Anger 2.1.3). Seneca then adds: we maintain that anger does not venture anything on its own but only when the mind approves; for to accept the impression of an injury that has been sustained and desire vengeance for it – and to unite the two judgments, that one ought not to have been harmed and that one ought to be avenged – this is not characteristic of an impulse (impetus) that is aroused without our will (voluntas). For the latter kind is simple, but the former is composite and contains several elements: one has discerned something, grown indignant, condemned it, and takes revenge: these things cannot occur unless the mind consents to those things by which it was affected. (2.1.4) Returning, then, to Seneca’s inventory of the preliminaries to emotion, or what some of our sources label “pre-emotions” (propatheiai), we may note that some of these are simply automatic reflexes, like goose-bumps when one is cold or dizziness when looking over a precipice. In the case of others, however, and in particular reactions to theatrical performances and narratives, whether historical or fictional, we presumably withhold assent to “the impression of an injury that has been sustained” and the desire to avenge it because we know full well that these events are mere inventions or have occurred a long time in the past, and in either case do not represent reasons why we ourselves should be angry or, as the case may be, feel genuine pity or fear. Now, Aristotle knew perfectly well the difference between real-life experience and a mere representation or imitation of life. As he puts it in the Poetics, imitation is innate in human beings from when they are children, and they differ from other animals in this, that they are the most imitative creature and acquire their first learning through imitation, and all take pleasure (khairousi) in imitations (mimēmata). There is a sign of this in works (erga): for we enjoy contemplating the most precisely done images of the very things we view with pain, for example the forms of the basest animals and corpses. (4.1448b5–12) Aristotle explains that the pleasure we feel at a good imitation derives from our joy in learning and reasoning, which we exercise when we recognize a

Aesthetic emotions  55 likeness. Plutarch develops this insight of Aristotle’s in his treatise, “How a Youth Should Listen to Poems,” in which he offers advice on how to protect youngsters from the potential harm that derives from literature, against which Plato had cautioned. Plutarch insists that the young must realize that when people praise a work of art or poetry, what they admire is the skill and propriety of the imitation, not the action imitated (18B). This is why, he says, we take delight in imitations of sounds that are naturally disagreeable, such as the squeal of a pig, a squeaky wheel, the rustle of the wind, or the beating of the sea (18C). As Plutarch sums it up: “imitating something good is not the same as doing it well” (ou gar esti tauto to kalon ti mimeisthai kai kalōs, 18D; cf. Quaestiones convivales 5.1). Pierre Destrée has argued that the experience of pity and fear in the theater, as opposed to real life, is pleasurable, and in this respect is different from the usual emotions. The view is based principally on Aristotle’s affirmation that “the poet must produce pleasure from (apo) pity and fear through (dia) mimesis” (14.1453b12). So too, Malcolm Heath affirms: “Aristotle thinks that epic and tragedy are enjoyable because of their emotional effect: the characteristic pleasure of tragedy is the pleasure that comes from pity and fear (14.1453b10–13).”6 But Aristotle makes it clear here and elsewhere that it is imitation that causes pleasure; what is specific to tragedy is that the praxis that is imitated is of the sort to elicit pity and fear. The emotions themselves are painful, whether in the theater or in life. I shall return to the question of the pleasure we take in appreciating a good imitation or representation. What is clear, however, is that Aristotle did not discriminate explicitly between the kind of emotion we experience upon witnessing what we know full well is an imitation and what we take to be real.

3.4 Fear for others Stephen Halliwell has suggested that the fear we experience in tragedy differs from that we ordinarily feel not insofar as it is conditioned by the knowledge that we are witnessing a fiction, but rather because it is fear felt for another, and depends on the sympathy we feel with the characters on the stage. As he writes: “Aristotle’s discussion of the nature of fear … does not rule out the possibility that its object can in some cases be the prospect of others’ sufferings.”7 Halliwell explains: “For this to be so, we can deduce, one condition must be satisfied: the prerequisite of strong sympathy. Once this exists, we can feel fear for others analogous to fear for ourselves.” In a note (n. 32), Halliwell reaffirms his earlier interpretation of tragic fear as essentially other-regarding, felt not directly for oneself but vicariously ‘for’ (peri, Poet. 13.1453a5–6) the tragic agents; it is therefore not so much a distinct impulse as an index, in the experience of mimetic art, of the intensity of the impulse to pity.

56  David Konstan The difficulty with Halliwell’s analysis is that Aristotle does not conceive of the tragic emotions as predicated on sympathy or identification with the characters on stage. In the Rhetoric (2.8.2), Aristotle defines pity as pain arising from a perceived evil that is destructive or painful, in a person who does not deserve to meet with it – an evil that one may expect either to suffer oneself, or that someone of one’s own (family) may do so; and this, when the evil appears near. Aristotle goes on to say that those who have lost everything are, accordingly, incapable of pity, since they have nothing more to fear, as are those who expect that they will prosper exceedingly (2.8.3). He states too that one pities acquaintances unless they are too closely related, in which case a sense of horror (to deinon) drives out pity (2.8.12). Finally, he adds that people pity those who are similar (homoioi), whether in age, character, family, or whatever; “in general,” he concludes, “one must presume that people pity just those things, when they happen to others, that they fear when they happen to themselves” (2.8.13). The account of pity presented in the Rhetoric explains why we feel this emotion in regard to characters in a tragedy, who suffer undeservedly and are not our close friends or family members (that is, philoi), but it would seem to exclude the possibility that a work of art can arouse fear: pity is precisely what we experience on behalf of others when they suffer things that we fear on our own behalf. As for fear, Aristotle’s definition runs: let fear be a kind of pain or disturbance deriving from an impression (phantasia) of a future evil that is destructive or painful; for not all evils are feared, for example whether one will be unjust or slow, but as many as are productive of great pain or destruction, and these if they are not distant but rather seem near so as to impend. For things that are remote are not greatly feared. (2.5.1382a21–5) Here again, Aristotle is clearly speaking of a future harm to oneself, not to another. It is true that Aristotle seems to have altered slightly his analysis of pity and fear in the Poetics. Here, he explains that pity and fear are not excited when we see thoroughly bad men ruined: for such a plot may involve sympathy (to philanthrōpon), but neither pity nor fear, for the one concerns a man who is undeservedly unfortunate, while the other concerns a man who is similar (homoios): pity concerns the undeserving man, fear concerns the one who is similar. (13.1453a2–6)

Aesthetic emotions  57 The idea that the objects of pity do not deserve their fate is present in the definition Aristotle offers in the Rhetoric; in the Poetics, however, Aristotle adduces the notion of similarity, which he had mentioned in the Rhetoric in connection with pity, in order to account for the terror that tragedy elicits. Presumably, if the characters on stage are enough like ourselves – the context indicates that Aristotle means morally similar – then their situations will induce fear in us. But there is no reason to suppose that this fear is for the characters, rather than for ourselves; just as in the case of pity, the effect of the similarity is to make us aware that we are ourselves vulnerable to a comparable misfortune. What is more, since fear, as Aristotle makes clear, is aroused by an impending danger and not present misfortune, we would not feel it for the characters on stage once their devastation was accomplished, but at best, only previously, in anticipation of the disaster, by way of identifying with their emotional state.8 But Aristotle distinguishes such sentimental identification from the emotions of pity and fear in the proper sense. For he objects precisely to the humane response he calls to philanthrōpon, or “sympathy,” which we may experience upon witnessing the misfortune of even a bad person.9 So too, Aristotle affirms that when someone kills an enemy, there is nothing to excite pity, save for the pathos itself (14.1453b17–18), that is, the distress that is caused; in the Poetics, we may note, Aristotle employs the term pathos in the more general sense of anything we suffer or endure, rather than restricting it to emotions like anger, fear, and pity, as he does in the second book of the Rhetoric. Our response to such harm or anguish, irrespective of desert, is precisely an instance of sympathy or to philanthrōpon. Again, when Aristotle writes that a tragic muthos must have pathos in addition to peripateia (that is, reversal) and recognition (11.1452b9–13), he means that a good tragic story should include an element of real hurt, which is what distinguishes it from comedy, since laughter is produced by what is painless and not destructive (anōdunon kai ou phthartikon, 5.1449a34).10 Although Aristotle does not employ the label, such a sentiment is comparable to the pre-emotions described by Seneca, aroused without the assent of judgment, among which he specifically mentions the sentimental reaction to punishment even when it is deserved. Tragic fear, then, is no different from ordinary fear, save in one respect: it involves an inference from the misfortune of others to our own susceptibility to such adversity.

3.5 Art and emotion We have so far examined the idea of aesthetic emotions as a unique response to the quality of beauty, as a regular emotion that is nevertheless inhibited by our awareness that what we are witnessing is a representation, and as a sympathetic or other-regarding emotion on behalf of fictional characters, and I have argued that none of these correspond to Aristotle’s notion

58  David Konstan of tragic pity and fear. There is nevertheless, I believe, one sense in which Aristotle’s tragic emotions may be characterized as aesthetic, not insofar as they differ intrinsically from ordinary emotions (as in the second and third examples), but rather because they are elicited by an aesthetic object. But this object is not defined as aesthetic by virtue of beauty, as in the first example, but by another property specific to tragedy as a work of art. To state my conclusion in advance, pity and fear are aesthetic emotions, according to Aristotle’s analysis, because they are aroused by the artistic organization or combination of events, which, though it may sometimes be manifested in real-life stories, is distilled most especially in good tragedies. Central to my argument is that tragic pity and fear are not conceived of by Aristotle as reactions to specific incidents in a play, such as the onset of Philoctetes’ unendurable pain in Sophocles’ tragedy, or Oedipus as he emerges from the palace with bloodied eye sockets, after he has learned the truth of his parricide and incest and stabbed out his eyes. Powerful as these scenic effects, as we might call them, may be, they are incidental to Aristotle’s view of the proper nature of tragedy and are not the source of tragic pity and fear.11 As Aristotle puts it, it is possible, to be sure, for what is frightening (to phoberon) and pitiable to arise from visual effects, but it is also possible for it to arise from the arrangement of events itself, which is prior and pertains to the better poet. He further explains: for the plot must be arranged in such a way that one who hears the events both shudders and feels pity as a result of what occurs, even without seeing them: this is what one would experience upon hearing the plot of the Oedipus. Aristotle goes on to observe (14.1453b1–14): To provide this by way of visual effect is more unartistic and also requires financial support. Those who provide not what is frightening but rather merely what is monstrous (to teratōdes) via visual effect have nothing in common with tragedy. For one must not seek every kind of pleasure from tragedy, but just that which is appropriate to it. Since the poet must provide pleasure from pity and fear through representation, it is clear that this must be embedded in the events. Towards the end of the Poetics, where Aristotle extols tragedy as superior to epic, he seems to grant visual effects a greater value. He repeats that one can appreciate drama, like epic, by reading, but adds that tragedy has everything that epic has (it can even exploit the hexameter meter), but has “in addition,

Aesthetic emotions  59 as no small element, music and visual effects, through which pleasures are most vividly produced” (26.1462a15–17). But this kind of pleasure remains subordinate to that produced by the plot itself. Pity and fear, then, are inspired not by episodes, however gruesome, reported or enacted on stage within the play, but by the entire story, up to and including the denouement. These emotions are a response to the action or praxis as a whole – that is, the entire narrative trajectory, which has a beginning, a middle, and an end. Pity and fear presuppose the conclusion: they are the emotions elicited by the particular type of action or praxis that the tragic poet has elected to represent.12 A review of the mentions of pity and fear in the Poetics confirms, I believe, that Aristotle in fact regards them as elicited by the entire or complete action, rather than by discrete events that take place as the drama unfolds.13 The first mention of these emotions comes with Aristotle’s definition of tragedy, which was quoted above: “Tragedy, then, is a representation of a serious and complete action that has magnitude…, effecting, through pity and fear, the catharsis of such sentiments” (4.1449b24–8). The most natural way to take the sentence is to see the emotions as a response to the complete action mentioned immediately before (the omitted bit refers to poetic language and performance through speeches rather than narration). The next passage to mention pity and fear is perhaps less straightforward. Here, Aristotle points out that, since the representation is not just of a complete action but also of frightening and pitiable things (phoberōn kai eleeinōn), these happen most of all when they happen contrary to expectation because of each other. For in this way it has more of the amazing than if (they happen) of themselves and by chance. (9.1452a1–6) Are the frightening and pitiable things, then, individual events that occur on stage, as opposed to the action as a whole? I think not. That the successive events are linked by cause and effect again suggests that Aristotle is thinking of the full narrative, which deceives the expectation we form on the basis of the story so far. Aristotle cites the example of a statue of Mitys in Argos which fell upon Mitys’ assassin while he was viewing a spectacle – the kind of thing, Aristotle says, that does not seem merely random, but is rather a fitting conclusion to the tale. In the next passage, Aristotle argues that a recognition in a tragedy is best when it coincides with the reversal. There are indeed other types of recognition, “but the aforementioned is the best in a story and in an action. For such a recognition and reversal will have either pity or fear, and it is of such actions that tragedy is assumed to be a representation” (11.1452a36–b1). Here, pity and fear are associated with the principal turn of the narrative, which brings the action to its denouement; the recognition and reversal are

60  David Konstan the culmination of the action, and only produce the relevant emotions when viewed as such. Aristotle makes the same point when he affirms in passing that the composition (sunthesis) of a tragedy should be complex rather than simple, as well as imitative of things that are frightening and pitiable (13.1452b30–3): it is the arrangement of the whole that renders the parts productive of pity and fear. The discussion that follows touches on the need to represent the fall from good fortune to bad of a man who is of an elevated position, albeit not distinguished for virtue or justice, and whose devastation is the result not of vice or wickedness but of a mistake: for this pattern alone is productive of fear and pity (13.1453a7–10). Here it is again evident, I think, that the tragic emotions are elicited in principle by the contour of the story as a whole, taken from beginning to end.14 Later, Aristotle remarks that the kinds of actions that best produce fear and pity are those that occur among kin (en tais philiais, 1453b19). Once again, it is the action as a whole that generates the tragic emotions; for the story to arouse the appropriate affects, it must have achieved closure. This is the last relevant reference to pity and fear in the Poetics (apart from the mention of these two emotions, along with “orgē (anger) and such like,” at 19.1456b1). Of course, not all tragedies ended unhappily, as Aristotle knew perfectly well, and those that do not might not elicit pity and fear, on my interpretation of Aristotle’s argument, though again they might. It is possible, as Jennifer Wise has recently argued, that Aristotle had in mind not the entire gamut of fifth-century tragedy, but rather those that were staged in his own time, when Euripides dominated the theater and conditioned the dramatic taste of the public.15 But even stories that turn out well in the end, like Euripides’ Helen or Iphigenia among the Taurians, not to mention Aeschylus’ Oresteia or Sophocles’ Philoctetes, take the spectator through such harrowing experiences as to render the overall muthos a source of pity and fear. I have been arguing that, for Aristotle, tragic pity and fear are responses not to any bad thing that happens to a character with whom the audience sympathizes, but rather to the complete action that is represented in the play, with the final closure that brings it to a proper termination – that point at which nothing of necessity exists or comes afterwards, in Aristotle’s formulation. To be sure, Aristotle sometimes speaks as though events in the course of the drama elicit these passions, but always in a context in which he is evidently thinking of the movement of the plot or composition as a whole. To put it differently, the tragic emotions are a response to a story, not just to a shocking event. And stories are fundamentally a form of art, even if, on occasion, events in real life may assume, by accident as it were, the shape of a well-made narrative. This is why Aristotle insists that a proper muthos, which is to say, a representation of a single praxis, does not include all the events in a person’s life, as was the practice of some earlier epic poets: the task of the poet is to select and arrange, not simply to string incidents together. What is more, an action, to be proper to tragedy or, one imagines, any artistic representation must be comprehensible – its beginning, middle,

Aesthetic emotions  61 and end must be of a scale to be taken in by the eye or the mind. An outsized story or muthos can no more constitute a single action than an animal that is 10,000 stades long can be regarded as kalós, that is, fine of its kind: it is simply too big to grasp in its entirety, that is, as a single thing, just as it would take years to observe the trajectory of a person’s life from birth to death, even if it somehow manifested a coherent structure. Creating a proper story, in the sense of an imitation of a single action, requires compression and selection, so that the entire narrative fits into a brief and comprehensible period; it is to this muthos that pity and fear respond. Real life rarely presents events in this form, and so, although we may experience the emotions of pity and fear in respect to the underserved misfortunes and dangers that we encounter in everyday activity, these are not elicited by the kind of phenomenon that we respond to when watching, or reading, a tragedy. Tragic pity and fear – and whatever other emotions might correspond to genres such as comedy – are in this respect properly aesthetic in character.16

3.6 Emotion and imitation We have observed that pity and fear, according to Aristotle, are a response to the action that, as Aristotle puts it, is imitated or represented in the dramatic work. Imitation is the source of the pleasure we derive from tragedy, insofar as we recognize a likeness between the representation and the thing represented. Aristotle explains that for everyone, and not just philosophers, learning is extremely pleasant (4.1448b13–14). He goes on to observe that people enjoy (khairousi) seeing images (eikones) because they learn and reason about what each thing is, for example, that this man – i.e., the one represented in the picture or statue – is that one (houtos ekeinos, 1448b16– 17). Thus, when one has not seen in advance (proeōrakōs) the object that is represented, then the pleasure it produces must be due to some other cause, such as the workmanship or colors (1448b17–19).17 Now, although Aristotle’s formulation here is not entirely clear, there is good reason, I think, not to take him as claiming that such recognition is limited to identifying the particular individual represented in the artwork, in the sense of recognizing the subject of a portrait, for example, that it is precisely Socrates. One reasons or learns by inference (sullogizesthai) what kind of thing is imitated, for instance, that it is a sage or an elderly male (if the image is of Socrates), or more simply that it is a person; similarly, one can recognize animals or plants, not only in the sense of this particular creature (i.e., my neighbor’s dog Rex or prize rosebush), but as a species.18 It is, after all, in just this respect that poetry, according to Aristotle, is more philosophical than history, which records what has happened as opposed to the kind of thing that happens (9.1451b4–7). Similarly, in the case of a tragedy, we take pleasure in recognizing not that the character on stage is Oedipus or Jocasta, or in individual events that make up the story (e.g., Oedipus’ self-blinding, or the revelation of his identity), but in the nature of the praxis that is represented. These are,

62  David Konstan as Aristotle says, of a limited number of kinds, which is why tragedians have settled on the stories of a few families known from mythology; even in these stories, the majority of spectators will not know the details or recognize the particular figures represented (9.1451b25–26). Indeed, even when the tragedian invents the entire story and represents fictitious characters, the tragedy provides the same kind of pleasure (1451b19–23). In recognizing the kind of praxis that a tragic muthos represents, we identify what we may call – without, I think, being unfaithful to Aristotle’s meaning – an archetypal human experience, one that is familiar to us in its general lineaments. In the case of Oedipus, for example, it may be not the fact of unwittingly murdering one’s father and sleeping with one’s mother (I do not expect that Aristotle had in mind the Freudian archetype), but more generally the revelation of dreadful events in one’s past, thanks in part to one’s own proud curiosity. If tragic imitation is of universal life patterns or praxeis, then it is understandable that spectators of such stories will experience pity and fear, since all human beings are vulnerable to such disasters. We recognize both that the characters in the drama did not deserve the catastrophes that befell them, and that we are similar to them and hence can reasonably fear that we ourselves may fall victim to a like misfortune. These are real emotions, and as such are unpleasant or, in Aristotle’s expression, are accompanied by pain or lupē. If it is true that they result from an implicit comparison of the actions on stage and one’s own vulnerable condition, this is the very essence of pity, as Aristotle defines it, and fear too may arise from analogy with the disasters that befall others in our condition. Aristotle explains that we acquire confidence (to tharsos), which he describes as the opposite of fear, by means inference and comparison; we will be confident, for example, if we believe that we have defeated people who are equal to or stronger than our enemies and rivals, or that we have more wealth, friends, land, and matériel for war than they do (Rhet. 2.5.1383a32–b3). So too, Aristotle observes, people become fearful when they recall that others, more powerful than they, have suffered comparable defeats, since in this way they become aware of their own vulnerability (1383a8–12) – an inference from the fate of others that is analogous to Aristotle’s account of pity. It is not, then, the experience of pity and fear per se that provides tragic pleasure, but the accompanying insight we gain when we perceive how the work of art has captured faithfully the essence of the action or praxis it is imitating. That pleasure is not itself an emotion, but rather a sensation or aisthēsis, or at all events perceptible motions in the psyche;19 according to Aristotle’s definition of pathos in the Rhetoric, it is a component or accompaniment of emotion proper (2.1.1378a20–23). Pity and fear, then, are aesthetic emotions insofar as they are elicited by an imitation of a praxis. Were real life to present us with a sequence of events so arranged and compact as to capture the form of such a praxis, we would experience the same painful emotions. Would we also experience the compensating pleasure of recognition? Perhaps so, insofar as we perceived the

Aesthetic emotions  63 events as bearing a moral, as it were, or revealing something essential about life. We today might remark on the human tendency to construct stories, by which we imagine our lives as having a plot and hence an aesthetic dimension. But perhaps Aristotle would demur, and maintain that we do not take the same delight in the way the statue of Mitys collapsed upon and killed his murderer as we do when we watch a tragedy, since we do not perceive a deliberate imitation but merely an accidental concatenation of events (unless we imagine Nature or some divine agent as the artist – and indeed, there may be some such personification at work when we take satisfaction in coincidences of this kind). We feel pity and fear when we watch a tragedy because we see, in nucleo and distilled to its essence, the kinds of disasters to which we are prone, thanks to a fault or weakness in ourselves, perhaps, but not due to outand-out wickedness. The tragic emotions are those elicited by stories of this type, and they are aesthetic because such stories are the product of the tragedian’s art. But they are real emotions all the same, and the fear we feel is for ourselves as we infer our own susceptibility to such adversity. This is, I think, an important insight on Aristotle’s part, and one that deserves more serious consideration than it has received by modern students of aesthetics.20

Notes 1 Conceivably the comic emotions would have been those that Aristotle identified as the opposites of pity and fear in the Rhetoric, namely indignation (to nemesan) and confidence (tharros). On the possibility that phthonos may have been a comic emotion for Aristotle, see Trivigno’s chapter in this volume. Sanders (2014, 106) has proposed that Old Comedy appealed to the audience’s envy of politically prominent figures. Aristophanes also staged his own rivalry with comic poets such as Eupolis and Cratinus; (cf. Biles 2011 and Telò 2016). Still others have proposed laughter as the response that Aristotle would have deemed proper to comedy; although laughter is not precisely an emotion, Aristotle may not have sought a perfect symmetry with tragedy in this regard. The Tractatus Coislianus, which conceivably adapts material from Aristotle’s Poetics, defines comedy as “a representation of an absurd, complete action..., through pleasure and laughter achieving the purgation of the like emotions” (tr. Janko, p. 93); (see Janko 1984, Watson 2012). 2 Hume (1999, 210); cf. Gracyk (1994). 3 Prinz (2011, 71). Cf. Starr (2013, 33): “emotion is the key to aesthetic experience.” 4 Kant associated the aesthetic faculty with the faculty of judgment (cf. Kaplama 2013, 299–300). For a recent version, taking account of cognitive evolution, see Deacon (2006), esp. p. 37): “the question of what aspects of aesthetic cognition have phylogenetic antecedents and what aspects are uniquely human can ... be framed in terms of emotion.” 5 See Konstan (2014). Compare the opposite responses to Matisse’s modernist painting, Blue Nude, on the part of Nehamas (2007, 24), who does not hesitate to describe it as beautiful, arguing that “beauty is not identical with an attractive appearance,” and Danto (2003, 36–7), who affirms that the Blue Nude “is a good, even a great painting – but someone who claims it is beautiful is talking through his or her hat.”

64  David Konstan

Aesthetic emotions  65 from a change that catches the agent unawares (a peripateia suggests a sudden recognition), and to a person whom we did not expect to see in such a state – someone like ourselves, which is what generates anxiety, not least because, in the end, we perceive how the initial conditions led, if not by necessity, at least plausibly to the unanticipated consequences. 15 Wise (2013). 16 We may compare the way in which paintings of landscapes, for example, select a particular view, one that is, moreover, framed as a square or rectangle; such representations provide the model of what we take to be an artistic composition, so that, when we look at a natural scene that strikes us as beautiful, we have implicitly selected and framed a perspective under the influence of painted landscapes that we have learned to appreciate. 17 The passage is worth quoting in full: This is why people enjoy seeing images: because it turns out that when they behold them they learn and reason about what each thing is, for example, that that man is this one; for if one happens not to have seen it before, it will produce pleasure not qua imitation but through the workmanship or the color or some other such reason. (4.1448b15–19) 18 Cf. Borg (2005, 210): the meaningfulness and truth of a narrative or pictorial representation does not, or at least not necessarily, depend on the factual existence of the protagonists but on the belief that the characters and concepts embodied by them are existent and that their actions and mutual attitudes are both relevant and morally acceptable. (201) 19 See De An. 413b23, where Aristotle affirms that “where there is perception there is also pain and pleasure.” At Rhet. 1369b33–35, Aristotle states that pleasure, like pain, is perceptible (aisthētēn). My thanks to Malcolm Heath for alerting me to these passages. Dow (2015, 146) states, “Passions simply are states of pain or pleasure (or both).” But he parses this to mean that such states are “intentional and representational,” and that the target object gives “‘grounds’ for the particular emotion experienced.” There is, nevertheless, a distinction between pleasure and pain as such, even when they result coincidentally from judgment or belief, and the pathē analyzed in book 2 of the Rhetoric. 20 Versions of this chapter were presented at the Institute of Greece, Rome, and the Classical Tradition, the University of Bristol, in 2017 (the First Sir Jeremy Morse Memorial Lecture), and (in French) at the seminar on Aristotle’s Poetics at the École Normale Supérieure, also in 2017.

4

Was phthonos a comedic emotion for Aristotle? On the pleasure and moral psychology of laughter Franco V. Trivigno

Drawing on evidence from the Rhetoric, the Politics, and the Nicomachean Ethics, this chapter provides a partial and speculative reconstruction of Aristotle’s promised, but apparently lost, account of comedy in the Poetics. It attempts to answer the following question: if one assumes that Aristotle wrote a part of the Poetics that contained a definition of comedy, and that the definition of comedy was parallel to that of tragedy in that it involved a catharsis of some emotions, then what emotion or emotions might be the comedic counterparts to pity and fear (13.1453a2–7)? My hypothesis is that phthonos, translated variously as “malice” or “envy,”1 directed at the success of another, was one of the comedic emotions.2 I am not the first to make this suggestion,3 but I aim to deepen the suggestion and to render it more plausible by providing a conceptual analysis of phthonos in order to reconstruct a plausibly Aristotelian moral psychology of the experience of comedy. Drawing from both Plato’s account in the Philebus and Aristotle’s in the Rhetoric, I offer an analysis of phthonos as a complex emotion, involving a proper pain, a distinctive desire, and a proper pleasure. In short, I aim to defend four claims which might make up the core of Aristotle’s view of the experience of comedy: (1) the underlying painful attitude of phthonos is felt by the audience for the characters on stage for their initial (or expected) good fortune; (2) this attitude essentially involves a desire for the target to lose this good fortune or experience bad fortune; (3) the pleasure of laughter is the result of having this desire satisfied in the comedy; and, (4)  contrary to Plato, the comedic experience neutralizes, rather than indulges and strengthens, the audience’s phthonos. In the first section, I will formulate and briefly defend the plausibility of the chapter’s main assumption that the putative definition of comedy parallels the structure of the definition of tragedy. In Section 2, I turn to the text of the Poetics we do have, examining the evidence for Aristotle’s account of comedy, focusing particularly on to geloion, the “laughable” or “ridiculous,” as the kind of action that comedy dramatizes. In Section 3, I provide an analysis of the concept of phthonos, pulling together its affective and conative components. In Section 4, I formulate three sorts of constraints on what the comedic emotions could be for Aristotle: (1) historical requirements that

Was phthonos a comedic emotion for Aristotle?  67 the picture of the experience of comedy resonates with the actual practice of comedy and that there be evidence for the emotion in the philosophical tradition; (2) moral psychological requirements that the relevant emotion be sufficiently common in the audience and appropriate for catharsis; and (3)  theoretical requirements that the relevant emotion fit with and could work within Aristotle’s theory, in particular, his account of to geloion. In Section 5, I argue that phthonos plausibly satisfies all of these requirements and provide an Aristotelian reconstruction of the audience experience of comedy. I end, in Section 6, by considering some objections to my proposal.

4.1 From tragedy to comedy A working assumption of this chapter is that Aristotle would have offered a definition of comedy and that it would parallel in significant ways the definition of tragedy. In this section, my aim is to make this assumption seem plausible and formulate what I take it to entail. In book 6 of the Poetics, Aristotle defines tragedy thus: Tragedy then is an imitation of an action that is serious, complete and of a certain magnitude, in language pleasurably adorned—each kind used separately in the different parts of the work—in a dramatic, not narrative form, through pity and fear effecting the catharsis of such emotions. (6.1449b24–8)4 Just before introducing this definition, Aristotle mentions his intention to discuss both epic and comedy later (6.1449b21–2). When Aristotle does return to epic (Chapters 23–26), he uses his account of tragedy as a way of analyzing epic. Since tragedy has all the elements of epic and more (26.1462a14–17), whoever knows about tragedy knows about epic too (5.1449b17–20). Thus, by changing some elements, e.g. regarding the mode of imitation (epic uses both dramatic and narrative imitation), one can come to formulate a definition of epic. This internal evidence generates a presumption in favor of the idea that Aristotle would have offered a definition of comedy, which would have been similarly articulable in terms borrowed from the definition of tragedy. Given the similarity between tragedy and comedy across a number of different axes in the Poetics itself, there are good reasons to think that several parts would remain unchanged. Let the following stand as an incomplete and provisional definition of comedy5: Comedy is [1] an imitation of an action, that is [2] [some evaluative term], [3] complete and [4] of a certain magnitude, [5] in language pleasurably adorned—[6] each kind used separately in the different parts of the work—[7] in a dramatic, not narrative form, [8] through [some emotion(s)] [9] effecting the catharsis of such emotions.

68  Franco V. Trivigno This chapter will focus on figuring out what emotions6 might go into number [8], and, in the next section, I will spend some time elaborating what [2] might involve. But there is very good internal evidence that [1] and [3] to [7] can be held constant, that is, that comedy will share these features with tragedy: regarding [1] and [7], it is very clear that Aristotle considers comedy in its developed form to be a dramatic imitation of characters “acting and doing” and so to be classified along with tragedy as “drama” (3.1448a25–9). That comedy’s action should be [3] ‘complete’ in the sense of proceeding probably from incidents in the beginning to the end is clear from 9.1451b8–15, where Aristotle seems to make universality of plot an aim of poetry in general and to say of comedians that they “construct the plot out of probable incidents.” If this is right, then regarding [4], given the connection between having parts and being of a certain magnitude (1450b), it should follow that comedies should be “of a certain magnitude.”7 I take [5] and [6] to be relatively uncontroversial, inasmuch as comedy, like tragedy, employs “rhythm and harmony” and uses both song and spoken verse in different sections (6.1449b28–31). The catharsis clause [9] is more controversial, and Aristotle famously provides little else to go on about it in the Poetics. Even in the case of tragedy, for which we have Aristotle’s view, there is strong disagreement regarding the meaning of catharsis and the implications of the “such” (toioutōn), modifying “emotions.” For the purposes of this chapter, I take no stand on the particular meaning of catharsis or on the question of whether the “such” points to emotions other than but similar to pity and fear. I take it that all parties to the dispute agree that, at minimum, catharsis functions to neutralize the potentially harmful effects of the aforementioned emotional responses to tragedy, i.e. at least pity and fear. I take no stand on whether catharsis does more than this, e.g. moderates or trains the emotions, whether it involves some essentially cognitive or intellectual component, and exactly how it is meant to operate.8 On the question of whether Aristotle thought there was a catharsis of the comedic emotions, scholarly opinion is divided.9 However, there are three historical reasons to think that he did, and I will articulate them in what I take to be ascending order of strength. First, there is a historical tradition, arguably tracing back to Aristotle, that explicitly mentions or implies comic catharsis. The crucial texts are a fragment from Philodemus, On Poetry (PHerc. 1581),10 Iamblichus’ De Mysteriis, Proclus’ in Platonis Rem Publicum, and the Tractatus Coislinianus. This tradition begins with Philodemus in the first century bce – a papyrus fragment from his On Poetry, found in Herculaneum, contains the following: “it is accepted that poetry is something useful with a view to purifying (kathairousa),11 as we say, the part [of the soul]” (Fr. I). After mentioning catharsis again, Philodemus, in Fr. II, mentions the types of character that require it: “in the souls of the wisest, there is folly and licentiousness in those of the most temperate; likewise, there are fears ([pho]boi) in the brave ones

Was phthonos a comedic emotion for Aristotle?  69 and phthonoi in the magnanimous ones.”12 Though comedy is not mentioned explicitly in this text as leading to a catharsis of emotions, it is surely meant by Philodemus to fall under the larger category of poetry, whose usefulness is formulated in terms of a catharsis of emotions. In addition, this very early text provides some indirect evidence that the relevant comic emotion might have been phthonos (see below). Iamblichus, writing in the fourth century ad, provides some more detail on how the mechanism of catharsis might work and explicitly mentions comedy in this regard: The power of human emotions (pathēmatōn) in us, when entirely restrained, becomes correspondingly stronger; but if one exercises them in brief bursts and within reasonable limits, they rejoice moderately and are satisfied; and thus purified (apokathairomenai), they are laid to rest through persuasion and without violence. This is why, when we witness the emotions of others, in both comedy and tragedy, we stabilize our own emotions, render them more moderate and purify them (apokathairomen). (De Mysteriis 1.11)13 Bracketing the details of Iamblichus’ specific understanding of the positive benefits of catharsis, he clearly places comedy and tragedy in parallel positions, with the potential dangers of the relevant emotions being neutralized via catharsis. Proclus, in the fifth essay of his commentary on the Republic, addresses the question of how Plato could have banished “tragedy and comedy” from the ideal city, since “they contribute to the purgation (aphosiōsin) of the emotions” (360; see also 362).14 Proclus admittedly does not explicitly mention catharsis, but his elaboration of purgation seems to be identical to what Iamblichus meant by catharsis. Again, crucial for my purposes is not Proclus’ specific understanding of the psychic mechanisms and manner of moral improvement involved, but rather his view that both comedy and tragedy involve it. Finally, the Tractatus Coislinianus, which is of uncertain date but certainly later than Proclus,15 offers a definition of comedy, very similar to Aristotle’s definition of tragedy and to the one I am tentatively offering, that includes a final clause identical to that in the definition of tragedy: “effecting the catharsis of such emotions.”16 While none of these texts provide decisive historical evidence, they support a presumption in favor of the chapter’s main assumption.17 The second historical reason to think that Aristotle would have wanted a catharsis of the comedic emotions has to do with the relationship between the Poetics’ account of poetry and Plato’s critique of it in the Republic. It seems highly plausible to think of Aristotle as trying to take up Socrates’ challenge to the “lovers of poetry” to produce an argument showing that it is “not only pleasant but beneficial” (Rep. 607d6–9) in the Poetics.18 Aristotle clearly has Plato’s Republic in mind as a foil in the Politics, where

70  Franco V. Trivigno he explicitly distances himself from stances taken by Socrates about the appropriate harmonies and instruments (8.1342a33, 8.1342b23). In the case of tragedy, Aristotle seems to accept Plato’s analysis of the relevant emotions and their evocation by the experience of tragedy (cf. Rep. 386a–388e on fear, especially of death; and Rep. 605c–606b on pity; cf. also Ion 535b–e and Phaedrus 268c).19 Key to Plato’s critique is that tragedy causes the audience to experience these emotions and to strengthen the part of the soul that experiences them. Catharsis of these emotions, however one understands it, is crucial to Aristotle’s reply.20 If that’s right, then Aristotle would seem to need a similar mechanism in the case of comedy in order to disarm the idea that the emotions it causes are harmful.21 Last, in the Politics 8, Aristotle discusses musical education and claims that mousike, or the arts of the Muses, “should be studied, not for the sake of one, but of many benefits, that is to say, with a view to both education and catharsis” (8.1341b36–8). It is clear that Aristotle does not restrict catharsis either to tragedy or to the tragic emotions: indeed, he explicitly claims that the catharsis will concern not only pity and fear, but “every sort of emotion” (8.1342a11–12). The passages suggest that Aristotle considered catharsis to be a broadly poetic phenomenon, and if that’s right, then there is good reason to think that there would have been catharsis of the comedic emotions as well. Aristotle claims in the Politics that a clearer explanation of catharsis is available “in the books of poetry” (8.1341b38–40), and he gives no indication that this was to be restricted to tragedy. Indeed, one might speculate that the Poetics as whole may have ended with an analysis of catharsis, after the account of comedy and other poetic forms. In sum, I hope to have provided some evidence in favor the plausibility of the chapter’s main assumption that the definition of comedy was parallel to that of tragedy, in that it involved a catharsis of some emotions. Lacking the discovery of a manuscript containing the second book of the Poetics, my sense is that this is the best that one can do.

4.2 To geloion in Aristotelian comedy In this section and the following three, I will attempt to supply [2] and [8] of my proposed definition of comedy with content; that is, I will attempt to fill in the appropriate evaluative term for the kind of action dramatized in comedy and the relevant emotion(s) caused by comedy. The first task will be relatively straightforward inasmuch as Aristotle seems to provide us with the answer in the text of the Poetics as we have it: the action of comedy is laughable or ridiculous (geloios): Comedy is, as we said, an imitation of those who are inferior, not however regarding every sort of vice, but rather that part of the shameful which is the ridiculous. For the ridiculous is an error and a deformity

Was phthonos a comedic emotion for Aristotle?  71 that is painless and not destructive; the ridiculous mask, for example, is something shameful and distorted but painless. (5.1449a32–7) Further, Aristotle describes mature comedy as moving away from personal invective and instead “dramatizing the ridiculous (to geloion dramatopoiēsas)” (5.1449a37–8).22 Comedy, then, is an imitation of an action that is [2] laughable or ridiculous, and this seems clear enough from the text of the Poetics as we have it.23 More needs to be said, however, since Aristotle clearly does not think that the sense of geloios is exhausted by its connection to gelaō or ‘to laugh.’ The ridiculous is, first of all, a subspecies of the inferior, and so the actions will be “the actions of the inferior sorts (tōn phaulōn)” (4.1448b26). As in the case of tragedy, where the serious actions are understood partly in terms of the serious agents who perform them, so too in comedy is there a tight connection between being a ridiculous (inferior) person and doing ridiculous (inferior) things. Phaulos is a nebulous notion that includes political status, economic class, gender, etc. So there is some overlap between certain social categories and comedy: one sees in comedy inter alia slaves, women, farmers, and impoverished intellectual eccentrics.24 However, it seems clear that, at bottom, the ridiculous is an ethical category: it is a vice (kakian) that fundamentally involves an error (hamartēma) or deformity (aischos). Aristotle does not elaborate here on what sort of mistake it is, except to say that it is the kind of shameful error that would not involve pain and destruction.25 The “no pain and destruction” qualification seems to be aimed at ruling out the level of suffering and ruin appropriate to tragedy, despite the fact that both genres will involve some kind of mistake.26 In comedy, the ridiculous action will, at minimum, reveal the error and/or deformity of the comic targets that are made to appear, or are revealed as, ridiculous.27 The audience of the comedy, delighted by this, will laugh at the character. Thus, there is a kind of hostility towards the inferior comic target at the heart of the ridiculous, and any account of the comedic emotions will have to reckon with this.28 Aristotle is clearly following the broad outlines of Plato’s account of the nature of the ridiculous in the Philebus (48b–50b). There, Socrates claims that the ridiculous is “a kind of vice (ponēria)” (48c6) and an “evil (kakon)” (48c2, 49a4); that it fundamentally involves an error, namely ignorance about one’s own qualities (48c2–49a5); and that, combined with weakness, the ignorance is essentially harmless to others (49b6–c5).

4.3 General constraints on comedic emotions Before moving on to my hypothesis regarding the comedic emotions for Aristotle, I think it is useful and important to formulate some independently

72  Franco V. Trivigno plausible constraints on what could count as an Aristotelian comedic emotion. Armed with these constraints and my conceptual analysis of phthonos (in Section 4), I will test my hypothesis in Section 5. I suggest the following constraints: Historical Constraints 1 2

There should be some connection between the emotion and comedy in the Greek philosophical tradition. The emotion should be shown to resonate with the actual practice of Greek comedy, i.e. it should be possible to find some supporting evidence from extant Greek comedy.

Moral Psychological Constraints 3 4

The emotion should be, at least potentially, ethically problematic such that a catharsis of the emotion would be appropriate. The emotion should be sufficiently common in audience or common enough to make the comedic effect widely available.

Theoretical Constraints 5 6

There should be a theoretical connection between the emotion and the ridiculous action that comedy dramatizes. There should be some causal connection between this emotion and the laughter and aesthetic pleasure produced by comedy.

In the rest of this section, I will briefly explain how I understand these constraints and defend their plausibility. The first constraints are historical in nature: (1) I take it as a minimum requirement that there must be some evidence from some historical source that the relevant emotion could have been comedic on Aristotle’s theory. Of course, it is not strictly impossible that, by some unfortunate coincidence, all sources that mention the relevant emotion in the context of comedy have been lost. But in order to get any such proposal off the ground, we would seem to need some prior evidence. (2) It must be plausible that the emotion is salient and possible for the experience of actual fifth- and fourth-century comedy. In short, one ought to be able to point to scenes from extant comedy that might plausibly be connected with the emotion in question. Both of the moral psychological constraints receive direct support from a passage in the Politics, in which catharsis is made to be appropriate for emotions “like pity and fear” that “exist very strongly (ischurōs) in some souls and exist to a greater or lesser degree in everyone” (8.1342a4–7). Thus, by (3), I do not mean that the emotion must be morally wrong or forbidden, but, more modestly, that it be the kind of emotion that an audience member might

Was phthonos a comedic emotion for Aristotle?  73 have in excess and one might worry about fostering.29 In short, it has to be appropriate for the emotion to need or to warrant catharsis. This constraint is clearly a function of my assumption regarding the existence of comic catharsis, and, as above, I am not making any claims about the specific psychological mechanisms of catharsis over and above its functional role regarding the emotions. By (4), all I mean to indicate is that the emotion cannot be the province of a very few, such that it would make the experience of comedy alien to a large group of people. Comedy was thought to have very wide appeal, and indeed by Plato to be the kind of drama that appeals even to children (cp. Laws 2.658d). Pity and fear are common emotions, and this is, at least in part, responsible for the broad appeal of tragedy. It would be peculiar if the comedic emotions were somehow exclusive or elitist. If one assumes (beyond what I do here) that tragedy and comedy are to have some positive role to play in emotional training, then this constraint becomes even more evident. The last set of constraints is theoretical. By (5), I do not mean that there should be a conceptual or a priori connection between the emotion and the ridiculous – I rather mean that, just as it is possible to show how the serious action of tragedy is related to the emotions of pity and fear, so too it should be possible to show how the ridiculous action of comedy is related to the comedic emotions. One cannot read pity and fear into the bare description of the action as serious, but one can see how pity and fear can be caused by stories in which much of value is at stake and may be lost. For example, it is hard to see how fear could possibly satisfy this constraint for comedy. (6) This constraint is a causal and explanatory one – there has to be some plausibly Aristotelian way to understand how the emotion might cause, or be part of the causal matrix that induces, actual laughter and the pleasures of comedy. In the case of tragedy, it is not hard to see how the emotions of pity and fear cause weeping, tragedy’s physiological equivalent to laughter. I take these constraints to be reasonable in themselves, such that any speculation regarding the comedic emotions for Aristotle would have to satisfy these in order to be plausible. I also take them to be independently necessary, though not jointly sufficient. Thus, failure on one count is sufficient to rule out an emotion as comedic, though satisfying all of them is only a necessary condition for consideration.

4.4 What is phthonos? It is nearly axiomatic for those who write about this subject that Aristotle in the Rhetoric (2.1387b22–1388a30) and Plato in the Philebus (47e1–50a9) talk about different things when they provide their respective analyses of phthonos. This is reflected also in the translations, such that Aristotle’s notion is translated as “envy,” whereas Plato’s is translated as “malice.”30 What I propose to do in this section is to provide a conceptual analysis of phthonos, which gives a unified account and shows that Plato and Aristotle are in fact talking about the same emotion, while focusing on different aspects: it is,

74  Franco V. Trivigno as Plato would say, a mixed emotion.31 In short, I think that Plato takes for granted that phthonos is a pain (47e1–3, 48b8–9) but quickly begins to discuss its pleasurable aspect, while Aristotle focuses nearly exclusively on the painful aspect of phthonos and only mentions its pleasures in passing (2.1388a24–27). It is because of these distinctive focuses that commentators have assumed that Plato and Aristotle discuss different emotions. To be clear, I do think that they provide slightly different analyses, but this is a far cry from saying that they refer to two different things. Since both Plato and Aristotle take the pain to be in some sense primary – they both at least begin with the painful aspect – I will thus begin with an account of Aristotle’s view. In his Rhetoric, Aristotle defines phthonos as a “certain pain at the appearance of success” (lupē tis epi eupragiai phainomenēi) (2.1387b23). He tells us that success consists in the attainment of certain goods. The goods involved are the same as those involved in “indignation” (nemesis): “wealth, power and the like” (2.1387a13), but Aristotle here adds two more: “wisdom and eudaimonia” (2.1387b31). Phthonos is typically felt towards people who are like us (homoios) in “either birth, relationship, age, disposition, distinction, or wealth” (1387b26–8). Notice that this condition is disjunctive, which means that, at minimum, there should be some level of similarity, or some sense in which the target is like us. Aristotle takes this condition to rule out feeling phthonos towards those from the ancient past, those from the future, or those who live very far away (2.1388a9–12). Phthonos is also felt by a wide spectrum of people: those in high places, anyone aiming at reputation in some sphere, the small-minded, and indeed anyone aiming at the attainment of the relevant goods (2.1387b28–1388a5). Phthonos is felt “not because one wants something for oneself, but because the other has it” (2.1387b24–5). Here, the desire proper to phthonos is that the other be deprived of the relevant goods. Indeed, Aristotle says that the envious person will “endeavor to stop his neighbor from having the relevant goods” (2.1388a36–8). Thus, the “pleasure in the contrary things” Aristotle mentions at the end of the passage must be the pleasure in seeing the other suffering evils or being deprived of goods (2.1388a24–6). Aristotle claims that “it is necessary that whoever is pained by something’s occurrence and existence will be pleased by the lack or destruction of that thing,” such that “the one who delights in others’ evils (epichairekakos) and the one who feels phthonos (phthoneros) are the same” (2.1386b34–1387a3).32 In the Philebus, Socrates and Protarchus agree that phthonos is a “pain within the soul itself” (48b8–9) and that it is within the class of “mixed” pains (47e1–48a2). Socrates describes neither what causes the pain nor what its intentional object is, and thus does not differentiate it from the other painful conditions he describes as mixed (such as anger, fear, and jealousy). It is plausible in itself to think that Plato would agree with Aristotle’s characterization, but we have two other independent sources corroborating this. First, the pseudo-Platonic definition of phthonos makes it primarily a pain at other’s goods: “phthonos is a pain (lupē) at the present or past goods of

Was phthonos a comedic emotion for Aristotle?  75 one’s friends (epi philōn agathois)” (416a13). Even if it is not Plato’s hand, it surely indicates that this definition was taken to have Plato’s approval in the Academy. Second, Xenophon, in Memorabilia 3.9.8, attributes to Socrates the view that “phthonos is a pain (lupē) at the successes of friends (epi tais tōn philōn eupraxiais).” This is obviously even more indirect, but it seems pretty plausible that Plato held the view of phthonos – that it is a pain at other’s goods or successes – that was held by Socrates, in the Academy, and by Aristotle. Let us return now to the argument of the Philebus. Having garnered agreement that it is a pain of the soul, Socrates claims: “on the other hand, the person of phthonos will display pleasure (hēdomenos anaphanēsetai) at the evils or failures (epi kakois) of those around him (tōn pelas)” (48b11–12).33 Phthonos involves taking pleasure in (at least) the evil of ignorance and (perhaps especially) the evil of self-ignorance, with respect to the possession of external, bodily, and psychic goods (48d–49a). I should note that the evil of self-ignorance is an evil in two ways: it is, first, a lack of an important good, self-knowledge, but it is also the merely apparent possession of some good, such that one who is shown to be self-ignorant is both revealed to have an evil, ignorance, and also deprived of the appearance of having the good in question. Phthonos is described as being directed first at “those around” one (48b11) and then at “one’s friends” (49d6).34 In the end, on Plato’s analysis, phthonos is what explains why we laugh at the evils of comedic stage-characters: since the core desire of phthonos is that the other be deprived of goods or suffer evils, one feels great pleasure when this desire is satisfied by the comedic action. Both Plato and Aristotle agree that phthonos is morally problematic: Plato calls it “unjust” (49d6–7), while Aristotle says that it is an “inferior (phaulos) feeling” (2.1388a35–6).35 That phthonos is morally problematic is confirmed by the Nicomachean Ethics, where it is listed, along with “delight in others’ evils,” or epichairekakia, as one of those emotions whose very name implies inferiority (EN 2.1107a8–11), and it is named as one of the vices, again paired with “delight in others’ evils,” the mean of which is “indignation,” or nemesis (2.1108a35–1108b16). Phthonos is also contrasted with “indignation” in the Rhetoric, and the core difference between them is that phthonos does not discriminate between deserved and undeserved success, whereas indignation is precisely aimed only at undeserved success. Phthonos is thus excessive, in that it is indiscriminate. The account of these emotions in the Eudemian Ethics is somewhat different: Aristotle defines phthonos as “pain at deserved success” and epichairekakia as “pleasure in undeserved failure” (EE 3.1233b18–26), whereas the EN makes phthonos directed at “all success” (2.1108b4–5). The mean here is again nemesis, but Aristotle seems to have carved up the terrain differently.36 Though Aristotle does not give a fully consistent view of phthonos – in particular in its relation to “delight in the misfortunes of others” and “indignation,” respectively – it is, in any case, clearly not a desirable emotion.37

76  Franco V. Trivigno In sum, Plato and Aristotle discuss the same thing when they give their analyses of phthonos, and the translations “malice” and “envy” are independently wrong but jointly right, since phthonos looks like envy if one focuses on its painful aspect and looks like malice if one focuses on its proper pleasure.38 We can thus distill the core psychological components of phthonos as follows: 1 2 3

Pain at another’s success or access to goods. The desire that the other fail and/or be deprived of success. Pleasure in seeing the other fail and/or be deprived of success.

Plato and Aristotle do seem to differ in their accounts of the persons who are envied, although to pinpoint exactly how they differ is not my concern here: roughly, Aristotle provides a social status-based criterion, whereas Plato puts forth a relational criterion. It may be that Aristotle’s view makes phthonos a wider phenomenon, but the two criteria may, in the end, have the same extension.

4.5 Phthonos as comedic emotion With the above conceptual analysis of phthonos in hand, I return now to the constraints I articulated above in order to see if phthonos satisfies them and thus may be considered to be one of Aristotle’s comedic emotions. I will take the constraints in the order I formulated above, except that I will delay discussion of the second constraint (2), which deals with the actual practice of comedy, until the end. Regarding (1), the two main sources of historical support for the suggestion that Aristotle would have named phthonos as one of the comedic emotions have been discussed already: The first is the passage in Plato’s Philebus, whose analysis of comedy and the ridiculous must surely be in the background for Aristotle, and the second is the inclusion of phthonos by Philodemus in On Poetry, as one of the emotions that requires catharsis. Though Philodemus does not mention comedy, he does make the emotion of fear parallel to that of phthonos, which, at least, suggests that he has the ‘opposite’ of tragedy, i.e. comedy, in mind here. These sources at least lend support to my hypothesis and show that it is not implausible that Aristotle would have included phthonos in his account of comedy. It is certain that Aristotle was familiar with the Philebus.39 To be sure, Aristotle does not merely take on board Plato’s views of poetry in the Poetics, and it does not look like Aristotle was concerned with self-knowledge in his account of the ridiculous. However, it seems plausible that his quarrel with Plato concerned, not the particular emotions that drama causes, but rather their moral significance; in short, Aristotle does not seem to challenge Plato’s account of the tragic emotions, but rather disarms their potential harmfulness via catharsis.40 If this is right, then it could explain why we see a catharsis of phthonos in Philodemus.

Was phthonos a comedic emotion for Aristotle?  77 Moving on to the moral psychological constraints, it is clear that phthonos satisfies condition (3), since both Plato and Aristotle claim that it is morally problematic. If it is an unjust emotion, as Plato would have it, then it is easy to see why he might want to banish comedy. Further, if it is an inferior one, as Aristotle says, and its inferiority consists in its being an excessive and indiscriminate pain at other people’s successes or goods, then it would certainly warrant catharsis. I should add here that phthonos would seem to be a politically important emotion to try to contain in a population; in fact, in the Politics 4, Aristotle argues that a core problem with a highly economically divided city is that the wealthy will wind up “despising” the poor and the poor will wind up “feeling phthonos” towards the wealthy, and that these emotions are “fatal to friendship and good fellowship in a state” (4.1295b21–23).41 Regarding (4), it seems clear from an ancient perspective that phthonos was a common emotion, and it is highly plausible that it is a common phenomenon today.42 It is named on Aristotle’s initial list of emotions: “appetite, anger, fear, confidence, phthonos, joy, love, hatred, longing, emulation, pity” (EN 2.1105b21–3), and a comparable list can be found in the Philebus: “anger, fear, longing, lamentation, love, emulation, phthonos” (47e1–2). Given Aristotle’s description in the Rhetoric of the wide range of people who feel phthonos, it is clearly taken by him to be a widespread phenomenon. To see whether phthonos satisfies the theoretical constraints requires some speculative reconstruction. Constraint (5) is that there should be a theoretical connection between phthonos and to geloion, the ridiculous. In short, phthonos can help to explain the hostility implicit in the ridicule that seems central to Aristotle’s understanding of to geloion. By generating audience phthonos towards some characters, the comedic poet prepares the audience to delight in their inevitable comeuppance and to laugh at them. The comic poet might accomplish this by providing the comic target with actual success in money, power, wisdom, and/or reputation, or with merely expected or apparent success in these areas. Take the following potentially comic figures: a politician, an aristocrat, an intellectual, a bureaucrat, a merchant, an old man, and a famous (real) tragedian. Each of them has a kind of status or standing in the community, possesses power at least within a certain domain, and reaps financial or other rewards from this standing or power. Thus, they might be plausible targets for audience phthonos. Recall that the ridiculous is a vice that fundamentally involves an error, or deformity, that is painless. The comic poet could present these figures as either being ridiculous or being exposed as ridiculous and thereby denied access to the relevant goods. The comic poet might give to each of the above figures a ridiculous evil or vice that (in some way) enables or is enabled by this success: a corrupt politician, a pompous aristocrat, an arrogant intellectual, an officious bureaucrat, a shady merchant, a grumpy old man, and a flighty famous poet. Now we have a set of comic figures. The ridiculous action would, on this account, at least involve the revelation of the ridiculous agent as ridiculous,

78  Franco V. Trivigno that is, as possessing the relevant error or deformity, and thus denying him access to the relevant goods. It may be that the access to the goods is dependent on others not realizing that the comic agent is ridiculous. If this is right, then the pain of phthonos would thus be evoked by the sight of the figure enjoying success and/or expecting access to goods, and the pleasure, by the revelation of the figure as ridiculous and the blocking of his access to the goods. In short, what explains the fact that the audience enjoys ridiculous action is the phthonos they feel towards the character; the ridiculous actions satisfies their desire to see the comic target exposed and deprived of his access to goods. This link between phthonos and the ridiculous also helps to satisfy the last requirement (6), since it provides the causal mechanism by which we come to laugh. Recall that the core psychological components of phthonos are as follows: 1 2 3

Pain at another’s success or access to goods. The desire that the other fail and/or be deprived of success. Pleasure in seeing the other fail and/or be deprived of success.

The audience’s emotion of phthonos explains our initial hostility to the comic target – we are pained by his actual or expected success – and this grounds our desire to see him fail or lose access to goods. The comic action reveals the target to be ridiculous and deprives him of his access to goods – the audience, thus pleased and delighted, laughs at the comic target. This psychological move from pain to pleasure mirrors the audience perception of the comic target succeeding and then failing. The comic poet thus manipulates the audience by making them expect something painful – that the comic figure will get to enjoy success – and then providing them with something pleasurable. The pleasure is thus heightened by the surprising and quasi-deceptive aspect of the psychological manipulation, and it bursts forth, as it were, in laughter.43 The laughter would also be likely enabled by the presence of one’s friends and neighbors in the theater.44 Regarding the comic target’s exposure, that is, the way the poet presents the comic figure as initially successful (and/or expecting success) and then as ridiculous and failing in order to generate laughter, we might imagine three sorts of cases: i

ii

A comic target who enjoys, or expects to enjoy, apparently deserved success. The audience does not initially perceive the ridiculous evil, and what is revealed (both for the audience and inside the drama) is that the target is ridiculous, and the target is thus denied the expected success. A comic target who enjoys, or expects to enjoy, apparently undeserved success. The audience does initially perceive the ridiculous evil but expects the target to enjoy goods within the play, and what is revealed (to the other characters) is that the target is ridiculous, and the target is thus denied the expected success.

Was phthonos a comedic emotion for Aristotle?  79 iii A comic target who is a well-known and successful figure in real life. The audience expects him to continue to enjoy the goods he normally does, and what is revealed (both for the audience and inside the drama) is that the target is ridiculous, and the target is thus denied the expected success. In each case, the causal mechanisms underlying the laughter are the same. Audience hostility towards the target is generated via phthonos: the audience is pained at the real or expected success, forms a desire to see the target fail, feels pleasure in having his desire satisfied, and, as a result, laughs at the target.45 I should add a caveat here: by articulating phthonos as a cause of laughter in comedy, I do not mean to indicate that this is the only cause of laughter in comedy – indeed, linguistic play, parody, etc. (about which Tractatus Coislinianus has much to say) may have nothing to do with phthonos.46 Indeed, there may be other comedic emotions that function differently. I now finally turn to the second constraint, namely the historical one that it should be possible to find some evidence from extant Greek comedy supporting the picture of the experience of comedy as I have described it on Aristotle’s behalf. Though there is ample evidence that the staging of real-life politicians and other political figures caused phthonos in the audience, I will set these cases aside.47 Instead, I will focus on a specific motif in Old Comedy, namely the imposter (alazōn) scenes.48 The imposters are characterized by Cornford as “impudent and absurd pretenders … [who] put up a claim to share in the advantages and delights which they have done nothing to deserve”; they are typically either representatives of professional types (priest, oracle-monger, informer, etc.) or are well-known figures.49 In a typical imposter scene, the imposter shows up unbidden at a feast or celebration, hoping to take part in the festivities, and he is engaged by the hero in an ironical or buffoonish manner,50 before being summarily dismissed, often with a beating. In the Birds, for example, a long series of imposters show up at Peisetaerus’ sacrifice looking to enjoy the benefits of Cloudcuckooland (862–1057: a priest; a poet; an oracle-monger; Meton, the famous mathematician; an inspector; a decree seller), and they are all handled with irony and contempt and sent away – all but the priest and poet are beaten. All of these figures enjoy a certain status or standing in virtue of their profession or reputation and make a claim to enjoy, or to continue to enjoy, benefits coming from this status. They are, thus, proper targets for painful phthonos and its attendant desire that the imposters be denied their standing and access to goods. The scenes are experienced as funny because, against the background of this phthonos, we enjoy watching the comic hero refuse to acknowledge their reputation, or to recognize it only via mocking irony, and to deny them, in sometimes violent fashion, what they think they deserve.51 In the case of Meton, Aristophanes could have presumably written the same scene with a generic mathematician or intellectual, but since real figures are targets for phthonos in real life, this choice plausibly added to the audience’s delight in watching the character rejected and beaten.

80  Franco V. Trivigno It is clear that Aristotle himself understood the imposter in the way I have described him, since the imposter is the subject of discussion in the Nicomachean Ethics (as well as being mentioned in the Eudemian Ethics) as the counterpart to the ironist or eirōn. Aristotle writes: It seems that the imposter is a man who pretends to creditable qualities that he does not possess, or possesses them in a lesser degree than he makes out, while conversely the ironist disclaims or disparages good qualities that he does possess. (4.1127a13–b32)52 Aristotle sets up these two as the vices of excess and efficiency, of which truthfulness about one’s own qualities is the virtue. He also distinguishes among the one who boasts for no reason, the one who boasts for reputation’s sake, and the one who boasts for money’s sake, claiming the last to be most disgraceful (4.1127b11–13).53 Aristotle does not explicitly mention the imposter in the context of comedy in any extant text, but he does mention the ironist as a comic type superior to the buffoon in Rhetoric 3.18; however, as scholars have noted, the ironist is a ‘natural’ opponent of the imposter within comedy.54 Indirect evidence for the connection to comedy also comes from Theophrastus, whose Characters includes both the ironist and the imposter and is thought to be a source for later comedy,55 and from the Tractatus Coislinianus, which lists the imposter, the ironist, and the buffoon as the three comedic characters.

4.6 Objections In this section, I briefly consider three objections to my proposal: the first is that, without an account of how exactly catharsis could function in the case of phthonos, my account is incomplete; the second is that phthonos is disanalogous to its tragic counterpart, pity, in ways that make it highly unlikely to have played a role in Aristotle’s comedic theory; the last is that I make use of Aristophanes and Old Comedy to justify my case even though Aristotle did not approve of Aristophanes. I readily grant the first objection. My case is indeed incomplete, and I will only point out that it is logically compatible with at least three of the historically prominent interpretations of catharsis: the purgative, the purifying, and the emotional training accounts.56 On a purgative view, the aim is to dampen or to neutralize the excessive or pent-up emotion by giving it a safe outlet, so that it is not felt or felt less often in real life: since phthonos is an inferior and excessive emotion, it would be a good candidate for this. On a purifying view, the pain of the emotion is transformed into pleasure57: if this is right, then phthonos would seem to fare even better than pity and fear in exemplifying catharsis. On an emotional training view, the aim is to

Was phthonos a comedic emotion for Aristotle?  81 train the emotions so that they become more appropriate responses to real life: phthonos, an excessive or indiscriminate response to the successes of others might be trained so that one comes closer to righteous indignation, or nemesis, by being pained only at undeserved success. Much more would need to be said to flesh out these suggestions, and there may well be accounts of catharsis that do make phthonos impossible. However, my main aim here has been to disarm the thought that phthonos could not be countenanced as a comedic emotion once we do take on board a view of catharsis. The second objection is that there is a serious disanalogy between tragic pity and purportedly comedic phthonos that renders my suggestion implausible. In short, pity is described in the Rhetoric 2.8 as a mean-state emotional reaction to the undeserved failure of others, whereas phthonos is an excessive or indiscriminate emotional reaction to all successes – deserved or otherwise. Leon Golden, in his well-known Aristotle on the pleasure of comedy, argues, largely on the basis of its parallels with pity, that nemesis was the comedic emotion for Aristotle. Golden’s suggestion is attractive, and much of what he says about nemesis can be transferred over to phthonos. That said, Aristotle treats pity, even in the Rhetoric, also as possibly excessive and indiscriminate,58 and it is clear from Politics 1342a4–7 that he considers pity to be potentially excessive.59 By contrast, Aristotle seems exclusively to consider nemesis to be the appropriate counterpart to indiscriminate phthonos, the mean state corresponding to the excess of phthonos (EN 1108a35–1108b16; EE 1233b18–26). The core problem is that Aristotle has only one word, pity, for appropriate, or discriminating, pain at other people’s failures and excessive, or indiscriminate, pain at other people’s failures, whereas he has distinct words for appropriate pain at others’ successes, i.e. nemesis, and for excessive pain at others’ successes, i.e. phthonos.60 It may be that the catharsis trains phthonos in the direction of nemesis, but then the latter cannot be the initial condition as an object of catharsis. In short, I take it that excessive pity is to proper pity just as phthonos is to nemesis.61 There is another sort of response to this objection that embraces the disanalogy between pity and phthonos. The objection assumes that comedy and tragedy are aimed at the same sort of audience, but there is a passage in the Politics 8 which might indicate the possibility that Aristotle thought of comedy as primarily aimed at a lower sort of audience, one more inclined towards phthonos: Since the spectators are of two kinds—the one free and educated, and the other a vulgar crowd composed of artisans, laborers, and the like— there ought to be contests and exhibitions instituted for the relaxation of the second class also…. A man receives pleasure from what is natural to him. (1342a18–26)

82  Franco V. Trivigno It may be that Aristotle conceived of the imitation of the inferior, i.e. comedy, to be appropriate to an inferior audience. Indeed, he did think that it was an inferior sort of person that writes only comedy (Poetics 4.1448b25–6).62 The idea that Aristotle did not like Aristophanes has been admirably refuted by Malcolm Heath in his article, “Aristotelian Comedy.” I will not rehearse his arguments here except to say that a good deal of the case can be diffused by recognizing that Aristotle quite explicitly had different standards for personal wittiness and for comic theater.63 Beyond that, Aristophanes is the only comedian Aristotle mentions by name, and he is named alongside Homer and Sophocles, the greatest epic and tragic poets (Poetics 4.1448a25–8). Further, though our evidence about Middle Comedy is sparse, there is evidence that some of its stock figures were also characteristically imposters; for example, there is the cook who provides detailed, pompous, and overwrought descriptions of cooking.64 So the entirety of the case need not rest on Aristophanes’ shoulders.

4.7 Conclusion If it is reasonable to assume that Aristotle wrote a book 2 of the Poetics, that book 2 contained a definition of comedy, and that the definition of comedy was parallel to that of tragedy, in that it involved a catharsis of some emotions, then it seems plausible to suppose that the emotion of phthonos (as I have analyzed it) would have been one of the comedic emotions. What I have provided in this chapter is a speculative reconstruction of an Aristotelian account of comedy, which finds some support in the historical tradition and seems to fit with Aristotle’s general picture of drama and what we know of his view of comedy from his other extant works. If I am right about all of this, then Aristotle’s response to Plato’s challenge in book 10 of the Republic is similar in form for both comedy and tragedy: Aristotle does not dispute the details of Plato’s analysis of emotional experience of comedy but instead insists that the moral psychology is different and the cathartic effect renders the emotional experience and distinctive pleasures of comedy at least morally neutral and at best morally beneficial for the agent. Given the politically dangerous nature of phthonos (mentioned above), comedy might also have an important role to play on the political level in diffusing potential class conflicts and in maintaining civic harmony.65

Notes 1 Since I believe that these translations are positively misleading for reasons that will become clear, I will employ the transliteration, phthonos, throughout the paper. On phthonos, see Konstan and Rutters, eds. (2003), Konstan (2006). 2 The paper takes no stand on whether there might be a second comedic emotion to parallel the two emotions proper to tragedy. Though I find the suggestion plausible, I will not pursue the point here. Cf. Cooper (1922), Munteanu (2011). 3 See Cooper (1922, 66ff.), Destrée (2009, 83).

Was phthonos a comedic emotion for Aristotle?  83

84  Franco V. Trivigno





















Was phthonos a comedic emotion for Aristotle?  85 does not seem to regard his claim as empty; that is, he seems to think that certain emotions have this tendency, and this is, in my view, the most natural way to understand why he mentions pity and fear in particular. Second, mean-state emotions like proper pride are precisely those that are expressions of virtue and are thus, by definition, not excessive. 3 0 There are some exceptions to this for Plato: Fowler’s translation in the Loeb edition, for example. 31 Contrast Sanders (2014, 62–3), who posits a separate pleasurable emotion as a counterpart to phthonos. 32 It might be natural to translate this sentence as follows: “the malicious person and the envious person are the same.” Indeed, the connection between what we would call envy and what we would call malice was not restricted to the philosophers’ analyses. Sanders claims: [I]n the classical period, phthonos can often be understood to involve malicious or spiteful action, so as to provide some sort of pleasure to the person feeling it – not dissimilar to the way that English envy is connected to Schadenfreude. (2014, 40–1) 33 Socrates’ analysis focuses on a specific instance of this pleasure, that of laughing at what is ridiculous or geloios, but I will bracket that aspect of the analysis here and focus on the more general features of phthonos, lest I be accused of begging the core question. Thus, I am skipping aspects of the passage that are only relevant for Plato’s analysis of to geloion. For a fuller account of Plato’s view, see Trivigno (2019). Cf. Destrée forthcoming; Delcomminette (2006, 441–42), Gosling (1975). 34 How to take this restriction is controversial – there are roughly two ways: one could take phthonos either to be narrowly restricted to one’s close and personal friends or to be referring to one’s neighbors and fellow-citizens. I will not take a stand on that question here. 35 See Sanders (2014, 33–6): there were well-known aphorisms proscribing phthonos, and the accusation of phthonos was made frequently by orators against their opponents. 36 One can easily see the core philosophical problem: someone who is pained by all success will sometimes also be pained by undeserved success – what is one to say in those cases? Has such a person accidentally hit the mean state in just this instance, or has she merely accidentally had the right reaction in just this instance without hitting any mean state? The EE seems to take the former option, whereas the EN takes the latter. The latter strikes me as more plausible. 37 See Sanders (2014, 65–7). 38 In the OED s.v. “envy,” its primary non-obsolete use is defined as “the feeling of mortification and ill-will occasioned by the contemplation of superior advantages possessed by another.” Its primary but obsolete meaning make it identical to “malice,” but even in current English usage, malice seems to be a component of envy. Since the converse is not true, it might mean that “envy” is the better translation after all, though I find ‘resentment’ a tempting alternative. 39 Aristotle clearly refers to the Philebus in his discussion of pleasure in EN 10.1172b. 40 See Destrée (2009, 84). 41 It is in this context that Aristotle is arguing in favor of a strong middle class, since they are less prone to such reactions. 42 See e.g. Sanders (2014, 13–32). 43 In pseudo-Aristotle’s Problems, laughter is described as having a deceptive aspect: “laughter is a kind of frenzy and deceit … Now what is unnoticed is deceptive. For this reason too laughter occurs and is not produced by oneself” (35.6).

86  Franco V. Trivigno 44 Cf. Problems 28.8. 45 I should note here that I have not appealed in my reconstruction to Plato’s analysis in the Philebus, according to which the phthonos and to geloion are connected, in that the evil of self-ignorance, to geloion, instantiated in our weak friends on stage or in real life is what phthonos makes it possible for us to enjoy and laugh at. 46 In Rhetoric 3.18, Aristotle refers to the “different forms of the ridiculous” (1419b6), so that we would expect there to be more than one source of laughter in comedy. See also Sophistical Refutations 38, where Aristotle claims that “humorous phrases nearly all depend on diction” (182b15–6) and cites several examples. 47 Sanders (2014, 100–17) devotes a whole chapter to discussing the audience’s phthonos towards political figures in Old Comedy, citing numerous examples from Aristophanes’ corpus. 48 Cornford (1961, 115–46) describes these scenes as “a constant motive,” giving a catalogue of them in the plays of Aristophanes. 49 Cornford (1961, 122, 256, n.1). 50 I am bracketing questions regarding the two figures of the ironist and buffoon, who are also prominent in Cornford’s account of the imposter. 51 Comedy obviously does not map onto moral reality perfectly. For example, we can agree that the presentation of Socrates as an imposter in the Clouds was unjust, even if we think that Cleon’s portrayal was more appropriate. Further, even within the comedy, Strepsiades treats his creditors – quite natural targets for phthonos – as imposters, but it is quite clear that he actually owes them money (1214–99); see Cornford (1961, 116). 52 Cf. EE 2.1221a24–5: “the imposter pretends to have more than he does, the ironist, less”; EN 2.1108a20–2: “pretense in the form of exaggeration is imposture, and its possessor an imposter; in the form of understatement, irony, and its possessor the ironist.” Cf. pseudo-Pl. Definitions 416a10–11: “Imposture is the state of pretending to a good or some goods which do not belong to one.” 53 If there is, as some argue, a difference between fifth- and fourth-century imposters, Aristotle’s account has the virtue of encompassing both, since the key difference is said to concern whether the imposter has an ulterior motive (fifth century) or not (fourth century). 54 See Silk (1996, 241–2), Cornford (1961, 119–20). 55 Theophrastus defines “imposture” as “a pretense to nonexistent goods” (Characters 23). See Diggle (2004). 56 See Lear (1992). Cf. Halliwell (1998, 350–6). 57 Lear (1992, 317–8). 58 He claims that “all unpleasant and painful things excite pity, and all destructive things” (1386a5–6), at least suggesting that one can go wrong in pitying the wrong sort of painful and destructive things, i.e. the deserved one. An excessively pitying person might pity even those who deserve their fate, like criminals. 59 Golden’s account of catharsis as intellectual clarification has been criticized by Halliwell precisely for ignoring the Politics (1998, 355). 60 For gaps in Aristotle’s account of other-regarding emotions (see Ben Ze’ev 2003). 61 Though I will not pursue this point in detail, nemesis also fails two of my conditions above, as there seems to be no philosophical connection between comedy and nemesis (1), and Aristotle seems to restrict the scope of those who feel nemesis to a more elite group, making the emotion not sufficiently common in the audience (4). 62 He describes such poets as eutelesteroi, that is, “cheaper” or “more worthless.” It has been objected that Aristotle cannot be taken to mean that the author of comedy is inferior, since this would imply that he took Homer, the author of the Margites, which he describes as a starting point for comedy, to be inferior. Two

Was phthonos a comedic emotion for Aristotle?  87 responses are appropriate: first, Homer also wrote the seminal texts for tragedy, so the implication is blocked, or at least cancelled out, by this fact, and it might not be for those who focus exclusively on comedy; second, Aristotle’s purpose in this passage is to grant Homer pride of place in the history of comedy – he makes Homer seminal both for early invective and for developed comedy – and even if the implication should follow on Aristotle’s own terms, Aristotle shows no awareness of this and carries on with his praise of Homer’s ingenious scope. 63 See e.g. Pol. 7.1336b3–23; Poet. 25.1460b13–15. 64 See Wilkins (2000, 369–82, esp. 371, 381–2). Cf. Lesky (1966, 636). Menander produced his first play the year after Aristotle dies, and it is a well-known difficulty that we have little evidence from so-called Middle Comedy. Though there is evidence that the period contained a shift towards less political themes and fewer references to real individuals (in, most prominently, Platonios, Diff. Com.), “the references to contemporary individuals and political events in Ecclesiazusae, Plutus and later fragmentary plays of the fourth century show (to say the least) that there was no universal prohibition against such things” (Handley 1989, 152–3). Cf. Lesky (1966, 634). That is to say that we should not overstate the difference between Aristophanes and his Middle Comedy successors, nor should we understate the difference between them and Menander, the great name in New Comedy. 65 I would like to thank the participants of the Ancient Philosophy Conference in Oslo, where I initially presented this paper, for their comments and questions. My thanks also go to Ingvild Torsen, Theresa Tobin, Leo Cantana, and to the editors of this volume, Malcolm Heath, Dana L. Munteanu, and Pierre Destrée, who all read versions of this paper and provided valuable feedback.

5

Painting as an aesthetic paradigm Elsa Bouchard

Aristotle’s interest in visual arts can only be glimpsed through a number of incidental remarks appearing in discussions not directly concerned with this topic. Indeed, most of these remarks turn up in the middle of arguments relative to poetry and poetic composition. A short glance at these passages may suggest that his numerous comparisons and analogies between poetry and painting (and more rarely sculpture) are not systematic enough to permit a consistent reconstitution of an Aristotelian “theory” of visual arts. Indeed, as will be seen presently, these comparisons are in the best cases approximate, and, in the worst, plainly inappropriate. However, I will argue that their very inadequacy could turn out, paradoxically, to provide implicit yet important indications concerning the underlying principles upon which Aristotle’s conception of visual arts rests. A frequent opinion on the place of painting in Aristotle’s work is that it represents “the simplest form of mimesis”1 of which the philosopher can think in order to expound his subtler theory of poetry. It is true that the explanatory power of Aristotelian analogies often rests on the relative simplicity of the comparans in regard to the comparandum. However, Lucas’ formulation suggests a hierarchical relationship between poetry and painting to the detriment of the latter, while Aristotle proposes no such hierarchy. Although he does indulge in ranking individual poets and their works and even poetic genres (e.g. tragedy vs. epic), he does not show much interest in defending the superiority of some mimetic media over others.2 In this regard he even represents an anomaly, given that ancient authors, by an overwhelming majority, take sides with literature when it comes to oppose it to painting and sculpture.3 Contrary to this general tendency, he maintains the assumption of the equivalence between poetry and painting almost to a breaking point, as I hope to show in this chapter. In the following I provide a review of Aristotle’s (mostly) casual comments on painting, taking into account each time the immediate context in which they occur. What I want to suggest is that the importance of visual arts as a model for his poetics is much greater than has hitherto been acknowledged: indeed, some of the most unsettling features of his poetic theory can be explained by the pervasive influence of the visual paradigm. Considering the argumentative contexts where they

Painting as an aesthetic paradigm  89 appear, these comments can be broadly subsumed under three headings, which correspond to the three main parts of this chapter: (1) Analogies supporting theoretical principles of poetic composition, (2) Discussions that merge poetic productions with visual works of art by focusing on psychological and educational issues relating to cultural products, (3) Generalizing claims about the intrinsic value of the mimetic arts.

5.1 Technical principles Plato and Aristotle’s frequent use of comparisons with painting testifies to its established status as a paradigmatic technē at the time.4 Formal treatises about sculpture, architecture, and painting were composed by the very artists who practiced these arts long before the philosophers developed interest in the matter.5 At some point the topic was taken over by non-professionals, such as the sophists, who might at times have claimed a better understanding of the arts than their own practitioners.6 After Plato, Aristotle is arguably the thinker who makes the most frequent and significant use of the model of painting in the Greek tradition. Indeed, apart from a few scattered remarks on the technique of color preparation,7 his references to this model involve substantial aesthetic issues, such as matter and form. 5.1.1 Medium and object of mimesis The Poetics opens with a threefold division of the criteria by which poetic and musical genres are distinguished, namely medium (tōi en heterois mimeisthai), object (tōi hetera), and manner (tōi heterōs) of imitation. Comparisons with painting will occur as illustrations of the first two of these criteria. In the following, poetry and music appear as one solidary class for which the production of ‘images’ provides a parallel of a different kind in order to illustrate the variety of mimetic media: Just as people (some by formal skill, others by a knack) use colours and shapes to render mimetic images of many things, while others again use the voice, so too all the poetic arts mentioned produce mimesis in rhythm, language, and melody, whether separately or in combination. (Poet. 1.1447a18–23)8 By contrast with most of the other relevant analogies found in the Poetics, this passage does not mention the painters directly but merely refers to “people who use colours and shapes,” and it has often been claimed9 that both sculptors and painters are meant in this expression. However, considering that all the other references to visual arts in the Poetics, except one,10 concern painting and painting only, we are surely justified to think of it as being the main model in Aristotle’s mind here.11 Moreover, while colors and shapes seem sufficient to describe the material features of painting,

90  Elsa Bouchard this characterization lacks an essential element for sculpture, namely the support – wood, metal, or stone – in which the works are made. The function of this comparison is to support Aristotle’s common definition of epic, tragedy, comedy, dithyramb, and the playing of aulos and the lyre as mimetic arts. The passage has an inductive quality: a number of apparently quite different activities are identified as falling under the general category of the mimetic arts, which can then be distinguished according to different criteria. But the addition of arts that use “colors and shapes” next to the ones already mentioned amounts to an unexpected complication, rather than a simplification, of the passage, creating as it does a multilevel taxonomy of mimetic productions. On the first level, one can distinguish purely visual arts (using shapes and colors) from other arts; on the second level, the latter category is to be further divided according to the various possible combinations of rhythm, language, melody, and – if we include dancing, to which Aristotle briefly alludes at 1.1447a26–8 – shape. Despite the taxological complication that it creates, the mention of visual arts – whether just painting, or both painting and sculpture are meant – possesses an undeniable argumentative relevance in this specific context. Indeed, the topic at hand is the stuff – literally, the “containers” (en hois, 1.1447b29) – in which mimetic representations are produced. Such a notion finds a strongly concrete application when we think of painting or sculpture: a painted work can readily be imagined as being “made in” pigments of colors, and a statue “inscribed into” different shapes. By contrast, it is only our acquaintance with this text that makes us insensitive to the original oddity of speaking of language or rhythm as the “things in which” mimesis can take place.12 In order to be applied to poetry, this first theoretical distinction according to material (or “medium”) must be understood in a more abstract fashion than what is required in the case of the “colors and shapes” used by painters. Painting is mentioned again early in the second chapter of the Poetics, which is about differences in the object of mimesis: Since mimetic artists represent people in action, and the latter should be either elevated (spoudaious) or base (phaulous) (for characters almost always align with just these types, as it is through vice and virtue that the characters of all men vary), they can represent people better than our normal level, worse than it, or much the same. As too with painters: Polygnotus depicted superior people, Pauson inferior, and Dionysius those like ourselves. Clearly, each of the kinds of mimesis already mentioned will manifest these distinctions, and will differ by representing different objects in the given sense. (2.1448a1–9) The lack of information available on these three painters13 unfortunately hinders any attempt to use their example to throw light on the meaning

Painting as an aesthetic paradigm  91 of this highly controversial text. The main interpretative problem concerns the (moral? social?) value that should be given to the various epithets – spoudaios, phaulos, etc. – that Aristotle uses for the types of persons represented in poetry and in painting. It is not my purpose to address this problem at length here14; suffice it to say that there are strong reasons to believe that the epithets primarily refer to social strata, “with a flow-on effect on moral status,” as G. Zanker puts it.15 Moreover, the comparison with painting in this context supports an understanding of these terms that is not limited to strict ethics, but that includes the external signs of social success; for the spoudaioi subjects of painters were certainly represented with the help of all the visual features that conventional morality granted them: beauty, sumptuosity, and stature. As Lucas points out, the addition of the third term “much the same” to the basic dichotomy between better and worse characters finds no application outside this chapter and thus appears “wholly superfluous.”16 But in the present context, Aristotle feels compelled not only to provide literary analogues for Polygnotus and Pauson (Homer, on the one hand, Hegemon and Nichochares, on the other) but also to give a poetic counterpart to the “neutral” Dionysius in the person of a certain Cleophon (2.1448a11–14).17 Lucas makes the following suggestion: “possibly the comparison with the three painters was originally made elsewhere in a different connexion.” Another possibility is that the triad of painters was already considered paradigmatic of three styles of representation,18 and that Aristotle applied the pre-existing tripartite distinction somewhat artificially to the poets.19 Indeed, the usefulness for poetics of the second criterion, the “object” of mimesis, is somewhat restricted in the following chapter: “in one respect Sophocles could be classed as the same kind of mimetic artist as Homer, since both represent elevated characters, but in another the same as Aristophanes, since both represent people in direct action.”20 Painters may be adequately labeled according to the kinds of people that they represent, but for poets we need additional criteria. The parallel between poetry and painting that is repeatedly summoned to illustrate the criteria according to which mimetic arts differ from each other breaks down upon the introduction of the third criterion, namely the mode of representation (to hōs): “one can represent the same objects by combining narrative with direct personation, as Homer does; or in an invariable narrative voice; or by direct enactment of all roles” (3.1448a19–24). This time the distinction is purely literary and has no analogue outside the realm of poetry, for the presence of narrative voices is specific to verbal mimesis. Perhaps tellingly, this third criterion plays virtually no role in the rest of the Poetics. One probable reason for this is that most of the treatise is concerned with a single genre – tragedy – and thus a single mode of representation – the dramatic, although epic poetry (especially the Homeric “exception”) also receives some attention.21 But it is also the case that Aristotle’s recurring comparisons with painting have the effect of stressing the status of poems as

92  Elsa Bouchard quasi-material works of art, that is to say, as apprehensible in their instantaneous completeness rather than in the temporal and discursive motion that is implied by the presence of a narrator and/or speaking characters. 5.1.2 Idealization In Chapter 2 Aristotle had presented a general distinction between basic types of people constituting possible objects of representation, whether in poetry, prose, dance, music, or painting. In Chapter 15, which is about the specific topic of characters (ēthē) in tragedy, the poets are again invited to follow the example of painters: Since tragedy is mimesis of those superior to us, poets should emulate good portrait painters, who render personal appearance and produce likenesses, yet enhance people’s beauty. Likewise the poet, while showing irascible and indolent people and those with other such character traits, should make them nonetheless decent (epieikeis). (15.1454b8–13) The structure of the first sentence confirms my previous remarks on the meaning of “better” and “worse” people at 2.1448a1–9. Aristotle claims that because tragedy imitates superior people, they should also be endowed with virtuousness; the reason for this claim must be that ēthos usually (though not necessarily) follows from social status. Thus, tragedy must represent people “superior” to ordinary men in both standing and virtue. “Superior” does not mean flawless, but whatever flaws the characters possess must not prevent them from being generally “respectable” (epieikeis). The distinction between the choice of subject (people of high or low status) and the artistic treatment of them (with or without idealization) apparently applies to both painting and poetry. But there remains a certain asymmetry between these two requirements: Aristotle justifies the moral idealization of tragic characters with regard to the aesthetic idealization of portraits, which the painters render “more beautiful” (kallious) than their original models, though still recognizable. The substantial difference between aesthetic and moral idealization is notable and the justification of one by the other anything but obvious, even if it is facilitated by the moral connotations of kalos and its cognates. It would perhaps have been less surprising on Aristotle’s part to compare the inordinate beauty of painted portraits to poetic lexis, which is contrived, adorned, and selective with regard to normal speech. Instead of that, the comparison with painters is applied to make a point about ēthos – a component of tragedy that is superior in importance to lexis. As such, Aristotle’s argument entails a deflection of the notion of beautification from an aesthetic to a moral meaning – although such a deflection would have seemed more radical were it not that the idea that painted portraits in fact possess moral qualities was generally accepted in Aristotle’s time, as we will see in the next section.

Painting as an aesthetic paradigm  93 5.1.3 From ēthos to muthos I have mentioned earlier that the notion of artistic medium seemed more apt to be applied to the colors and shapes of painting than to the less tangible poetic “substance” composed of lexical and musical elements. But Aristotle’s conception of poetic form requires an even higher level of abstraction and displacement from the visual paradigm. The notion becomes central in Poetics 6 when he turns from general and historical considerations about poetry to the analytical description of his favorite genre, tragedy. The chapter is largely devoted to arguing for the conceptual priority of muthos (sometimes referred to as “the arrangement of events” or simply “the events”) over the other five constituents of tragedy and especially over ēthos, which comes second in the hierarchy. Two arguments out of five for the priority of muthos make use of a comparison with painting. The first is the fact that both poets and painters can produce artworks which are deprived of character: Without action there could be no tragedy, but without character there could be: in fact, the tragedies of most of the recent poets are lacking in character (aētheis), and in general there are many such poets (as with Zeuxis’ relationship to Polygnotus among painters: Polygnotus is a fine depicter of character (ēthographos), while Zeuxis’ painting contains no character). (6.1450a23–8) As Zanker points out, Aristotle’s reference to Zeuxis and to recent tragedians is in no way laudatory and merely serves to press his point that ēthos is not a necessary part of poetry – not that it is not a desirable part of it.22 Just as Zeuxis is inferior to Polygnotus with regard to ēthos, so the more recent tragedians – likely Aristotle’s contemporaries – are disadvantageously compared to those of the generation of Sophocles and Euripides, whom Aristotle repeatedly names as paragons of their art. Needless to say, ēthos and action are not mutually exclusive features of a work of art, so one could hardly conclude from Aristotle’s description of Zeuxis’ painting that the latter specialized in “rendering figures in movement or moments of action.”23 Likewise, Polygnotus’ talent for ēthographia should not be taken to imply that his painting lacked movement or was confined to static figures representing various character traits. While Aristotle’s remark makes no definitive judgment on the general quality of Polygnotus’ and Zeuxis’ painting,24 it should certainly be seen as part of an ongoing reflection on the place of ēthos in the work of painters: Xenophon’s Memorabilia records a discussion on this very topic, in which Socrates persuades Parrhasios that his role entails imitating “the ēthos of the soul” (Mem. 3.10.1–5; to … tēs psuchēs ēthos: 3.10.3.). Aristotle’s second argument for the primacy of muthos in poetry relies on the pleasure of the spectator:

94  Elsa Bouchard Plot, then, is the first principle and, as it were, soul of tragedy, while character is secondary. A similar principle also holds in painting: if one were to cover a surface randomly with the finest colours, one would provide less pleasure than by an outline of a picture (leukographēsas eikona). (6.1450a37–b2) This text is particularly interesting since it constructs the following term-toterm analogy: plot (muthos): outline (eikōn): character (ēthos): colors.25 Moreover, other Aristotelian passages show that the analogy has more than a descriptive force, but is also telling of the very process of artistic composition. The following comment appears in a discussion on the formation of embryos in Generation of Animals: In the early stages the parts are all traced out in outline (tais perigraphais); later on they get their various colours and softnesses and hardnesses, just as if a painter were at work on them, the painter being nature. Indeed, painters first of all sketch in the figure of the animal in outline, and after that go on to apply the colours. (2.743b20–5; trans. Peck, modified) This sequence – sketching out the outline, then adding non-essential details and ornaments – is precisely that which Aristotle prescribes for poetic composition.26 But whereas the order of operations used in painting is referred to in the Generation of Animals as a fact well-known,27 in the Poetics Aristotle has to press his point that drawing the general outline of a poem must precede the attribution of names, the introduction of episodes, and any other kinds of “coloring.”28 Although no mention is made of the ēthos component in this context, it seems likely that he would include it among those additional features that merely give “color” to the story. Indeed, in Chapter 17, he gives two poetic outlines in their barest form, none of which makes any room whatsoever for the individual qualities of the main characters. Luckily, these summaries are those of two poems that are preserved – Euripides’ Iphigenia in Tauris and Homer’s Odyssey – so as to permit a comparison between the actual poems and Aristotle’s assessment of their “general structure” (to katholou, 1455b1–2), “story” (logos, 1455b17, cf. 1455a34), or “essential core” (to idion, 1455b23). The comparison is especially striking in the case of the Odyssey, of which Aristotle gives the following abstract: A man is away from home many years; he is watched by Poseidon, and isolated; moreover, affairs at home are such that his property is consumed by suitors, and his son conspired against; but he returns after shipwreck, allows some people to recognise him, and launches an attack which brings his own survival and his enemies’ destruction. (17.1455b17–23)

Painting as an aesthetic paradigm  95 In point of fact, Aristotle does not explicitly refer to this dry synopsis as the muthos of the poem; arguably, a proper muthos should include extra details on the causal connections between the various events that are merely juxtaposed here – including perhaps the motivations of the protagonist, by which his character might be glimpsed. Yet if this logos (or katholou) is not the same as the muthos, then Chapter 17 oddly stops short of describing the very constitution of the muthos: the only other step that Aristotle mentions after the elaboration of the logos is “to supply names and devise the episodes,” while taking care to keep the episodes “integral” (oikeia).29 Moreover, in the middle of giving the outline (to katholou) of Iphigenia in Tauris a few lines earlier, he had pointed to the fact that some elements relevant to the play – namely “that the god’s oracle told [Orestes] to go there, and for what purpose” – were “outside the plot” (exō tou muthou).30 As previous commentators have concluded, in this chapter logos “is hardly to be distinguished from muthos in the sense of plot.”31 While both ancient and modern readers of Homer have been fascinated by Odysseus’ cunning qualities embodied in the epithet polytropos, this outline makes no mention whatsoever of the exceptional features of the poem’s protagonist. In technical terms, what Aristotle gives as the muthos of the Odyssey (albeit calling it its logos) is entirely deprived of reference to ēthos. Yet one could argue that the repeated recognitions that make up the “complex” plot of the Odyssey32 are made possible precisely by Odysseus’ characteristic habit of assuming various identities (his polytropia). In other words, the plot of the Odyssey is organically connected to the ēthos of its main character to such an extent that the formal separation between muthos and ēthos appears inadequate to the task of giving an account of the construction of the poem. Such an inadequacy, I believe, is related to the poetry/painting analogy, which here finds a new limit. A painter may no doubt produce his representation in two separate stages, first by delineating the shape and then filling it in with colors. But the poet could hardly compose in an analogical fashion. It seems clear from the two references to painting in Poetics 6 that this craft provides the norms to which dramatic composition is submitted, not the other way round.33 A further difficulty attached to the four-term analogy suggested by 6.1450a37–b2 is that ēthos is not only the analogue of colors in poetic compositions but is also an important concept in discussions of painting itself, both in Aristotle and before him. The locus classicus for pre-Aristotelian theories of the visual arts is in Xenophon’s Memorabilia (3.10.1–8), where Socrates has two brief conversations with a painter and a sculptor about their profession. At first both his interlocutors show a surprising indifference to the symbolical tenor of their work, but Socrates easily convinces them that their crafts are not only capable of reproducing the visible parts of their subjects, but can and should also be devoted to reflect the character as well as the activities of the soul. As many elements in this passage are paralleled in other sources,34 it is likely that it reflects a conception

96  Elsa Bouchard of painting and sculpture that was traditional at the dramatic date of Xenophon’s dialogue.35 This conception apparently emerged among thinkers of the fifth century in reaction to a long-standing disparaging discourse against visual arts entertained by archaic poets and by some pre-Socratic philosophers. Simonides’ famous double metaphor (“painting is silent poetry, poetry is loquacious painting”)36 is not only the first attested analogy between these arts. It is also a partisan statement in that it reduces painting to a form of deficient poetry – poetry without speech.37 In classical times the comparison becomes somewhat commonplace and shows up in various contexts.38 But the Memorabilia passage is the most complete and elaborate testimony of the debates on aesthetics that took place in intellectual circles in the heyday of the sophistic movement.39 It shows that ēthos was the key concept in discussions on the representational role of painting and sculpture. In spite of its diverse uses, the word ēthos usually bears connotations of stability, referring to the steadier features of an individual’s personality. As a motionless entity, it may have seemed a natural object of representation for a graphic artist.40 What is more seldom observed is that in the same period a similar notion concerning the place of ēthos in poetry was developing. Sophocles is said to have contrasted his own habit of representing people “as they should be” with Euripides’ choice of making them “as they are” (Poet. 1460b33–4). His conscious preoccupation with ēthos is also reported by Plutarch (De profect. in virt. 79b), according to whom the poet considered that his style of writing had reached its final and finest stage when it became ēthikōtaton – “much expressive of character.” In Plato’s dialogues the interlocutors who discuss poetry show themselves especially interested in identifying the various “types” of men represented in the poems,41 with a tendency to cast them as paradigmatic examples of different character traits42 – just like Socrates in the Memorabilia describes the subject matter of painters with a list of antithetical and superlative qualities that denote “pure” character traits. This general preoccupation with ēthos might well explain Aristotle’s rather insistent claim in the Poetics against the priority of ēthos in favor of an (apparently unprecedented) emphasis on muthos. In fact, the commentator on the Poetics Alfred Gudeman has even suggested that Aristotle was responding to a contemporary treatise on poetics in which the object of mimesis was defined as ēthos.43 Whether or not such a treatise ever existed, Aristotle’s insistence on this point must be the sign of the currency of the opposing view, which could certainly have been supported by a parallel with visual arts, since they were traditionally viewed as depicting ēthos. Perhaps surprisingly, Aristotle’s strategy in the Poetics is not to qualify the poetry/painting analogy in order to stress the importance of muthos in poetry as opposed to that of ēthos in painting. He rather preserves the full force of the analogy, arguing that both crafts can do without ēthos. As a matter of fact, in the Politics he refers to the object of visual arts as praxis,44 as he does with poetry; there is no reason to believe that his claim that

Painting as an aesthetic paradigm  97 “mimetic artists represent people in action” (Poet. 2.1448a1) does not apply to painters and sculptors as it obviously does to poets.45 He even denies the object of vision the capacity to represent ēthos directly, granting to music only such a capacity. Just like Socrates in the Memorabilia, he claims that painters and sculptors show the inner dispositions of the soul through a representation of their external manifestations on the body: The other [scil. non-auditory] objects of sensation contain no resemblances to characters, for example the objects of touch and taste – though the objects of sight do so slightly, for there are forms that do so, but only to a small extent […]; also they are not representations of character but rather the forms and colours produced46 are mere indications (sēmeia) of character, and these indications are bodily sensations during the emotions. (Pol. 8.1340a28–35; trans. Rackham, modified) Thus for Aristotle both poetry and painting produce representations of actions, and since “mimesis of a praxis” is in fact the very definition of muthos (Poet. 6.1450a3–5), we would be stricto sensu justified in calling the action in a painting “muthos.” Of course Aristotle does not go as far as that,47 but one of his successors makes a definite step in that direction. In his treatise On Style, Demetrius reports the painter Nicias’ contention that a graphic artist should consider as part of his task the choosing of a grand subject, for Nicias “held that the theme itself (tēn hupothesin) was part of the painter’s skill (meros … tēs zōgraphikēs technēs), just as plot (tous muthous) was part of the poet’s” (De Eloc. 76; trans. Innes). The term hupothesis used by Demetrius (and perhaps by Nicias) to refer to the subject matter of a painting is imported from Hellenistic literary criticism, in which it has essentially the same meaning as the Aristotelian muthos.48 5.1.4 Unity and proportions Before concluding this section on the use of painting analogies in technical contexts I want to examine two other passages in the Poetics which seem to rely on a comparison with visual arts, albeit in a non-explicit manner. These are concerned with the well-known criteria of unity and magnitude. Aristotle is especially insistent on the former notion, which he deems crucial not only for poetics but also “in the other mimetic arts”: Just as, therefore, in the other mimetic arts a unitary mimesis has a unitary object, so too the plot, since it is mimesis of an action, should be of a unitary and indeed whole action; and the component events should be so structured that if any is displaced or removed, the sense of the whole is disturbed and dislocated. (8.1451a30–4)

98  Elsa Bouchard What is suggested by the first words of the passage is that a rule of poetics has been imported from the realm of visual arts. The notions of unity, wholeness, and interdependency between the parts are perfectly suited to characterize the kind of visual equilibrium that is expected from a painting or a sculpture.49 Plato assimilates the work of painters to that of architects and shipbuilders in that each places each thing according to a certain disposition (eis taxin tina) and forces the various elements to become adapted and harmonized to each other until he has organized the whole thing (to hapan) as a well-disposed and ordered reality. (Grg. 503e–504a) But when applied to poetry, this heavy formalism imposes unrealistic conditions that can only lead to disappointment in the face of actual compositions.50 In particular, the large place taken by episodic parts in extant tragedies shows that a certain level of tolerance to such arbitrariness in the plot was required from the spectators. Intimately linked to the notion of unity is that of magnitude, on the subject of which Aristotle makes an explicit use of the model of visual perception (albeit without a clear reference to visual arts):51 Beauty consists in magnitude and order (en megethei kai taxei), which is why there could not be a beautiful animal which was either minuscule (as contemplation of it, occurring in an almost imperceptible moment [eggus tou anaisthētou khronou], has no distinctness) or gigantic (as contemplation of it has no cohesion [ou gar hama], but those who contemplate it lose a sense of unity and wholeness), say an animal a thousand miles long. So just as with our bodies and with animals beauty requires magnitude, but magnitude that allows coherent perception (eusunopton), likewise plots require length, but length that can be coherently remembered (eumnēmoneuton). (7.1450b36–51a6) This difficult text calls for two remarks. First, one should note the appearance of a temporal factor in Aristotle’s account of visual experience: excessively small things cannot be properly apprehended through time (khronou), but excessive size entails a perception that is not simultaneous (ou … hama). In other words, “we find that Aristotle reduces the megethos of painting to terms of time, to the length of time occupied by the kinēsis of which the perception (aisthēsis or theōria) of the picture consists.”52 To a modern reader, this introduction of the notion of time might seem a unique opportunity to make a crucial distinction between poetry’s unfolding in time and the motionless product of painting.53 Although the complete visual apprehension of a large painting may take as much time as the audition of a story,

Painting as an aesthetic paradigm  99 the latter experience is more temporally determined because the order in which the parts are perceived is not random, but strictly fixed beforehand by the poet: one must start reading (or listening) at the beginning, finish with the end, and go through all the in-between sections in the order in which the composer has made his work. By contrast, no spectator of a painting should be compelled to look at its parts in a specific sequence, even if some degree of guidance can be provided by the artist. Thus, in this case the awkwardness of the analogy between a beautiful animal/picture and a beautiful plot does not result from a superimposition to poetics of a requirement that is mostly relevant to visual arts. On the contrary, while poetry is essentially temporal in that it is framed in a linear succession of parts, painting does not involve such a strict commitment to chronology. In this occasion Aristotle adapts his definition of visual beauty to concepts that are better suited to poetry. Second, although these lines focus on the limits of perception (visual and intellectual), in what follows immediately Aristotle claims that the appropriate magnitude of a plot is in fact determined by “the actual nature of the matter” (kat’ autēn tēn phusin tou pragmatos), that is, in the case of tragedy, the length “which permits a transformation to occur, in a probable or necessary sequence of events, from adversity to prosperity or prosperity to adversity” (7.1451a12–15). Once again we are confronted with an imperfect analogy: whereas the appropriate magnitude of a visual mimēma is directly dependent on the perceptional capacities of the onlooker, determining the appropriate length of tragedy with respect to competitions, and attention span is deemed “extrinsic to the art” (7.1451a6–9). Thus what Aristotle had called “ease in remembering the plot” (eumnēmoneuton) in fact has nothing to do with the numerous contingencies of audience and performance contexts (and neither should it be measured according to the capacities of a reader): it is the “actual nature” of the subject matter of the poem that commands its own appropriate length. There is an irresistible tension in Poetics 7 between Aristotle’s acknowledgment of the aesthetic (perceptual) nature of the object “tragedy,” which is suggested by the analogy with an animal of apprehensible proportions, and the status of muthos as a pure form, free from all reception-dependent contingencies.54 Finally, Aristotle mentions the natural limits imposed by the particular subject matter of tragedy but says nothing of the sort about paintings. Hence a new asymmetry: the notion of “appropriate magnitude” is teleologically defined when applied to poetic productions, while it possesses a more contingent tenor in the case of visual works.

5.2 Cognition and ethics The question of reception will in fact be at the center of the next part of this chapter. For although painting and more generally visual arts are especially useful to Aristotle as technical paradigms, they are also closely associated

100  Elsa Bouchard with poetry when he discusses the emotional, cognitive, and ethical effects of art. I shall consider Aristotle’s discourse in this regard in the light of two main concepts: recognition and moral value. 5.2.1 Recognition In the preceding section I have suggested that some of the analogies with the visual arts are problematic, in that they require to extend the meaning of concrete notions and to submit them to excessively abstract applications, as in the last example on the criterion of eusunopton. However, the place where Aristotle’s use of the painting analogy has been the most criticized by commentators is the famous passage of the Poetics concerning the phenomenon of “pleasurable recognition,” which Aristotle deems an essential facet in the human experience of mimesis: It is an instinct of human beings, from childhood, to engage in mimesis […]; and equally natural that everyone enjoys mimetic objects. A common occurrence indicates this: we enjoy contemplating the most precise images of things whose actual sight is painful to us, such as the forms of the vilest animals and of corpses. […] People enjoy looking at images, because through contemplating them it comes about that they understand and infer what each element means, for instance that “this person is so-and-so” (houtos ekeinos). For, if one happens not to have seen the subject before, the image will not give pleasure qua mimesis but because of its execution or colour, or for some other such reason. (4.1448b4–19) The criticism that has been addressed to this account of the hedonistic and cognitive features of mimesis is that the simplicity of the visual experience described by Aristotle does not do justice to the complex phenomena involved in responses to poetry.55 Identifying a portrait as “so-and-so” merely establishes a one-to-one correspondence between two single objects, while we would like to think that the process of listening to a story involves grasping some of the “universals” that are the concern of poetry according to another famous passage of the Poetics (9.1451a36–b15). The inadequacy of the analogy is revealed by the number of interpretative hypotheses that have been summoned to explain the exact nature of “poetic recognition” and “poetic pleasure,” all of which require to go well beyond the simplistic model offered in this example. But Halliwell is surely right to point out that the “houtos ekeinos experience” is no more sufficient to illustrate the process of watching a painting than that of reading or hearing poetry. This example seems to have been chosen in virtue of its being the lowest common denominator of human aesthetic experience, ranging from the playing of children to the scientific study of philosophers.56 Nowhere does Aristotle suggest that this basic model of recognition exhausts the aesthetic responses

Painting as an aesthetic paradigm  101 to painting, or that it should be understood as an adequate account of the effect of visual arts but not of poetry. Indeed, in a parallel text from the Rhetoric (1.1371b4–10), painting, sculpture, and poetry are all explicitly associated with this same experience.57 The pleasure that Aristotle describes in Poetics 4 can be described as a “meta-response” in that it comes about not as a knee-jerk reaction to the intrinsic content of the work of art – by contrast, for instance, to pity and fear, which result from the spectator’s capacity for empathy with the characters of a tragedy – but rather to the externally perceivable coincidence between the image and that of which it is an image. Even if no recognition occurs, this pleasure is still dependent on formal features of art qua art – execution or color – rather than on internal content. But there is a hint somewhere in the Poetics that painting has the power to provoke reactions in a way comparable to tragic catharsis. Speaking of the various forms of recognition between characters that occur within tragic plots, Aristotle gives the following examples of “recognition through memory”: The third kind is through memory, when the sight of something brings awareness (tōi aisthesthai ti idonta), like the case in Dicaeogenes’ Cyprians (on seeing the painting he cried), and the one in Odysseus’ tale to Alcinous (on hearing the singer he was reminded and wept); whence they were recognised. (16.1454b37–55a3) Once again some preliminary remarks are called for. The conciseness of the passage, added to the lack of information about the first example, obscures the concrete meaning of the phrase “the awareness brought about by seeing something.” In the case of Dicaeogenes’ play, one and the same character sees something – incidentally, a painting – and is consequently brought to tears; we naturally deduce that this is also the person who has become “aware” (aisthesthai) of a particular state of affair. But the second example as well as the conclusion of the passage counter this reading: both Odysseus and Dicaeogenes’ character are said to be “recognized,” which shows that Aristotle is referring to the fact that others become aware of these characters’ identity by seeing them act in a certain manner. We know that this is indeed what happens in the Odyssey: Odysseus’ crying at Demodocus’ tale prompts Alcinous to ask and obtain his name. Moreover, as announced in the introductory sentence, both examples are supposed to illustrate a perception elicited by seeing (idonta); since Odysseus does not see anything in this scene, but rather hears a story, what is relevant here must be Alcinous’ vision of his distressed host and his subsequent learning of his identity. Be that as it may, and even if the point of the passage is in fact to illustrate the quite specific category of situations where “a character being reminded of the past spontaneously gives a sign which leads to recognition,”58 the fact remains that (1) in both examples the characters who are the objects

102  Elsa Bouchard of a recognition are also themselves the subjects of a perception (visual or auditive) which provokes their weeping, and that (2) at least in the second example the character “remembers,” and thus probably “recognizes,” events previously known to him. Aristotle’s choice of these similar examples can hardly be a coincidence, and their juxtaposition suggests a new analogy, one that is seldom noticed, between the mnemonic and emotional effect of words and images. The fact that the examples are taken from fictional works – a tragedy and an epic – rather than real-life situations changes nothing to the principle that they illustrate, namely the cognitive impact that visual and poetic productions have upon those who receive them.59 True enough, Odysseus’ reaction can be thought to be dependent on his own involvement in the narrated events rather than on the intrinsic artistic value of Demodocus’ story-telling; but we should also remember his own words to the bard following his first performance:60 Demodocus, verily above all mortal men do I praise thee, whether it was the Muse, the daughter of Zeus, that taught thee, or Apollo; for well and truly dost thou sing of the fate of the Achaeans, all that they wrought and suffered, and all the toils they endured, as though haply thou hadst thyself been present, or hadst heard the tale from another. (Odyssey 8.487–91; transl. Murray) Odysseus’ praise of Demodocus indicates that the latter’s skill does (at least partly) account for the success that he achieves in eliciting an emotional response in his most interested hearer. Thus, although Odysseus’ particularly strong reaction to Demodocus’ stories can be explained by the part he took in them61 in person, one does not imagine that an incompetent bard handling the same material would have obtained the same result. Moreover, the sophisticated mise en scène surrounding Demodocus’ three performances in book 8 of the Odyssey cannot but prompt the reader to ponder over the value of poetry itself62: as a result we feel that the aesthetic and didactic qualities of Demodocus’ poems have somehow displaced their importance as a literal account, and thus as an apt reminder, of past events. Odysseus’ reaction is a mixed one, characterized at once by distress (the exact reasons of which are matter for debate)63 and pleasure at hearing his own glorious deeds being told in a worthy manner. The hero might be thought a better judge of the bard’s talent than any of his Phaeacians guests not only because he can vouch for the veracity of the stories but also because he is particularly apt to feel the moral and cognitive effects of a fine poetic rendition of painful events: indeed, the difference between his own reactions and those of the Phaeacians can be understood as the Homeric poet’s way of suggesting his character’s progress in his general understanding of destiny and human suffering.64 It is probably unsafe to speculate about Aristotle’s use of the Odyssey episode, considering that the reasons for Odysseus’ tears, as well as his exact

Painting as an aesthetic paradigm  103 motivations for asking Demodocus to sing a song that turns out to afflict him, constitute such vexed questions of Homeric scholarship. Still, this too brief passage of the Poetics contains a tantalizing association between similar emotions provoked by both poetic and visual media, and the reference to Dicaeogenes’ unknown play at least suggests that the pathē affecting the spectator of a painting can have a richer tenor than the mild surprise alluded to in Chapter 4. 5.2.2 Moral benefit The last two books of Aristotle’s Politics contain numerous recommendations on the education of children and the environment in which future citizens are to be brought up. In this context, Aristotle indulges in the kind of cultural censure for which his master Plato is better known, although a notable difference is that his restrictions only apply to young souls, not to mature individuals. That is the case in the following passage, where in a single stroke he condemns vulgarity in three different types of work of art – painting, sculpture, and poetry: Since we banish any talk of this kind, clearly, we must also banish the seeing (theōrein) of either pictures or speeches (ē graphas ē logous)65 that are indecent. The officials must therefore be careful that there may be no sculpture or painting that represents indecent actions […]. The younger ones must not be allowed in the audience at lampoons and at comedy. (7.1336b13–21; trans. Rackham, modified) This text is complemented by a later passage in the Politics about the psychological effects of music that includes a parenthetical comment on two painters mentioned in the Poetics, Pauson and Polygnotus. While admitting that visual sensations only convey limited and indirect expressions of ēthos, Aristotle prescribes that youngsters should avoid contact with the paintings of Pauson and rather look at those of Polygnotus “and of any other painter or sculptor who is ēthikos” (8.1340a35–8). The immediate context assures that the word ēthikos here means “morally edifying” – and in fact we know from Poet. 1448a1–9 that Polygnotus painted superior characters and that “superior characters” often mean “good characters.” This statement should not be confused with a previously examined passage (6.1450a23–8) describing Polygnotus as a competent drawer of characters, whichever kinds of character they be.66 This censoring attitude results from Aristotle’s working in a different theoretical framework than when he looks at the technical features of art. Here it is considered before all as producing cultural artifacts, to which different parts of the civic community are exposed. Indeed, the censure applies only to immature individuals, who are presumably incapable of the complex cognitive and emotional processes that accompany aesthetic experiences in a

104  Elsa Bouchard fully developed human being. The form of mimesis that children practice according to Poet. 4 is “imitation” in a flatly literal sense: children see (or hear), children do. This rudimentary form of mimesis, which almost amounts to a reflex, calls for Aristotle’s strictures on what is to be presented to the eyes and ears of children in the Politics.67 His simultaneous condemnation of poetic and visual crudity shows that the works of poetry and those of visual arts are equally susceptible of provoking such a directly imitative behavior, with its ensuing moral impact on young subjects.68

5.3 Art for what? A few Aristotelian comments on the autonomy and the intrinsic value of painting show that it also provides an exemplary support to a conception of art as an independent field of activity with its own rules. In a famous passage of Poetics 25, Aristotle defends the existence of a separate standard of correctness for poetry, one not reducible to the standards of the other arts whose knowledge is involved in the production of poetic mimesis. He illustrates this idea with the following example: “it is less serious not to know that a female deer has no horns, than to depict one unconvincingly” (25.1460b31–2).69 (The following example of a factual, non-poetical error borrowed from zoology, that of a horse “projecting both its right legs at the same time,” might also be inspired by a painting, whether an actual or an imagined one.)70 A similar exemption should be conceded to the poet as regards the object of his representation, which is not confined to how things are in reality, but also includes things “as they are said and thought to be” and things “as they should be.” Aristotle grants him this privilege by virtue of his being a mimetic artist, “like a painter or any other image-maker” (1460b8–9); indeed, later in the chapter, he adduces the example of Zeuxis, who painted “impossible (adunaton) but superior (beltion) figures”71 and did so legitimately on account that “a model should be preeminent” (25.1461b12–13).72 The argument in this chapter strongly suggests that unrealistic depiction was a possibility uncontroversially granted to the artists73; Aristotle’s strategy consists in extending this “right” from painters to poets by appealing to their common belonging to the category of mimetic artists.74 As verbal artists, poets had always been victims of a conflation with other users of logos, such as historians, scientists, and philosophers, with whom they would stand repeated competition on terms – accuracy, truthfulness, etc. – where they were bound to lose. Stressing the analogous relationship between painting and poetry is an encouragement to view the latter as a species of mimesis rather than a species of discourse. This amounts to much more than taxonomic rearranging: it invites us to give up comparison between poetry and other types of discourse altogether. In the final book of the Politics, which is largely concerned with the liberal education of citizens, painting is listed along with literature, gymnastics, and music as the main disciplines standing at the core of traditional

Painting as an aesthetic paradigm  105 education (8.1337b23–5). Aristotle’s aim in this part of the treatise is to account for the place given to musical practice, which contrary to the other three is not believed to be unequivocally “useful.” Indeed, he says, literature and graphikē are taught “as being useful for the purposes of life and very serviceable,” while gymnastics has the obvious benefit of developing courage. At first sight this might be understood to mean that Aristotle subordinates the art of graphikē to other (likely moral) purposes, but two passages in the same chapter strongly modify this impression: 1

2

Reading and writing are useful for business and for household management and for acquiring learning and for many pursuits of civil life, while drawing (graphikē) also seems to be useful in making us better judges of the works of artists. (8.1338a15–19) And it is also clear that some of the useful objects as well ought to be studied by the young not only because of their utility, like the study of reading and writing, but also because they may lead on to many other branches of knowledge; similarly they should study drawing not in order that they may not go wrong in their private purchases and may avoid being cheated in buying and selling furnitures, but rather because this study makes a man observant of bodily beauty, and to seek for utility everywhere is entirely unsuited to men that are great-souled and free. (8.1338a37–b4; trans. Rackam)

The claims made in these passages about the advantages of practicing painting are remarkable. The first consists in saying that the special usefulness of graphikē is to make its practitioners better art critics – a statement with a quasi-circular quality: painting is good for looking at the products of painting. The second is a radicalization of the first: the value of the study of graphikē resides in its power to make people sensitive to beauty, and this has nothing to do with “utility” in any down-to-earth sense of the word. Whereas music, in virtue of its strong power to represent ēthos, has an obvious function in moral education, and while the benefits of reading can be applied to such mundane pursuits as household management, painting seems to escape this utilitarian view and to come as close as possible to a conception of “art for art” or at least “art for beauty.”75 As a discipline whose value is not entirely dependent on the criterion of utility, that is on the quality of being “in view of something else” (di’ heteron),76 it shares something with contemplation of mathematical and astronomical truths, as well as with the noblest idea that there is, the final good or eudaimonia (EN 1.1097a25–b6).

5.4 Conclusion There is no doubt that Aristotle, faithful to his empiricist sympathies, at least partly elaborated his ideas on poetry and visual arts through direct contact with actual works. But he was no less of a doxographer, and prone

106  Elsa Bouchard to build on pre-existing theories.77 We know that multiple treatises on visual arts were in circulation prior to Aristotle, while treatises of poetics were either inexistent or sparse. Accordingly, it is reasonable to consider the possibility that his literary ideas were at least partly shaped by previous reflections on the technical features and educational qualities of visual arts. This hypothesis may be seen to be supported by two quite different sets of fact: on the one hand, there is the awkwardness of some of the analogies drawn between painting and poetry, many of which suggest that the theoretical foundations of the former art were laid first; on the other hand, there is the intrinsic value attributed to painting in Aristotle’s work, where it regularly appears as a source of strong emotional, cognitive, and ethical impact, as well as an undisputed paradigm of an autonomous pursuit. But whatever the Poetics owes to its notional predecessors, Aristotle indubitably made an innovative and constructive use of a traditional analogy. The seriousness with which he relies on it is proved by the fact that his educational program is equally sensitive to the potential benefits and dangers of both literary and visual works of art.78

Notes 1 Lucas (1968, 56). 2 A notable exception is music, which is singled out for its exceptional power to express ethical dispositions in the Politics (8.1340a28–b10). 3 Cf. Manieri (1995). 4 For a review of Plato’s references to painting (see Demand 1975). The connections between classical artistic practices and Plato and Aristotle’s theories of art are explored in Webster (1952) and Schuhl (1952). 5 Pollitt (1974, 12–24). For a history of the mimesis theory as applied to art and literature, see Webster (1939, 167–69). 6 See e.g. Socrates’ “lecture” to the artists Parrhasius and Cleiton in Xenophon’s Memorabilia (3.10). Aristotle shows no such pretension and apparently accepts the artists’ privileged position to discuss their own arts: at EN 10.1180b32–4 he names painting along with medicine as examples of disciplines that are performed and taught by the same persons. 7 Cf. De se. 440a8–10; GA 725a26; HA 548a12; Mete. 372a. 8 Trans. Halliwell (1995). All further citations of the Poetics are likewise from Halliwell; translations of other texts are my own unless otherwise mentioned. 9 See Gudeman (1934, 81–2), Else (1957, 18), Lucas (1968, 56). 10 The exception is Poet. 4.1448b9–18 (examined below) where Aristotle talks of the pleasure taken in “images” (eikones) in general, a term which may refer to any kind of visual representation. The passage has a strongly philosophical tenor and is concerned with the universal human tendency to enjoy mimetic works. On the generalizing value of the passages where Aristotle refers to visual arts, see Ciarletta (1976). 11 Cf. Hardie (1895, 351). 12 The regular meaning of such phrases as en rhuthmōi or en harmoniai is “following the beat” and “in tune,” or alternatively “with use of” rhythm or music. See e.g. Xenophon, Symp. 2.8, An. 5.4.14; Plato, Rep. 601a8. A few Platonic occurrences anticipate Aristotle’s “materialization” of these notions; e.g. Lg. 660a5–8: “composing the attitudes in rhythms and the songs in melodies.”

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where the mediocrity of the oldest painters and sculptors exemplifies the general rule that life holds more bad things than good. Cf. Gudeman (1934, 423). The passage is corrupt and adunaton is a conjecture, but the sense is relatively clear. The fact that, according to Aristotle, Zeuxis’ paintings were deprived of ēthos (1450a23–8, cited supra) confirms that beltion has a social rather than a moral meaning. Pliny (NH 35.111) agrees that Zeuxis was a painter of serious subjects and thus the analogue of a tragedian: “Nicophanes […] was far inferior to Zeuxis and Apelles as regards the tragic character and solemnity of his art (cothurnus et gravitas artis).” A similar idea is expressed by Plato, Rep. 472d, who also mentions perfect but impossible models. As it happens, ancient historians and philosophers were much prone to formulate critiques of poetic myths, while no one seemed as much offended by the representations of Giants, Centaurs and such that adorned the facade of public buildings. A simultaneous defence of poetic and visual “deception” had already been enounced by the author of the Dissoi logoi: “Among tragedians and painters, the best is the one who deceives (exapatēi) the most by making things similar to the real ones” (3.10). Butcher’s attempt (1907) to view Aristotle as the proponent of a general “theory of fine art” neglects these essential differences in his treatment of the arts. A frequent expression in Aristotle, e.g. at EN 1.1097a26. He explicitly admits a debt to unidentified colleagues in the field of musicology: see Pol. 8.1341b28–33. This paper was greatly improved by the critical remarks I have received from previous readers, especially Malcolm Heath, to whom I am much thankful.

Part 2

Poetics, politics, and ethics Links and independence

Taylor & Francis Taylor & Francis Group http://taylora ndfra ncis.com

6

Family bounds, political community, and tragic pathos Pierre Destrée

6.1 Is there a divorce of tragedy from politics? In an important paper, “Is there a polis in Aristotle’s Poetics?”, Edith Hall has argued that Aristotle pleaded for a divorce of tragedy from politics. More precisely, she has argued for a double divorce. From the very fact that in the Poetics there is no discussion, or even mention, of the political context of tragedy, especially the City Dionysia, nor any discussion of the possible links between tragedy and democracy, especially Athenian politics, Hall concludes that there is a “divorce of tragedy from the Athenian democratic polis.”1 Aristotle was not an Athenian citizen, he “was uniquely situated to look at tragedy in a non-political way” (ibid.) and to ignore both the Athenian political background of the theater’s contests and the multileveled links between tragedy and democratic politics. But that is not all. Aristotle also, Hall claims, “conceptually depolitized tragedy” (ibid.) in a much stronger sense: tragedy has now become, or so Aristotle normatively proposes, a purely literary genre which has not only lost any link with its political context, but also its more general link with any political value or significance, as if the citizen spectator has now transformed himself into a purely private spectator or, in fact, reader. As Hall concludes, “there is indeed no polis, concrete or abstract, to be identified in Aristotle’s Poetics.”2 Hall’s provocative question, “Is there a polis in Aristotle’s Poetics?”, has been forcefully countered by Malcolm Heath’s tit-for-tat question, “Should there have been a polis in Aristotle’s Poetics?” (Heath 2009). In that article, Heath plays the role of Aristotle’s lawyer, so to speak, in pleading for the divorce of tragedy from Athenian politics. If (to summarize his position very roughly) one takes seriously the idea of mimesis as a natural instinct all humans have, as well as the human instinct for rhythm and melody (see Poet. 4.1448b5–7; b20–21), and thus tragedy’s development as being the product of a natural process, there is indeed no good reason why Aristotle should have mentioned the City Dionysia or expressed a common Athenocentrism in those matters. The Poetics is the philosophical explanation of why and how tragedy, corresponding to a natural, purely human instincts and interest, has developed, and why and how it should therefore attract us so much.

114  Pierre Destrée Aristotle may be inaugurating, and indeed promoting, what Hall calls a “transhistorical and apolitical sense” of tragedy, but that is a pure and simple consequence of his philosophical approach. The Great Dionysia was the festival in Athens which best succeeded in magnifying the importance of its theatre, but such an institution was neither necessary nor sufficient in explaining the raison d’être of tragic theatre, and therefore, there is no reason, from Aristotle’s philosophical perspective, why he should have mentioned any purely contingent facts like this and others. In this chapter, I would like to offer a rather different reply to Hall’s challenge, especially to her denying that there is no “abstract polis” in Aristotle’s Poetics. It is certainly true that the democratic, Athenian polis, in the historical and sociological sense of the term, does not play any important role in the Poetics.3 But there is no reason to claim, I suggest, that Aristotle might have thought of, let alone proposed, a complete divorce between poetics and politics more generally speaking. Quite to the contrary, as I will argue, Aristotle’s reasoning about tragedy, and the way he presents his claim for the “finest tragedy” (kallistē tragōdia), is (if implicitly) embedded in some of his own, most central, political views. In some of its most crucial features, the Poetics should be read, I propose, from the perspective of Aristotle’s Politics and his “abstract” conception of the polis.

6.2 Poetic vs political correctness One argument that seems to be crucial in Hall’s interpretation is based on what Aristotle famously says at the end of the Poetics: “correctness (orthotēs) is not the same thing in politics and poetry, nor in any other art and poetry” (25. 1460b13–15). According to Hall, since this clearly implies that the criteria through which we value poetry must be distinct from those of any other art, poetry must be a “self-sufficient art,” independent from any interference with politics.4 It is certainly true that Aristotle wants to get rid of Plato’s legacy here, namely that we should judge the value of poetry according to the same criteria by which we judge features of political relevance, and that therefore poets must obey politicians (as Plato explicitly says in the Laws). But one can, and should, doubt the more general consequences deriving from this statement. By “correctness,” Aristotle primarily refers to the judgment one may make by reference to the end one seeks in such and such technē, its contrary being a “fault” that one may commit in regard to that aim. And since each technē has its own end(s), criteria of correctness or fault must be different, according to each technē. The example Aristotle gives illustrates this: For if someone has chosen to represent something correctly but failed because of his incompetence, that is a fault inherent to the art of poetry. But if he has chosen not to represent it correctly – say, to represent a horse with two right legs jerked forward –, then the fault lies with

Family bounds, political community, tragic pathos  115 a specific art (for instance the art of medicine or some other art) but in any case is not inherent to poetry. (25.1460b16–21) If the basic aim of representation is to make its audience recognize the object represented, it is a fault due to the poetic technē of the artist if he could not achieve this aim.5 Conversely, if one painter represents a horse with its two right legs moving forward at the same time, which Aristotle wrongly thought a horse cannot do (see The Progression of Animals 712a24–30), this may be seen as a fault from a zoological perspective, but not at all from the perspective of the poet’s art. If indeed the painter has decided to do so, even contrary to his knowledge of zoology, this must be for a good reason – let’s say, for showing a horse galloping in a more vivid way, which would enhance our pleasure of visualizing it. As Aristotle says a little below (22.1460a11–17; 25.1460b23–7), a similar case is the famous pursuit of Hector in the Iliad (22.206–7): the fact that no Greek soldier tries to shoot at him when Achilles only shook his head to warn them not to intervene is certainly, from a psychological perspective, an “incorrect” way of representing the scene, but since through this, Homer manages to evoke wonder, a poetic goal – which consists in providing pleasure from that emotion – has been reached, and hence there is no poetic fault. Aristotle does also famously say that politics is the architektonikē epistēmē (EN1.1094a27), meaning the leading or organizing science as regards to man’s eudaimonia. But this does not imply that political principles should interfere with the rules the poet must follow in order to obtain his own ends. Take the example of comedy, of which Aristotle says this: There must be legislation that younger people should not be spectators either of satiric poetry or of comedy until they have reached the age when […] their education will make them entirely unaffected by the harm such things can do. (Pol. 7.1336b20–3)6 This clearly means that political technē is right in forbidding children to attend such spectacles where people are sometimes harshly mocked and ridiculed, and where dirty jokes are all over the place: children indeed are impressionable, and they may think that this would allow them to do the same in the real world. But this does not mean that such spectacles should be forbidden for adults, or that politicians should be allowed to change the way comedies are to be written. Since comedies are meant to make us laugh, and if laughter requires some indecent jokes and other “politically incorrect” matters, it would actually be a fault to have a politician, or any other technitēs, impose his rules over the poet’s.7 Now if Aristotle defends autonomy for the poet’s technē, and thus if a piece of poetry must be judged by reference to the way the poet has achieved its (that is, also his) aim, that should not necessarily mean that political features

116  Pierre Destrée must not be thought to play an important role in the way tragic poetry is consumed and enjoyed. Additionally, it is simply not true that tragedy could be totally independent from any ethical judgment: on the contrary, pity is based on the ethical judgment that such and such a person does not deserve his or her fate – otherwise we would not experience pity. And more generally, tragedy typically depicts the hero’s dustuchia; it is even Aristotle’s own normative judgment, as he forcefully argues in Chapter 13, that a tragedy must end with a pathos, that is, as we would say, the “unjust death of the innocent.”8 Such a central feature is at the exact antipode of what we as (more or less) virtuous human beings should expect to have meted out. And this is not to be taken, as we modern might be tempted to, as something belonging to the ethical realm only, with no political relevance. Not only are we (more or less) virtuous people supposed to aim at happiness, but also, and equally (if not even more) importantly for Aristotle, becoming a virtuous person, and therefore a happy one, is the central task of politics – at least of politics as Aristotle conceives of it. It is indeed a central, correlative motive repeated again and again in both his Ethics and Politics that education towards virtue and happiness must be the politicians’ main concern and that the aim of a good polis must be to allow its citizens to live well, or be happy, and not merely to live in a biological sense of the word.9 Attending a play where virtuous people end up in deep misfortune for having committed or suffered an irremediable deed must therefore have a political resonance, at least if one reads the Poetics, as one should, from an Aristotelian perspective. Again, this does not imply that the aesthetic value of tragedy should depend on any “political correctness,” or that its content should be supervised by the politicians. In its domain, tragedy (as well as any other mimetic art of course) is “autonomous.” But it would be a mistake to infer from this that Aristotle also wanted to pronounce the complete divorce of tragedy from any political framework, or that tragedy would have no political meaning or resonance.

6.3 Tragic pathos: breaking family bounds Is there any way we could see a link between tragedy and politics? In my view, there is an absolutely central detail in the Poetics which may reflect something resembling the subjacent importance of politics in the poetic field, at least in the case of tragedy. As explicitly stated in the text of the Poetics, Aristotle strongly insists on the fact that tragic pathē must occur within families: What are then are these terrible (deina) and heart-wrenching events? Let us now consider that. Necessarily either these actions take place between friends and relations or between enemies or neither. If they are mutual enemies, there is nothing which inspires pity, neither in their present undertakings nor in the ones they are on the point of carrying out, apart from the violent act (pathos) itself. There will not be much

Family bounds, political community, tragic pathos  117 pity when the action is between those who are neither related nor enemies. But when the violent acts occur between relations of kin – such as between brothers, or a son and his father or a mother and her son or a son and his mother – when one kills the other or is about to or does some such terrible thing, that is what should be sought for. (14.1453b14–22)10 This paragraph provides the answer to the question which events will be able to produce fear and pity that are typical of tragedy. At first sight, Aristotle answers this question in a purely logical and detached way: since people must either have or not have relations between one another, and in the former case, have either relations of enmity or of friendship and since, moreover, pity cannot be evoked in the first two cases, it remains that only tragic events which occur between philoi can, and must, cause pity. But if the first part of this reasoning is perfectly logical and non-committal, the examples that we are given are certainly not. Indeed, all the examples given by Aristotle are taken exclusively from the field of intra-familial relations, which is an extremely radical restriction of the concept of philia. Here the concept of philos, which is initially used in a general way in opposition to echthros (which indicates any type of “enemy”), is exemplified in a restrictive way, by kinship alone. And these are not just some examples among others. Aristotle is very clear and adamant on this: “these are the situations (tauta) that are to be sought” (1453b22); he does not say that it is “such situations” (toiauta*) that ought to be sought. In fact, this should not come as a total surprise since Aristotle has already stressed the point earlier on in presenting the other two components of the muthos: recognition (anagnorisis) and reversal of circumstance (peripeteia). “Recognition is, as the very name suggests, a change from ignorance to knowledge which leads either to renewed family ties or to hatred between those whose good or bad fortune seemed to have been settled for good” (11.1452a29–32). And indeed, the examples Aristotle gives, those of Oedipus the King and Iphigenia among the Taurians, are taken solely from the field of familial philia. (As to one example of a recognition that leads to hatred, he could have mentioned Orestes). And the same goes for reversals of circumstance, which Aristotle has just defined, exemplifying familial dramas (1452a22–9). We are still dealing with Oedipus the King and also with the play Lynceus by his contemporary and friend Theodectes, involving an intra-familial pathos. In the latter play, King Danaos leads his son-in-law to his execution, but there is reversal of circumstance (the play being lost, we thus do not know how this reversal takes place), and it is he who is killed in the end (by his son-in-law, we may suppose). Now we might be tempted to explain this choice by the mere fact that tragedies do indeed stage such incidents. But, if around 80% of the tragedies we have (and that also seems to be confirmed by the fragments) are built around violations of philia in one of its numerous senses, not all tragedies involve

118  Pierre Destrée familial philia, far from it. Actually, only 50% of the preserved plays involve an intra-familial pathos; many other tragedies concern other types of philia (notably companionship), and we also have tragedies, like The Persians or The Trojan Women, which do not involve violation of philia directly.11 Thus, on Aristotle’s part, this is not a description of a state of affairs, but a position taken, a normative judgment. The following passage implies this almost explicitly: Before, poets used to recount whichever story they chanced upon, but nowadays the finest tragedies (kallistai tragōidiai) are built around a handful of families, namely those centring around Alcmeon, Oedipus, Orestes, Meleager, Thyestes, Telephus or others of this kind to whom it happened either to suffer terrible things (deina) or inflict them. (13.1453a19–23) Aristotle does not say that all the existing tragedies are built around these characters; he rather points out that the best, or finest, tragedies are. This means, from his normative perspective, that tragedies ought to be constructed that way. And, in fact, in all of these cases, the terrible crimes that characters commit, and which must arouse fear and pity, are crimes which involve intra-familial relations: Alcmeon and Orestes kill their own mother, Oedipus his father, Meleager is killed by his mother, Thyestes eats his own sons, Telephus kills his uncles. Nor is it by chance that Aristotle’s preferred tragedies, meaning those which stand as norms for judging the quality of tragedies, are Oedipus Rex and Iphigenia in Tauris, rather than Ajax, Philoctetes, or The Trojan Women, plays he explicitly refers to in the Poetics,12 and which are well-known to his readers, but without ever giving them as examples of the finest tragedies, that is as norms. This insistence on Aristotle’s part on plays which stage a familial tragedy thus arises from a philosophical preference. But what is it? An answer is that Aristotle initially and above all wanted to privilege these familial dramas because they can be supposed to have a stronger affect on us than the others: a non-familial tragic plot is not as pitiful and terrifying. For since the aim of the poet is to evoke those emotions in order to obtain the proper pleasure of tragedy, i.e. “the pleasure coming from pity and fear through mimesis” (1453b12), and if it is true that these pathē between close family members are those which evoke those emotions the most powerfully, it follows that the poet must include such pathē, or “terrible acts” (deina – a word that refers to the emotion of fear), in their tragedies. And indeed, as he writes in one passage of his Ethics, it is a more terrible thing (deinoteron) to rob a companion of his money than a fellow citizen, or not to give aid to a brother than to a stranger, or to strike one’s father than anyone else at all. (EN 8.1160a4–7)13

Family bounds, political community, tragic pathos  119 We may add from our passage of the Poetics, it is a more terrible thing to kill one’s kin than any other fellow-citizen or a stranger. The misfortune of Oedipus, the consequence of the double family crime he is the involuntary cause of, is thus particularly appalling and worthy of pity. One might object to this that we have here one more sign of the “depoliticization” of tragedy achieved by Aristotle. As E. Hall points out, Aristotle did not choose Ajax, Philoctetes, or The Trojan Women, which are plays with a more political resonance than Oedipus Rex and Iphigenia in Tauris.14 But it would be anachronistic to see family and kinship as purely private affairs, and the philia that bonds people in purely subjective terms of love. If Aristotle, I would like to content, so much insists on the importance of kinship as the background for evoking pity and fear, it is primarily because he takes kinship and household to be of greatest importance in his political philosophy. The thesis I would like to defend is that politics of which Aristotle conceives normatively, and indeed not the democratic institutions of Athens, has a non-negligible, and perhaps even central, place in the Aristotelian conception of tragedy. In summary, if Aristotle can insist so ardently, and in such a univocal way, on the importance of the familial philia which is the raison d’être of tragic pathos, it is because he holds the family to be the basic, fundamental institution in his (say, as Hall does, “abstract”) conception of the polis. Staging a mother killing her son or a son killing his mother or his father, or brothers and sisters killing one another is to stage the destruction of the polis. Let us try and see exactly in which sense.

6.4 Political friendship I will use a two-step procedure. First of all, I will try to determine the sense in which we can speak of a philia on the level of politics. Then, I will look at the role the family can play in this context, and how a familial tragedy can place politics in danger. As the deep dissension between interpreters shows, the concept of politikē philia and its importance in Aristotle’s conception of politics are not selfexplanatory.15 Without being able to go into all the details of this difficult question here, it seems to me that, even if the expression only explicitly appears once in the Politics (4.1295b23–4), politikē philia seems to play a major role in the notion of the common good. To understand this, I propose first of all examining criticism Aristotle formulates against the Republic and its proposal to do away with the family (Pol. 2, Chapters 2–4). As he repeatedly states, the basic hypothesis of Socrates (i.e. the Socrates of the Republic) is that a city, to avoid all dissension, must be to the fullest extent, as united as possible; its total unity thus constitutes its good because it secures its survival. And the means to that unity is to extend the natural philia that one has for one’s offspring to all the citizens. In making women and children common goods, one can precisely obtain such a philia, extended to all of its fellow-citizens, since, in

120  Pierre Destrée fact, through the community of women, everyone will be potentially fathers, brothers, or sons. Aristotle wages a ferocious battle against this hypothesis. He rejects neither the basic principle of the unity of a city nor the philia, which is an essential means to it. What he objects to is too great a unity, a total unification of the city to the point of reducing it to being just one family or even one individual. The plēthos should be respected, as he says, meaning that the city is a plurality of citizens, and groups of citizens who are of different kinds, he specifies, unlike soldiers who exercise the same function and are interchangeable (Pol. 2.1261a22–5). Making a city which would blur these differences amounts to composing a symphony with only one note of music, or to producing a rhythmic sequence with one and the same measure repeated ad infinitum (2.1263b32–5). Nevertheless, Aristotle in no way rejects the idea that the city must indeed, in one way or another, be a symphony. The city’s unity is thus a principle which must be sought after, but what does it consist in? It is on this precise point, I believe, that Aristotle is opposed to Plato. This unity must be essentially conceived of as a common good, where the concord between citizens plays a crucial role, and the means for attaining that is the education of its citizens: “a city-state consists of a multitude, and should be unified and made into a community by means of education” (2.1263b36–7). He adds in a particularly sharp way: it is strange, at any rate, that the one who aimed to bring in education, and who believed that through it the city-state would be excellent, should think to set it straight by measures of this sort, and not by habits, philosophy, and laws – just as in Sparta and Crete, where the legislator aimed to make property communal by means of the messes. (2.1263b b37–1264a1) It seems to me that several details should be underlined here. Insofar as the principal means for unifying the city is education (this moreover applies to any type of correct city), the common good here is first and above all the common values the young are led to adhere to by habituation and teaching. In short, what makes the unity of a city is a common adherence to values. And it is this common adherence which makes for what the Ethics calls concord, homonoia, which is, this is at least one of its aspects, the unanimous agreement (homologia) on the important decisions of common life. Yet as Aristotle explicitly says in the Nicomachean Ethics, such homonoia is not simply sharing an opinion, a homodoxia. It must be philikon in some way (9.1167a22–3). Therefore, an amicable or affective relationship between the members of this community is also needed, and in fact that is what Aristotle implies in our quoted passage, where he evokes the common meals, another feature he will come back to in his description of the ideal city. Those meals bound the citizens affectively, precisely for reinforcing their adherence to common values. This affective aspect appears again in an altogether explicit

Family bounds, political community, tragic pathos  121 manner in another passage of the Politics, in book 4, where the expression of political friendship appears. In the case of people who have grown up, some with too much wealth, others with too little: the result is a city-state consisting not of free people but of slaves and masters, one group being full of envy and the other full of insolence. Nothing is further removed from political friendship, or community. For community involves friendship, since enemies do not wish to share even a journey in common. (4.1295b21–5)16 Best is for citizens to attain unanimous agreement on fundamental values, which makes it possible to reach agreement on important decisions. Such an agreement needs to be reinforced by a certain affection towards the fellow-citizens, a kind of political philia that is the surest rampart against civic dissent, stasis. Aristotle accepts this in following Plato: “we regard friendship as the greatest of goods for city-states, since in this condition people are least likely to factionalize” (2.1262b7–9). These two aspects of concord, or political philia, are found throughout book 5 of the Politics, dedicated to the problem of stasis. Stasis especially develops due to two factors: honor and wealth. And it does so with the driving force of someone’s indignation at seeing someone else enjoy more honor or wealth. The phrase ‘political philia’ occurs neither directly in Aristotle’s analyses nor in the possible remedies. But he seems to see it as self- explanatory that wherever such political friendship reigns, that sort of stasis should not occur. In any case, this is what he says about oligarchy: an oligarchy that is of one mind (homonoousa oligarchia), however, is not easily destroyed from within. The constitution in Pharsalus provides evidence of this; for though the oligarchs are few in number, they have authority over many because they treat one another well. (5.1306a9–12) Earlier in the same book, where he states the adjacent causes of staseis, Aristotle writes this: racial difference also tends to cause faction, until a cooperative spirit develops (sumpneuein). For just as a city-state does not arise from any random gathering of people, neither does it arise in a random period of time. That is why most of those who have admitted co-settlers or late-settlers have experienced faction. (5.1303a25–7) Aristotle is not showing himself to be racist or communitarian here – in the sense of one and the same racial community; he simply notes that if

122  Pierre Destrée a “community of aspirations”17 does not reign, meaning a strong agreement on common values, bringing people from all horizons, with different values, together is in fact likely to generate stasis very rapidly. The second remark is interesting too: such a community is not formed overnight; just like virtuous friendship, forging a city with such concord takes time to solidify itself. And, finally, a third passage deals with tyranny. Aristotle states that tyranny has three means of maintaining itself: degrading the souls of its subjects, because there is nothing to fear from pusillanimous subjects; depriving them of any power to act; and, what is interesting for my point of view, sowing mistrust among them, for, as Aristotle says, “a tyranny will not be overthrown until some people trust each other” (5.1314a17–19). In other words, effectively opposing a tyrant requires that people agree on common values, diametrically opposed to the tyrant’s, and also prove their confidence in one another, which is an important mark of friendship, if this adherence to common values is to be effective and lead to the tyrant’s overthrow. It seems exaggerated to me to view, as John Cooper famously does, this political philia as an extension or prolongation of virtuous friendship, which would consist in “loving” my fellow-citizens in a way analogous to how I love my friends in the strong sense of the word.18 In fact, virtuous friendship can only involve a few friends, and love, which is “a kind of excess of friendship,” can only involve one person (EN 9.1171a11–12). Arranging things so that all citizens can feel strong affection for one another would be subject to the same reproach that Aristotle himself formulates against Plato. Aristotle, moreover, while insisting on the fact that this political philia is “useful”, does not hesitate to compare it to alliances between cities, which may indeed be reached and renounced (contrary to virtuous friendship which, to be described as virtuous, must be unfailing); they are in fact unmade when the interest binding them together no longer exists (cf. EE 7.1242b21–7). However, while Aristotle undoubtedly describes this friendship as a friendship of utility, it is a major utility, that of the common good (moreover Aristotle refers indifferently to the common good and common utility) with a view to live well, eu zēn, that is eudaimonia. And, as John Cooper has convincingly shown, it is a fact that even in a useful friendship someone can also consider the friend or partner with benevolence. But contrary to what J. Cooper concludes from this that does not mean that I could or should feel benevolence or affection for all my fellow-citizens as persons, as I respect and love my friends “for their own sake.” What I must respect and estime are my fellow-citizens qua citizens, and more precisely qua citizens aiming at the same common good. That is the friendship which constitutes the veritable cement of a city; that is the good political leaders should strive after, and which constitutes, as Aristotle forcefully says, “the most important of goods for cities” (2.1262b7–8).

Family bounds, political community, tragic pathos  123

6.5 Family and the common good What is the relationship between the family and this political philia? This insistence on the value of concord, or political philia, an expression of all the citizens’ adherence to common values that their education makes them share, fits into the general framework of the Aristotelian vision of politics. In this vision the purpose of the city is living well, i.e. the eudaimonia of its citizens, and not just existing. This is a vision opposed to what was explicitly defended by Lycophron, according to which the city is just “a sharing of a common location” which would exist only “for the purpose of preventing mutual wrongdoing and exchanging goods” (3.1280b30–1). And, indeed, such a community, which would amount to a simple alliance with no sharing of common values or activities with a view to eudaimonia, would not be a true city for Aristotle. However, a city, Aristotle repeats on several occasions, is an ensemble of families, lineages, and villages (or clans). Families and lineages which thus join together and practice common activities with a view to the good life: that is why marriage connections arose in city-states, as well as brotherhoods, religious sacrifices, and the leisured pursuits of living together, for things of this sort are the result of friendship, since the decision to live together constitutes friendship. The end of the city-state is living well, then, but these other things are for the sake of the end. (3.1280b36–40) Hence, we see that if the city can exist for an end, namely happiness, it is because these familial entities and the bonds between these families exist for this same end, and that the bond between these entities is established by means of common activities, like sacrifices to the gods and public meals I have already mentioned. This signifies that the city cannot exist without the families composing it, and thus, that, from this viewpoint, there is no discontinuity between family and city. It is true that the family is certainly insufficient for eudaimonia, and that, as a zōon politikon, man must in fact have a bond with politics in order to fulfill his nature and achieve his goal of happiness. However, we would not be justified in reducing the family’s role to being merely a kind of pure and simple, natural propaedeutic to political life. Aristotle goes further in defending the family against Plato in the name of the demands of natural affection for a privileged partner and one’s offspring. The family, he tells us emphatically, is already a certain community of values, prior to politics.19 I am referring to the famous passage from the first book of Politics, where, having recognized that animals have a “perception,” aisthēsis, of pain and pleasure, Aristotle adds that thanks to logos, man has moreover an aisthēsis of good and evil: it is peculiar to human beings, in comparison to the other animals, that they alone have perception of what is good or bad, just or unjust,

124  Pierre Destrée and the rest. And it is community in these that makes a household and a city-state. (1.1253a15–18) Using the term aisthēsis here might seem a bit odd. But we also find it in a celebrated passage on the perfect philia, where Aristotle uses the terms aisthēsis and sunaisthēsis (9.1170a13–b14). Aristotle (to very briefly summarize a rather complex argument) is especially insistent on the fact that the virtuous man takes pleasure in the aisthēsis that he is acting according to the good, and that he does so with his virtuous friend or friends; he will also take pleasure in sunaisthēsis, in a co-perception with his friend or friends that they are acting according to virtue, and that they are virtuous. “As we saw,” Aristotle writes, his existence [= the virtuous man’s] is choiceworthy because he perceives himself as being virtuous, and such perceiving is intrinsically pleasant. He must, then, also co-perceive his friend existing, something that comes about in their living together and sharing in talk and thought, since this is what living together would seem to mean in the case of human beings, and not, as in the case of cattle, grazing in the same place. (9.1170b8–14) This sunaisthēsis, thus, essentially consists in being together aware, so to speak, of the values of a good life people have in common, and indeed share “in talk and thought.” And, interestingly, Aristotle adds that such sharing takes places in the typically human living together, referring to the political nature of human beings. And, indeed, this is what he said at the very beginning of the Nicomachean Ethics, where he describes the self-sufficiency criterion of the human good, i.e. human happiness: “by ‘self-sufficient,’ however, we do not mean self-sufficient for someone who is alone, living a solitary life, but also for parents, children, woman, as well as friends and fellow citizens generally, since a human being is by nature political” (1.1097b8–11). Aristotle could not be clearer: when we speak of a sovereign human good, or eudaimonia, we cannot be referring to a purely private happiness, if by “private” we mean individual or familial in the restricted modern sense of the word. Happiness can only exist within a community, initially familial, and then political. Since man is a political being, he can only achieve his own good in connection with the common good, i.e. through a community of values. And, as these two last quotations indicate, here too, there can be no discontinuity between individual, family, and polis.20

6.6 Tragedy and politics Let us return finally to the Poetics. What impact can these analyses I have briefly provided based on the Ethics and Politics have on our reading of the Poetics?

Family bounds, political community, tragic pathos  125 Before answering this question, one last thing should be added that is crucial to my purposes. In both his Ethics and his Politics, Aristotle insists on the fact that the worst thing in the world is to find oneself outside a human community, familial as well as political. In the Eudemian Ethics, he writes that we hold that a friend is one of the greatest goods and that friendlessness (aphilia) and isolation (erēmia) are most dreadful (deinotaton), since our whole life and voluntary associations are bound up with friends. For we pass our days either with members of our household, or with our relatives, or with our companions, or with our children, parents or our wife. (7.234b32–235a2; tr. Inwood & Woolf) This aphilia, which is the most “terrible”, or “fearful”, thing (deinotaton) that may happen to a human being, exists at all levels of community. In the Politics, Aristotle uses the term apolis once, in advancing roughly the same argument: insofar as man is a zōon politikon and the city is a natural end for man (two ways of saying the same thing), someone who is apolis by nature and not by chance cannot help but be a degraded being or superior to man. And as an example of such a dreadful situation, Aristotle cites a Homeric verse describing a man avid for war for war’s sake as a being “clanless, lawless and hearthless,” and being like an isolated piece in a game of draughts (1.1253a2–7). As Homer’s quotation makes it clear, Aristotle does not hesitate in mixing the absence of a role in the city and the absence of a family hearth: in both cases, whether he be deprived of family or of city, we are dealing with a man who can neither fulfill his nature nor achieve eudaimonia. How does this bring us back to tragedy? Even if Aristotle makes no mention of this argument in his Poetics, a reader familiar with Greek tragedy could not help recalling that at the beginning of Iphigenia among the Taurians (which is very often mentioned favorably in Aristotle’s Poetics), Iphigenia poignantly underlines in her lamenting song: “now, an alien by the unfriendly sea, without marriage or child (agamos, ateknos), without city or friend (apolis, aphilos), I am housed in an arid country” (218–20). As the terms apolis aphilos suggest, friends or family and polis are intimately intertwined. And more up to the point, it is in Oedipus the King, arguably the paradigmatic tragedy in the Poetics, where the idea of exclusion from his city is brought to the fore. At the end of the play, Oedipus repeats that he has to be driven out of the city and left to live, like a living dead, in the wild mountains of Cithaeron where his parents had had him exposed (cf 1340; 1449–54). And in Oedipus at Colonus, the very word apolis is used to mark Oedipus’ exclusion from all civil koinōnia (1357). These indications in no way amount to a detail or a simple consequence of the discovery of his true identity. It is the fact of having become an echthros to his family and his city that makes him apolis, he who was the happy and flourishing king of his city, and the very thing which constitutes his deepest misfortune.

126  Pierre Destrée Granted, Aristotle does not explicitly mention this in his Poetics. But, if it is true that he understands tragedy essentially based on his own philosophical conceptions, there is no reason to make an exception for what he says about these intra-familial murders. Thus, since Aristotle considers that the family has a fundamental role in his own conception of politics, it is hardly thinkable that his insistence on intra-familial murders being at the core of a good tragedy would not bear some deep political resonances. As the case of Oedipus shows in a sufficiently obvious way, if our emotions of pity and fear have as their ultimate object the misfortune of the person who commits such a pathos, because of a great error (megalē hamartia), that means that our emotions as spectators (or readers) have an object which is not simply “individual”, or “familial” in the modern sense of the word, but indeed a “political” object. As we have seen, Aristotle repeats that eudaimonia cannot be achieved independently of the family and the polis. To stage the absolute misfortune of a man who has committed an irrevocable pathos such as killing a kin, as tragedy does, must therefore, according to Aristotle, have a political significance: it constitutes, so to speak, the mise en abyme of politics and of the political nature of human beings. But how would this reading be consonant with the idea of poetry being autonomous? As I said, Aristotle has visibly chosen to recommend such pathē among kins because that should be the best way to evoke the strongest emotions of pity and fear. But why exactly? Why are such murders between family members more fearful and pitiable than those occurring between people who don’t know each other? Is it because of the philia, conceived as subjective feeling, they may naturally have between them? If this may be part of the answer, one may doubt that that would be sufficient in the eyes of Aristotle. In fact, in that passage from Nicomachean Ethics I have quoted earlier, Aristotle insists that philia bonds imply a certain “community” (koinōnia), that is, as I said, some shared interests and values. And, therefore, the notions of justice and philia are co-extensive, since justice consists in respecting the other person as far as she is part of such a shared community. So the reason why Aristotle admits that making an injustice towards a philos is a more terrible thing than towards a neutral person, or a stranger, is because this destroys their community of interests or values. And the same goes for the philoi in the sense of kin: hurting one’s kin is damaging the very first and fundamental community one lives in. But again, this is not to be conceived as a private affair. As Aristotle insists, familial communities are parts of the political community. Violating the values one shares in one’s family is therefore hurting the political community in its foundations. So, the main reason for Aristotle’s choice for the best plots to center on those families where such killings happened is meaningful. If it is true that being a politikon zōon plays a crucial role in a happy life, and the family bonds are part of that political nature, it must also be the case that such murders among kin which destroy family bonds must be seen as threatening human happiness in its deepest roots, and that is why they should evoke fear and pity in a particularly strong way.

Family bounds, political community, tragic pathos  127 There is no sign that Aristotle might have considered tragedy to be supposed to offer its audience any help to reflect on political matters or on their political opinions. In this sense, tragedy has no political relevance. But tragedy cannot be divorced from political significance. As some interpreters have underlined,21 there is at least a formal parallel between the beginning of the Politics and the famous Chapter 4 of the Poetics. In both cases, polis and poetry are compared to a natural organism that grows from some natural instinct – respectively, the instinct for living with human fellows, and the natural propensity for mimesis, and rhythm and melody. And in both cases, that natural origin correlates the idea that each of them also constitutes an end for human beings, a “natural end” that is part of their happiness. In the case of politics, the polis constitutes one such end, which is a necessary (if not sufficient) part of eudaimonia. Aristotle does not say so explicitly in the case of poetry, but it is not doubtful that he must have thought that without the “natural” pleasures poetry affords, human life would not be as happy as it should be.22 It may be thought that enjoying tragedies where that political end is put in jeopardy is the oddest thing in the world. But perhaps that constitutes the most paradoxical feature of tragedy (besides what we normally call the paradox of tragedy, i.e. the fact that we enjoy reading or attending a play centered on painful events) – enjoying the fictional staging the worst kakodaimonia thinkable as part of our eudaimonia.23

Notes 1 Hall (1996a, 305). 2 Hall (1996b, 306). 3 Note though that, in the two passages where Aristotle explicitly names Athens (1448a28–b2; 1449b5–9), he seems to endorse the claim made by the Athenians that they, and not the Dorians, have invented dramatic poetry, or at the very least that they have perfected it up to its final, i.e. for Aristotle, “natural” stage. This should be understood as a clear sign that Aristotle in fact shared the Athenocentrism of his Athenian audience on these matters. As to the alleged fact that Aristotle would not have mentioned the Dionysia, Rotstein (2004) has convincingly argued that 1447a13–16 must refer to them. 4 On this, see also the illuminating papers of Ford (2015a and 2015b). 5 Interestingly, in a passage of the Topics (6.2.140a21–2), Aristotle reproaches the “ancient painters” for not being able to achieve this aim as they felt obliged to add names in their painting so we could recognize who is who. 6 On this, see also Lockwood’s and Munteanu’s essays in this volume. 7 Clearly, Aristotle would have strongly opposed the way Plato wants the famous scene of Iliad 1.597–600 where the gods are laughing at Hephaestus limping along to be removed, or perhaps rewritten – see Rep. 3.389a. 8 I leave for another occasion my own account of why Aristotle seems to be claiming the contrary at the end of Chapter 14. Whatever the case may be, my overall argument does not depend on this. 9 On these two central motives see especially EN 10.9 and Pol. 3.9, respectively. On their intimate correlation, see Destrée (2013) for a more detailed justification. 10 I translate pathos here by “violent act.” This is, I suggest, the best way to render what Aristotle proposes: “Pathos is an action (praxis) conducive either to death

128  Pierre Destrée

11 12

13 14 15 16

17

18 19 20 21 22 23

or great pain such as murder committed in broad daylight, torture, gory wounds and the like” (11. 1452b11–13). On this, see Belfiore (2000). See, respectively, 18.1456a1 where Aristotle refers to plays named Ajax: there is, of course, Sophocles’ play but we know that other playwrights such as Carcinus, Theodectes, and Astydamas also wrote an Ajax; 22.1458b19–24 where Aristotle quotes one verse of Aeschylus’ Philoctetes which was rewritten (in a more beautiful way, Aristotle says) by Euripides in his own play; 23.1459b5 where Philoctetes might refer to Sophocles’ play; 23.1459b7 for Euripides’ Trojan Women. See also Pol. 2.1262a28–9 for a similar statement. Hall (1996, 307). See esp. the profound disagreement between Julia Annas (Annas 1990) and John Cooper (Cooper 1999 [1990]) in this debate, and further, the critiques Anthony Price (Price 1999) raised against Annas’ paper. The translation of this sentence is disputed, especially philias kai koinōnias politikēs. Following Cooper (1999, 369, note 16), I take politikēs to go with both philias and koinōnias (“nothing is further removed from political friendship, or community”), but many take politikēs to refer only to koinōnias (“nothing is further removed from friendship and political community”). It is to be noticed that this verb sumpneuein, which is a hapax in Aristotle, is to be found in a passage of the Laws, which Aristotle may have in mind, where Plato too talks about friendship: “in the case where the race is one (genos), with the same language and laws, this unity makes for friendliness (tina philian), since it shares also in sacred rites and all matters of religion” (Laws 4.708c). On the contrary, in cases of mixed populations, “to cause it to share in one spirit (sumpneuein) and pant (as they say) in unison like a team of horses would be a lengthy task and most difficult” (708d). See Cooper (1999). On this, see also Belfiore (2001a) and Cooper (2011). See also Konstan (1994). E.g., Heath (2009). Surely here too, Aristotle would have opposed Socrates who praises the “healthy city” lacking any mimetic poetry or visual art as strongly as Glaucon does, he who calls it the “city of pigs” (Rep. 2.372c–373b). Four different ancestor pieces of this chapter were presented at the University of Paris I Panthéon-Sorbonne at the Séminaire International Aristotélicien lead by Michel Crubellier, Annick Jaulin, and Pierre Pellegrin; the University of Bordeaux at a conference on Aristotle’s Politics organized by Valéry Laurand and Pierre Pellegrin; the University of Pennsylvania, the Classics Colloquium; Union College at a Workshop on Aristotle on Friendship, organized by Krisanna Scheiter. I am grateful to them and their respective audiences, for comments and suggestions, as well as to Elizabeth Belfiore, Franco Trivigno, Malcolm Heath, Dana L. Munteanu, and two anonymous referees for their written remarks on a penultimate version of this.

7

Is there a Poetics in the Politics? Thornton Lockwood

Does Aristotle’s Politics presuppose the Poetics? Aristotle’s Poetics takes Attic tragedy as an exemplar of all the mimetic arts, and Attic tragedy was a decidedly political institution – an institution embedded in major civic religious festivals and one whose plots and characters often resonate with Athenian political culture. It seems hard to imagine that the author of an eight-book study of the fourth-century polis could be oblivious to the political nuances and institutional framework of the art form examined in the Poetics. Furthermore, the Politics appears to allude to the Poetics itself and indeed with respect to one of the most enigmatic topics within the Poetics, namely the nature of catharsis.1 In his examination of music, Aristotle notes that catharsis – in this context, apparently the catharsis of religious music which purifies religious frenzy – is one of the benefits of music but he refuses to elaborate on the phenomenon and instead promises to return to the topic in his work on poetics (en tois peri poiētikēs [Pol. 8.7.1341b39–40]).2 Although the last book of the Politics ends abruptly and the text is fragmentary, its discussion of music as a mimetic art seems to overlap with the analysis of mimetic art in the Poetics. Given the political nature of Attic tragedy and the overlapping analyses of mimetic art in the two works, it seems hard to imagine that the Politics is conceptually or analytically independent of the Poetics. Two scholarly debates complicate my question. First, Aristotle’s Poetics is almost entirely silent about the political context and content of the tragedies which it analyzes. Indeed, the Poetics’ silence about the institutional setting of tragedy has led Edith Hall to go so far as to claim that Aristotle “cuts the umbilical cord which has tied poetry so firmly to the city state.”3 As Malcolm Heath has shown – in a piece which inspired the title of my chapter – Hall’s view goes too far insofar as it fails to recognize the place of Aristotle’s philosophical anthropology – including ethical and political norms – immanent within the Poetics.4 But even if Heath is correct to say that Hall’s image of a “divorce” between tragedy and the polis misconstrues their relationship, the Poetics’ silence on the performative and political elements of Attic tragedy is in need of explanation. Such an unexplained silence limits the relevance of the Poetics to the Politics to abstract or general claims about the philosophical anthropology which both works presuppose.

130  Thornton Lockwood A second debate concerns the extent of the conceptual or analytical overlap between the Poetics and Politics. Although the last book of the Politics which we possess is clearly incomplete (it includes unfulfilled textual promissory notes and ends quite abruptly), the mimetic art which it analyzes is music or mousikē.5 Scholars debate whether mousikē should be construed narrowly – as concerning only the training of young men in the performance, listening, and judging of instrumental music (which is the explicit topic of Politics 8) – or whether it should be construed broadly, as carrying implications for the educational use of works from the other realms of the muses, for instance those of epic, tragedy, and comedy. Carnes Lord, for instance, has argued that Politics 8 contains a general theory of civic literary and tragic culture whose omission of an explicit discussion of tragedy is the result of the book’s incompleteness.6 More recently, Andrew Ford has sought to “put the music back into Politics 8” by arguing that foisting central doctrines of the Poetics upon the Politics obscures and misconstrues Aristotle’s teaching about instrumental music as a prototypical liberal art.7 At the end of the Politics, there is certainly a voice for a musical education with a public or community component, but it seems far less than the political institutionalization of tragedy which some have thought inspires the Poetics, especially in contrast to the exile of the poets one finds in Plato’s Republic.8 Unfortunately, identifying what Aristotle might have said in the second half of Politics 8 is an almost entirely speculative exercise. Instead, I would like to argue that both of the features which we find in Politics 8 – its absence of any explicit discussion of tragedy as a public institution and its delimitation of public artistic education to instrumental music for citizens up through the age of 21 – are explainable on the basis of an explicit and central doctrine from the Poetics, namely that a drama can produce the function of tragedy independent of public performance and that, indeed, the performance of a drama may tend towards boorish or illiberal effects which actually impede the function of tragedy. Although I am hardly the first to notice Aristotle’s criticisms of the performative elements of tragedy, such a point seems to have been underappreciated in considering the relationship between the Poetics and Politics.9 I would like to argue that the influence of the Poetics upon the Politics is largely negative because the former defends a view of tragedy which de-emphasizes performance and shares with the Politics a central concern about the illiberal effects of performative arts in general upon the citizens of an ideal polis. Put succinctly, the attitude of the Poetics towards performance implies a political criticism of tragedy as a political or public institution albeit not as a private or non-performed one.10 Aristotle’s criticisms of democratic Athens in the Politics have a parallel in his criticisms of the pre-eminent performative art form of that democracy. At the same time, the concerns about performance which the Poetics raises can be met by a form of musical education, one which even includes limited training in performing

Is there a Poetics in the Politics?  131 instrumental music. On my reading, Aristotle’s Politics and Poetics together retain tragedy as a central “cultural” institution for the liberally educated citizen, a view completely consistent with everything Aristotle defends about tragedy in the Poetics. But Politics 8 displaces tragedy as the pre-eminent form of public education and in its place supplies instrumental music – no doubt much to the consternation of Athenian democrats both historically and their kindred spirits in contemporary drama and classics departments. What we take for granted – school plays, drama contests, performing before a classroom as integral parts of a young person’s schooling and appears entirely absent from Aristotle’s program for education up through the age of 21 years. To support the claim that the influence of the Poetics upon the Politics is largely negative, I first examine what I will call the predicament of performance in the Poetics. Although the Poetics clearly identifies tragedy as an enacted mimetic art which incorporates spectacle as a part, I will argue that spectacle is unnecessary for the production of tragic function. In the second part of my chapter I consider the overlap between the Poetics and Politics  8 concerning the effects of performance and argue that both works share a fundamental concern about how the performance of art alters the educational and cultural effects of civic art. For a number of reasons, Aristotle thinks that educating youth in musical performances can escape the predicament of performance. My chapter concludes by articulating and speculating about why music eclipses tragedy as the pre-eminent form of liberal arts education in Aristotle’s best regime.

7.1 The predicament of performance in the poetics Aristotle’s Poetics displays a profound ambivalence about the artistic value of performance and “spectacle” (opsis) in his analysis of tragedy.11 On the one hand, Aristotle distinguishes tragedy from other forms of mimetic art by means of its mode or manner of mimesis12: whereas, for instance, epic represents actions through narration, tragedy does so through enactment.13 Since tragedy represents people acting, the “ornament of spectacle” (ho tēs opseōs kosmos) will necessarily be a part of tragedy (6.1449b32–33; cf. 1450a10, a13) and all tragedians have used spectacle as a part of tragedy (6.1450a13). On the other hand, as Aristotle makes clear both in Poetics 6 and 14, spectacle is most artless and least related to the poetic art (6.1450b17–18, 14.1453b7–11). Aristotle’s point is not that spectacle is i neffective or irrelevant to tragedy: he explicitly claims that spectacle is enthralling (psuchagōgikon [6.1450b16–17]) and that it is capable of producing what is fearful and pitiable (14.1453b1–2, 7–8). But Aristotle’s dismissal of spectacle opens the way for his repeated claim that good tragedy is able to perform its function without enactment. In Poetics 6, Aristotle makes the initial claim that the power of tragedy exists without performance or actors; the effects of spectacle, he claims

132  Thornton Lockwood rather dismissively, are more dependent upon the art of costumery than that of poetry (6.1450b18–20). A parallel passage in Poetics 14 elaborates: That which is fearful and pitiable can arise from spectacle, but it can also arise from the structure of the incidents itself; this is superior and belongs to the better poet. For the plot should be constructed in such a way that, even without seeing it, someone who hears about the incidents will shudder and feel pity at the outcome, as someone may feel upon hearing the plot of the Oedipus. To produce this by means of spectacle is less artful and is the work of the sponsor of the chorus (chorēgias). Those who use spectacle to produce what is only monstrous (to teratōdes) and not fearful have nothing in common with tragedy. (1453b1–10) Aristotle’s twice-repeated allusion to hearing (1453b5, 6) makes clear that he doesn’t necessarily have in mind that tragedy should only be read; rather, he seems to envision a good tragic plot as being able to achieve the function of and produce the pleasure of tragedy through oral recitation.14 But that is entirely different from theatrical spectacle, which has more to do with what the sponsor of the chorus (chorēgia) can afford for competition and less (or indeed nothing) to do with the art of poetry. The production of shudders and ahas by means of “special effects” can be alien to the function and pleasure of poetry itself.15 Aristotle’s critique of spectacle is not delimited to the artless thrills that come from special effects. Throughout the Poetics, Aristotle separates the art of poetry from any of the performative arts so as to determine its distinctive function. As noted in Poetics 6, Aristotle distinguishes the effects of the art of costumery from those related to the art of poetry. In Poetics 19, he does the same with respect to the art of delivery, namely the vocal art of the actor (hupokritikē [19.1456b10]).16 Just as the art of costumery has no bearing on the art of poetry, so too is knowledge of the art of acting irrelevant to the art of poetry.17 Elsewhere in the Poetics Aristotle is critical of poets who adapt their plays to pander to audiences or the strengths of individual actors and in doing so abandon the centrality of plot in achieving the function of tragedy.18 Bad poets, of course, who don’t know any better, write episodic plots which lack a unifying thread between scenes; but more problematic is that good poets compose as “competition pieces” such poorly connected plots on behalf of actors (agōnismata [9.1451b37]).19 Tragedies can fulfill the ergon or function of tragedy or produce the pleasure unique to tragedy through the invocation of pity and fear by means of plot alone, and such fulfillment does not require the production or enactment of the play. With respect to the ergon or function of tragedy, Aristotle claims that plot is more important than diction and reasoning and that successful plot construction – for instance, the successful arrangement of changes of fortune or the best composition of incidents – is most important

Is there a Poetics in the Politics?  133 (6.1450a30, 13.1452b29). In his analysis of epic and tragedy, Aristotle goes so far to say that tragedy can produce its effect and have its characteristic vividness even when it is only read (26.1462a11–14, 17–18). By contrast, the production of tragedy on the stage encourages “boorish” (phortikē) responses because of the nature of the audience.20 In an extended contrast between epic and tragedy concerning which genre is superior, Poetics 26 claims: If the less boorish art is superior, and if this is always the one addressed to a superior audience, evidently the art which represents everything is utterly boorish: here, in the belief that the spectators do not notice anything unless the performer stresses it, the actors engage in profuse movements […] Well, tragedy is like this […] People say that epic is addressed to decent spectators who have no need of gestures, but tragedy to crude spectators; if then, tragedy is boorish, it will evidently be inferior. (1461b27–30, 32–3, 1462a2–4)21 Admittedly, Aristotle’s discussion in Poetics 26 is dialectical, and after presenting arguments for the superiority of epic to tragedy he will do the same for the superiority of tragedy to epic. Furthermore, as we know from Plato’s lampoon of rhapsodes in the dialogue Ion, the same charge can be made against the delivery of epic poetry.22 But Aristotle’s main response to the claim that tragedy is boorish consists in separating out once again the poetic art from the actor’s art: the “charge” of boorishness is a matter of the art of performance (hupokritikē) rather than the art of poetry (26.1462a5–6). Aristotle’s defense of poetry against the charge of boorishness requires the purification, as it were, of tragedy as a form of mimesis capable of fulfilling its function without performance. Although Aristotle is obviously well aware that tragedy is a public institution historically embedded in enacted dramatic contests, the Poetics as a whole elevates its literary components at the cost of its performative components; the latter he thinks are ultimately inessential to the understanding of a drama.23 Such a lesson about the nature of tragedy seems central to the Poetics; it also seems to stand at the heart of Aristotle’s treatment of musical education in the Politics.

7.2 The predicament of performance in politics 7–8 Politics 7–8 present a continuous, if sometimes fragmentary and ultimately incomplete, depiction of what Aristotle characterizes variously as his “best constitution” (aristē politeia) or city “in accord with one’s prayers” (kat’ euchēn),24 namely a political organization that presupposes the optimal material conditions such as the ethnic nature of its inhabitants, its population size, and its geographical proximity to material resources and potentially hostile neighbors.25 Politics 7.13 is a turning point of sorts within the text which is conventionally (and artificially) divided into two books: Politics 7.4–12 is

134  Thornton Lockwood concerned with the various material conditions for the best regime; but Politics 7.13 through 8.7 is concerned with the question of what sort of education (paideia) will make the citizens of the best city good or virtuous so that they can participate in the city-wide (or at least citizen-wide) happiness at which the best regime aims. Its analyses range over the importance of leisure (scholē) in the best regime (7.14–15), proper guidelines for breeding and procreation (7.16), early childhood education in the household (7.17), and finally the problems and goals of subsequent public education (Politics 8). It is worth underscoring that Aristotle’s discussion of musical education takes place within the framework of his analysis of public education for children between the ages of 7 and 21 for two different reasons. First, Politics 8.1 articulates what I will call the “safeguard principle,” namely that education should be suited to the particular nature of the regime in which it takes place since it both safeguards the regime and prepares its citizens to share or participate in that regime.26 The “safeguard principle” is worth emphasizing because Aristotle is not proposing a regime of education in general or for any possible political organization. In his best regime, citizens need to be educated both to rule and be ruled according to their age: as young men, its citizens will exercise virtue (especially the martial virtues of courage and endurance) under the subordination of their elders; when they are older, they then need to possess the proper characteristics which allow them to flourish while ruling others (7.14.1332b15–16, b41-33a3). Although such a regime obviously involves political participation on the part of all citizens, it does not follow that the citizens are being prepared to flourish in a democracy. Indeed, within Aristotle’s framework, democracy is a form of deviant regime and the education appropriate to safeguarding a democracy will be entirely different from the education prescribed for the best regime. Put elsewise: civic productions of tragedy at Athenian religious festivals may be one paradigm of civic education; but it hardly follows, on Aristotle’s guidelines, that every regime – or even the best regime – should include tragedy as part of its civic education. Second, Politics 8.1 articulates what I will call the “communal principle,” namely that since the whole city has a single end – namely happiness – education should be one and the same for all and its supervision (epimeleia) should be communal (koinē) rather than private (1337a21–26).27 Aristotle’s discussion of musical education is not an exhaustive account of all the culture which will be permitted or nourished within the city, but rather it specifies what will be communal training for young men prior to the age of 21 which will prepare them not only for participating in the communal political activity of the best regime, but also for partaking of both communal and private forms of culture.28 Aristotle makes the point most clearly when he notes that young children should not be exposed to obscene images (except within the framework of statuary appropriate to specific gods) or to obscene language in iambus and comedy “until they have reached the age when it is appropriate for them to recline at the common table and drink wine, and their education has rendered them immune to the harm such things can do”

Is there a Poetics in the Politics?  135 (Pol. 7.17.1336b20–23). Aristotle’s remark about comedy – one of the only remarks in the entire Politics about dramatic forms of the arts29 – makes clear that public displays of obscenity and mockery is inappropriate for children of a certain age; but that viewing comedy is delimited to a certain age group implies that it is not limited to other age groups.30 The communal principle specifies what everyone in the best regime will participate in together as part of their education; it by no means precludes enjoying other forms of culture or drama either in private or in public.31 But whatever education is consistent with the communal principle must also prepare an individual to participate in the both communal and non-communal forms of culture which an individual will find in the best regime. Although the “safeguard” and “communal” principles impose constraints upon what will serve as education in the best regime, Aristotle himself articulates what he calls the one principle or starting point of all else (archē pantōn mia [8.3.1337b32]) when considering education – and what I will call the “principle of leisure” – namely that education aims at developing a capacity for noble leisured activity (scholazein dunasthai kalōs [1337b31–32]). As the remainder of Politics 8 shows, Aristotle thinks that musical education – including education in how to perform music – provides such a paradigmatic liberal art because it habituates one to take pleasure in what is fine and prepares one to judge properly wherein consists truly noble leisure.32 Although it seems clear that Aristotle thinks that reading tragedy and epic are forms of noble leisurely activity, the problem of Politics 7–8 concerns what prepares one best to appreciate and enjoy such literary works. And indeed, Aristotle uses the testimony of Odysseus himself (in the banquet scenes from Odyssey 9 and 18 in which Odysseus invokes the bard)33 to show that music is a form of activity pursued neither because it is necessary for life, nor because it is useful, nor that it promotes health, but rather because it is pursued solely for the purpose of leisure (8.3.1338a13–23). To articulate Aristotle’s “principle of leisure,” it is necessary to explore his distinction between liberal (eleutheron) or “free” leisure activity and what is illiberal (aneleutheron) or what is vulgar (banauson).34 Aristotle characterizes what is illiberal or vulgar in two different systematic ways. First, Aristotle notes twice that illiberality does not concern a kind of action (praxis) but the reason why someone performs the action. For instance, in his discussion of how citizens in his best regime will learn to rule and be ruled, Aristotle notes that some commands differ not with respect to the tasks they assign but with respect to that for the sake of which they are done. That is why it is noble even for free young men to perform many of the tasks that are held to be appropriate for slaves. For the difference between noble and shameful actions does not lie so much in the acts themselves as in their ends, on that for the sake of which they are performed. (Pol. 7.14.1333a6–10)

136  Thornton Lockwood Learning how to be ruled requires learning how to obey commands for the right reasons, and education needs to prepare one to distinguish those reasons. Another passage later in Politics 8 articulates the same distinction more specifically. In seeking to classify what is liberal, Aristotle notes that what one acts or learns for also makes a big difference. For what one does for one’s own sake, for the sake of friends, or on account of virtue is not unfree, but someone who does the same thing for others would often be held to be acting like a hired laborer or slave. (8.2.1337b16–20) To use an example which Aristotle will provide subsequently: there is nothing intrinsically illiberal about performing music. But if one performs that music pandering to the boorish pleasure of an audience or for the sake of money rather than to develop virtue, then the musical performance is illiberal or vulgar (8.6.1341b8–18). A second way that Aristotle characterizes illiberal or vulgar actions concerns the effects which those actions have upon us. Thus, Aristotle claims that vulgar is any task, craft, or branch of learning if it renders the body or mind of free people useless for the practices and activities of virtue. That is why the crafts that put the body into a worse condition and work done for wages are culled vulgar; for they debase the mind and deprive it of leisure. (8.2.1337b9–13) This and other passages have led many to see in Aristotle’s account of the vulgar a class prejudice – namely one which disapproves (quite problematically for us, given our economic system) of the notion of wage labor.35 Although Aristotle certainly associates vulgarity with economic class – especially elsewhere in the Politics within his discussions of citizenship36 – what is striking in Politics 7–8 is that his account of vulgarity is primarily addressed as a criticism of the Spartan system of public education. Aristotle characterizes the Spartan agōgē as the sole form of communal public education extant in his time but one which brutalizes its citizens, stunts their development, and leaves them woefully unprepared to exercise leisure – an inherent violation of his principle of leisure.37 Spartans are “like an iron sword, they lose their edge when they remain at peace” (7.14.1334a8–9). If the Spartans personify vulgar, illiberal education which is narrowly utilitarian and leaves them totally unprepared for the noble exercise of leisure during peacetime, then how does Aristotle’s notion of a musical education compare? Politics 8.5 takes up the question of the power of music and considers whether it consists in education (paideia), amusement (paidia), or leisured pursuits (diagōgē).38 Although Aristotle immediately notes that it is

Is there a Poetics in the Politics?  137 reasonable to think that music participates in all three, in several places (e.g., 7.3.1337b28–32, 8.5.1340a1–10) he argues against the belief that the sole power or purpose of music is amusement or pleasure. Aristotle claims in response that music is mimetic or imitative and that everyone who listens to it comes to have the emotions which it imitates even when rhythms and melodies are taken in isolation.39 He adds that since music happens to be one of the pleasures, and virtue is a matter of enjoying, loving, and hating in the right way, it is clear that nothing is more important than that one should learn to judge correctly (to krinein orthōs [1340a17]) and get into the habit of enjoying decent characters and noble actions. (8.5.1340a14–18)40 Musical education seems to have both “ethical” (in the sense of related to the habituation of the non-rational part of the soul) and “intellectual” components.41 Aristotle’s discussion of the proper development of enjoying, loving, and hating – which goes to the heart of what the Ethics calls developing a love of the fine42 – shows that music is capable of ethical habituation. But his invocation of “proper judgment” is more broadly aesthetic in the sense of being perceptually aware and attuned. No doubt, the aesthetic and ethical components of musical education combine in a single individual. But what seems crucial to the elevation of music as the pre-eminent liberal art is that it prepares one to share nobly in leisure in precisely the opposite fashion as the Spartan vulgar education.43 Spartan education certainly trains the soul to experience certain emotions and desires (rather like those of the timocratic soul in the Republic), but it fails to inculcate the critical abilities of judgment or discernment.44 By contrast, Aristotle highlights performative musical education precisely because it trains not only the desiring part of the soul, but also its discerning part. Aristotle grants in several places that a musical education inculcates a critical ability to judge well,45 but within the text he appears to envision once again a debate between Spartan musical education and that which Aristotle will advocate specifically with respect to the initial aporia of Politics 8.5, viz. whether musical education includes a performative element. In his dialectical consideration of whether and how one should participate in music, Aristotle notes that even if music is able to improve people’s character (ta ēthē): Why should [children] learn it themselves, rather than being like the Spartans, who enjoy the music of others in the right way and are able to judge it (dunasthai krinein [1339b1])? For the Spartans do not learn it themselves, but are still able, so they say (hos phasi [1339b3]), to judge rightly (krinein orthōs [1339b3]) which melodies are good and which are not. (8.5.1339a41-b4)

138  Thornton Lockwood The verbal echoes of Politics 8.6 make clear that Aristotle does not endorse this endoxon concerning Spartan abilities. Instead, Aristotle claims it is not difficult to see, of course, that if someone takes part in performance himself, it makes a great difference in the development of certain qualities, since it is difficult if not impossible to become excellent judges of performance (tōn ergōn kritas genesthai spoudaious) if they do not take part in it. (8.6.1340b22–5) Proper judgment of music requires some familiarity with the performance of music, and as the sequel shows, proper performance trains one to listen not only critically for musical education, but for education of any sort (8.6.1341a19–21). There is no predicament that musical performance is part of a proper education. Rather, the predicament concerns how to insure that such a performative musical education avoids the development of vulgar musicians. The remainder of Politics 8.6–7 consists in a reply to “some people” who object that performing music inevitably makes one vulgar (banauson). Aristotle’s reply consists of a threefold answer (sketched in outline at 1340b42-41a3). First, instrumental education should be limited to developing the ability to enjoy fine melodies and rhythms (1341a14), but it should exclude preparation for professional competition (pros tous agōnas tous technikous [1341a10]). Second, instrumental education should use only those instruments that make one a good listener (1341a20–1), but it should exclude training in professional instruments or those which aim at competition (1341b8–10).46 Finally, education should be limited to proper melodies and rhythms (the complicated topic of the incomplete Politics 8.7), which seem to be limited to the Dorian and perhaps also the Lydian melodies.47 Aristotle provides a good summation of the three parts of his response by distinguishing between vulgar and liberal education for instrumental performance. The vulgar performer takes up learning instrumental music for the sake of pandering to the audience’s boorish pleasure and, in doing so, literally stunts himself physically by trying to respond bodily to the movements which the audience demand. Such an education in instrumental music both impedes the development of proper habits (since it transforms an educational moment into an exercise in professional pandering and economic exchange) and incapacitates the gymnastic and bodily development required of political virtue in the best regime.

7.3 Conclusion Although there are numerous ways in which the Poetics and Politics intersect, by means of a conclusion I would like to focus on the three reasons – each of which corresponds with a principle I have enumerated above – that I believe motivate Aristotle to exclude tragedy from public education in Politics 8.

Is there a Poetics in the Politics?  139 The first principle I identified – the “safeguard principle” of Politics 8.1 – specifies that the public education of the best regime must prepare citizens of the best regime to rule and be ruled in the best regime. Aristotle is clear in numerous places that musical education is capable of educating the ethical habits and judgment of its citizens – both through habituation and through exercising discernment – so that they are able to exercise leisurely pursuits in noble fashion. Such a point is crucial because the best regime, even though it includes political participation, provides leisure to its citizens. The “safeguard principle” precludes public education in tragedy because although drama engages our ethical habits and judgments, tragedy by itself seems incapable of preparing us for other forms of leisure. At least according to Aristotle, music – although intrinsically worth pursuing – is also a good preparation for other leisurely pursuits; but viewing or reading tragedy seems to lack that preparatory element, in part because of its far greater complexity than music. Tragedy may be the capstone of a liberal education (and the missing chapters of Politics 8 may have developed that idea), but it does not follow that it should be part of the elementary components of that education. Simply put, music prepares the citizens of the best regime to enjoy the leisured pursuit of music and other forms of mousikē; it is unclear that tragedy could perform the same function. The second or “communal” principle which I extracted from Politics 8.1 entails that since the end of the best regime is one and the same for all, there should be a form of communal or public education for all citizens. Communal education brings individuals together and prepares them individually to seek common goods. Public performance of the arts seems ideally suited to such a communal endeavor since it is an instance in which individuals come together to form an audience – something which is more than the sum of its parts.48 Both the Politics and Poetics are concerned with the potentially vulgar effects of musical and tragic performance. Although Aristotle never compares their respective pitfalls, I have argued that whereas the Poetics “excises” the performative elements of tragedy – and in effect changes it into a non-communal literary art form, rather than a communal performed one – the Politics inoculates, as it were, musical performance by allowing young men and women to study music by means of performance, but not in performative competition.49 It seems fair to ask why one could not do the same for tragedy – for instance, allow non-professional participation in drama productions but excluding citizens from competitions. Although my answer is speculative, I suspect that using one’s “self” – one’s own voice and bodily movements – in acting to portray a character is simply more “dramatic” and soul-effecting than musical performance, in which the musical object imitated is more abstract and is ultimately mediated through an instrument. Humans are mimetic beings who take on aspects of what we imitate (hence Aristotle’s claim that even in childhood play, the future citizens of the best regime should be directed towards the imitation of serious objects and insulated from those which are slavish [Pol. 7.17.1336b28–30, 40–1]). Perhaps

140  Thornton Lockwood Aristotle fails to incorporate non-competitive theatrical activities because of the almost intimate connection between an actor and his role. Aristotle’s own archē concerning education – the “leisure principle” that states that education needs to prepare one to be able to exercise leisure nobly – picks out musical education as one which prepares one better to appreciate and distinguish between noble and ignoble leisurely pursuits. At one point, Aristotle notes that learning to play a musical instrument will make citizens “good listeners, whether to musical education or to education of any other sort” (8.6.1341a19–21). The trope of being a good “auditor” – either in the training of that part of the soul which listens to reason or in the ability to “listen” to Aristotle’s works, which take the literary form of lectures – runs deep in Aristotle’s thinking.50 No doubt tragedy attunes one to visual spectacle, emotional resonances, and comprehension of complex plot developments. But all those elements (save visual spectacle) presuppose an audience of careful auditors. Learning how to listen comes first, but if listening is learned adequately, all the rest can follow in its train. But one must crawl before one walks, and learning how to listen to instrumental music comes before learning how to “listen” to all the elements of a tragedy. Insofar as liberal education prepares one for all other forms of learning, learning how to listen comes first.51

Notes 1 See further, Heath forthcoming, which the author has kindly shared with me in draft. The literature on Aristotle’s treatment of catharsis is formidable; Ford (2004, 309–10) provides a brief survey of the debate. 2 References within my paper to Greek texts derive from Ross (1957) (for the Politics) and Kassel (1965) (for the Poetics). Although translations within the text are my own, they are much indebted to Reeve (1998), Halliwell (1995), and Janko (1987). I am also much indebted to Kraut (1997) – which I generally found supportive of my argument – even if I have cited it infrequently. 3 Hall (1996, 302). For more recent criticism of Hall’s position, see Hanink (2011, 321–4). 4 Heath (2009, 468–85). 5 See, for instance, Pol. 8.2.1337b24, b27, 8.3.1338a14, 8.5.1339a11. 6 Lord (1982, 29, 146–50). 7 Ford (2004, 309). 8 See, for instance, S.G. Salkever (1986). Ford (2015a, 5–15) contests the claim that the Poetics responds to the criticisms of poetry in the Republic. Instead, he claims that Aristotle’s main disagreement with Plato (at least as expressed in the Poetics) concerns the notion of artistic inspiration articulated in Plato’s Ion (536bc). An unpublished epilogue (which the author kindly shared with me) to Schofield (2010) argues that the main target of Politics 7/8 on music is Laws 2, but compare Destrée (2018). 9 Konstan (2013), for instance, is an exemplary analysis of spectacle (opsis) in the Poetics, but it neglects to consider the broader political and educational context of Aristotle’s critique of performance. Konstan (2013, n. 1 63–4) details recent scholarship that has considered Aristotle’s critique of spectacle. More recently, Destrée (2016a) has argued, contrary to “the almost undisputed communis

Is there a Poetics in the Politics?  141

10

11 12 13 14

15

16

17 18

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opinio,” that spectacle and music (which is a part of spectacle) are crucial components of tragedy for Aristotle. I am in agreement with Ferrari that the Poetics is not “political” in its take on tragedy but I think he is insufficiently attentive to the political reasons, as it were, that the Poetics is not political. Yes, “tragedy is plot for plot’s sake”, Ferrari (1999, 183), but in part that is because of the vulgar effect of performance. Ford (2015a, 12–13) argues that Aristotle’s claim that poetic “rightness” is different from that of “political” rightness (Poet. 25: 1460b13–15) supports a qualified notion of autonomy for the art of poetry independent of politics. For a good overview of the problem of spectacle in the Poetics, see Appendix 3 “Drama in the theatre: Aristotle on ‘spectacle’ (opsis)” in Halliwell (1998, 337–43). For tropon see Poet. 1.1447a18; cf. to hōs 3.1448a19, a25, 6.1450a11. Poet. 3.1448a21–4, 6.1449b26–7, 22.1459a15–16; cf. 5.1449b11; cf. Destrée (2016a, 232–4). At Politics 8.3, Aristotle approvingly adduces Odysseus’ invocation of the bard as a model of music as a leisurely pursuit (diagōgē); his examples derive from a bard using music to recite epic narrative, not enact a scene. Aristotle refers to the scenes of Odyssey 17.382–5 (albeit including a line not in our Odyssey) and Odyssey 9.7–8. Sifakis (2013, 56–7) argues that although spectacle is not a part of the poet’s art, it remains a central part of tragedy and not something Aristotle dismisses. Such a claim fits well with Ford (2015a, 14–18), which argues that the Poetics is a work of literary criticism rather than a guide for playwrights. But both Sifakis and Ford seem to underestimate the concerns Aristotle raises in Pol. 8 about the deleterious effects of performance upon the performer (leaving aside its effects upon the audience). When considering potential criticisms one might raise against the use of diction in poetry, Aristotle claims that understanding the various forms of diction belongs to the technē hupokritikē; but, he continues, “knowledge or ignorance of [this art] can support no serious criticism of the art of poetry” (19.1456b13–15). Rhetoric 3.1 provides guidance about the art of hupokrisis as a form of voice management relevant both to actors and orators. For its place as part of the “actor’s art”, see Sifakis (1986, 155–8). Wise (2008) argues that Aristotle mistakenly characterizes tragedy as consisting in predominantly “sad-endings” due to the rise of fourth-century celebrity actors who recast the performance of fifth-century plays; thus, “Aristotle’s theory of tragedy mistakes a celebratory political art for a weepy histrionic one” (384). Aristotle’s explicit remarks about the influence of “celebrity actors” belie some of Wise’s suggestion that Aristotle was unaware of the effect of such actors. But, in general, her characterization of the Poetics as a work which privileges “sad-ending tragedy” understates the importance of “happy-ending” tragedies (which Wise acknowledges that Aristotle discusses at Poet. 14: 1453b34–54a8). For additional criticism of Wise’s overstatement, see Hanink (2011). Destrée (2016a, 234–5), is correct to note that part of Aristotle’s criticism of spectacle concerns bad actors rather than spectacle per se (e.g., 1461b34–6). But that does not resolve the problem I identify, namely the situation of good poets who write plays catering to spectacle. In Politics 7.17.1336b28 Aristotle approves of the practice of the tragic actor Theodorus who refused to let an audience hear someone else play his part first, since the audience would irrationally like best whatever they heard first, regardless of the quality of the subsequent acting. Concerning the “boorish” effects of audience, see also Politics 8.6.1341b10–18.

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Is there a Poetics in the Politics?  143













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45 46

47 48

49

50 51

Spartan education excludes musical performance may help explain why Aristotle is so critical of their ethical abilities in Politics II.9. See further Lockwood (2018). Reeve (1998, 51–65) sees proper judgment as a central goal of Aristotelian education. Aristotle has a special bone to pick about the unsuitable nature of learning to play the aulos – ranging from observations about its use in the aftermath of the Persian Wars to the mythological story that Athena rejected the aulos. See further Wilson (1999, 58–95). On the problems and fragmentary nature of Politics 8.7, see further Anderson (1966, 111–46); Lord (1982, 146–50); Ford (2004, 325–31). It goes beyond the scope of my paper to discuss the point, but in Politics 3.11 Aristotle claims that the general public (hoi polloi [3.11.1281b9]) are better judges of ta tēs mousikēs erga kai ta tōn poiētōn because of the nature of communal or collective judgment. Something like that seems to be what grounds the claim of communal education in Politics 8.1. Thus, I am in agreement with Ford (2015a) that Aristotle’s main goal for the Poetics is literary rather than theatrical criticism (a form of leisurely activity with its own historical pedigree, as Ford shows [7–12]). Both Heath and Munteanu, in discussion of my paper, have taken me to task for the use of the “excision” metaphor. They suggest that although Aristotle is critical of the misuse of spectacle, he ultimately envisions the ideal tragedy as one which is performed rather than read. For instance, Munteanu (2012, 76–90) has argued that the dramatist should put the play before his mind’s eyes (Poet. 17), as if it were performed (which Carcinus failed to do), and this process includes elements of staging and visual effects. This does not contradict my point that performance of tragedy remains unimportant for Aristotle. See EN 1.13.1102b25–33. For discussion of the trope of “auditing”, see Grönroos (2007, 251–72). I want to thank Dana L. Munteanu and Malcolm Heath for organizing and inviting me to a superb conference on the Poetics. I would also like to thank Rebecca Kennedy, José Gonzalez, Sam Flores, and Malcolm Heath for especially challenging questions about my paper at the conference. I am also grateful for skeptical written comments from Dana, Malcolm, Pierre Destrée, and Peter Simpson.

8

Varieties of characters The better, the worse, and the like Dana L. Munteanu

Despite the scholarly attention lavished on the noble characters of tragedy (spoudaioi) in the Poetics, Aristotle’s complex classification of characters has not been thoroughly examined.1 In this essay, I explore the Aristotelian varieties of character representation in arts (poetry, visual arts, and music), within the same poetic and artistic genre (tragedy), and in accordance with stylistic diversity. Of particular interest to my study will be the moral implications of the characters’ association with different genres, as well as the significance of the less developed categories and distinctions, such as representations of people similar to us in arts. Although Aristotle keeps moral implications of his classification understated in the Poetics, several passages in other Aristotelian works, especially in the Politics and the Nicomachean Ethics, offer glimpses of the philosopher’s views.

8.1 A matter of size and style: characters in poetry, painting, and music. Who are those “similar” to us? Artistic imitation of people in action regards various types of characters in the Poetics: Since mimetic artists portray people in action, and since these people must be either good (spoudaious) or bad (phaulous) – (for men’s characters practically always conform to these categories alone) [since it is by badness and excellence men differ in character], they can portray people ‘better’ (beltionas) than ourselves, ‘worse,’ (cheironas), or on the same level (toioutous). The same is true in painting: Polygnotus portrayed men who are superior (kreittous), Pauson worse (cheirous), and Dionysius on the same level (homoious). (2.1448a1–8)2 It is perhaps worth noting from the beginning that Aristotle himself appears to emphasize the ethical aspect here, especially if we take as genuine the parenthetical explanation on human character being judged according to its vice or virtue (2.1448a2–4).3 As I shall return to the subject of morality,

146  Dana L. Munteanu I have wanted to draw attention early on to this. The observation concerning the characters’ equality to us has not received close scholarly attention, but it may be crucial for understanding Aristotle’s evaluative frame. After an addendum (2.1448a8–10), stating that other kinds of artistic representations can differ in this manner – and the imitative arts included here are dancing, playing the flute and lyre, Aristotle turns to speeches and verse. He notes (2.1448a11–15): poets too imitate in a similar way, namely Homer better (beltious), Cleophon like us (homoious), Hegemon of Thasos and Nicochares, the composer of the Deiliad, worse (cheirous) characters. A direct parallel can be drawn between pictorial and poetic representations, each with three types portrayed: Homer and Polygnotus depict the better than us; Cleophon and Dionysius the similar to us; and, finally, Hegemon, Nicochares, and Pauson the worse than us. Finally, the section ends with the well-known point, often repeated in some variant later in the treatise, that comedy and tragedy differ in this matter (2.1448a16–18), namely that one wants to represent mimetically (mimeisthai bouletai) better (beltious) people, the other worse (cheirous) than today’s people (tōn nun). The passage contains several intriguing suggestions: a b c

d

Aristotle appears to distinguish similar types of characters in various arts, including speech-related arts, painting, music, and dance, without precise illustrations for the last two.4 The subject in itself does not seem to qualify as a certain type (better or worse) but rather the manner in which it is handled.5 If we pay attention to the personalities behind the names and corresponding genres listed, some predictable patterns emerge, as well as some surprises. Homer, portraying the better, wrote epic, which is habitually grouped with tragedy in the Poetics. Hegemon and Nicochares composed comic burlesque poems (his Deiliad was likely a parodic take on the Iliad). This genre can be grouped easily with comedy, which generally in the Poetics depicts the phauloi, and thus the worse than us. These are then expected connections.6 However, some other details are less predictable. While much has been said about the superior category, beltious or kreittous the comparatives used here, summarized by the term spoudaioi, and, at least for the sake of the contrast, about the phauloi, the intermediate category (“of such sort” – toioutoi or “similar to” us – homoioi) has been generally neglected.7 Should we pay closer attention to this middle category? Although Aristotle never explains it in detail, he announces it without critical judgment. Cleophon, the example of an artist who portrays people similar to us, appears to be a fourth-century tragedian (ten titles of his tragedies are preserved by Suda),8 and is likely mentioned later in the treatise for his common and not distinguished diction: The excellence (aretē) of diction (lexeōs) is to be clear and not ordinary (humble, tapeinē). The clearest (saphestatē) [diction] is that

Varieties of characters  147 coming from basic words, but that is ordinary (tapeinē). An example is the creation of Cleophon and Sthenelos. (22.1458a18–20) Why is he not portraying the “better” than us? This is surprising. Elsewhere Cleophon is criticized in the Rhetoric (3.1408a15), where Aristotle discusses the appropriateness (to prepon) of language (3.1408a10–36): this comes from expressing well emotion and character, since style has to fit the subject.9 Thus, one should not sound casual about serious matters or vice versa, or else he would appear comic, as Cleophon does, who misses this point, being pompous in a trivial matter when he uses the ridiculous phrase: “O queenly fig tree.” Surprisingly, then, genre alone does not place characters into a fixed category, and this goes against the modern critique of Aristotle as strict formalist. We ought to rethink his division. Tragedy generally portrays the spoudaioi, people better than us, but it may, depending on the manner of presentation, show people similar to us in action. Aristotle’s claim may be to an extent normative: tragedy should portray the better, but Cleophon does not do this well.10 However, there is a different tone than we usually find when Aristotle states his preferences in the Poetics. In Chapter 2 of the Poetics, there is no suggestion that the characters of Cleophon have been inappropriately depicted, nor is this later in the treatise implied in the comments on style. Therefore, the like-us characters do not appear to be a failed type of (yet not fundamentally different from) the noble, as sometimes we read about dramatic devices that Aristotle dislikes (e.g. episodic plots, which are still plots, albeit bad ones), but rather a distinct type. They simply belong to a different level, and no judgment that they ought to have been otherwise follows. But how should we understand this “similar to us” category? The painting parallel can be helpful. We have heard that Polygnotus painted people who are better than us, while the painter Dionysius (of Colophon) portrayed people like us. Polygnotus, fifth-century artist, gained renown for his use of tetrachromy (a four-color palette, including black, white, red, and ochre) and, especially, for his grand tableaux (cf. Pausanias 10.25–31) displayed in Athens and Delphi. Those impressive frescoes revolved around major epic and tragic themes, such as the Sack of Troy and Odysseus’ Descend to the Underworld, which probably prompted Aristotle’s association with the epic and tragic genres. The famous Niobe Vase, depicting Apollo and Artemis killing the Niobids, with Argonauts in background, gives us an impression of the Polygnotean style.11 What do we know about Dionysius? No visual testimony of this artist’s style survives, and not many literary descriptions do.12 Pollitt dates the painter in the first half of the fifth century, considering him to be a contemporary of Polygnotus, and collects the major testimonies about his work.13 Out of those, I find the most intriguing for our purposes Aelian’s testimony in Varia Historia: Polygnotus of Thassos and Dionysius of Colophon were painters. Polygnotus painted large pictures … Those of Dionysius except for

148  Dana L. Munteanu the size (plēn tou megēthous), imitated (emimeito) the art of Polygnotus in its precision (akribeian), its representation of emotion (pathos) and character (ēthos), its use of patterns of composition, the suavity of drapery and so on. (4.3) Surely, this is not an Aristotelian assessment, but it can, nevertheless, point us towards the kind of distinction that Aristotle may have in mind in the Poetics. If we take this testimony to be accurate, then Cleophon, the tragedian, and Dionysius, the painter, both in the middle category, share something fundamental. They keep the serious presentation of the subject but differ from their higher ranked models (e.g. Homer/Sophocles, Polygnotus) slightly in manner: diction (the tragedian) or scale (the painter).14 As a result, their characters become like us rather than better than us. Style rather than genre appears to separate the better from the similar to us characters in these cases. In conclusion, what defines the intermediate category in Chapter 2 of the Poetics? First, those similar to us are probably characters represented in a serious manner but having less lofty ways of expressions than their higher counterparts. Our assumption may be that the characters who resemble us do not have higher social and moral status than regular free male Athenian citizens. But social status does not seem to be different in the case of the creations of Cleophon and Dionysius from those who compose in the higher genre. An additional detail in the above-mentioned Poetics passage can signal, however, a difference. Tragedy and comedy, we are told, represent characters who are above or, respectively, below those of today’s generation (tōn nun, 2.1448a18). Some tragic characters (the better), therefore, pertain to myth, to illo tempore, in opposition to a present reality. By analogy, perhaps we can safely assume that characters similar to us have for Aristotle a contemporary nuance. This, nevertheless, does not have to do with the subject of drama but with the imitative manner of presentation somehow related to style. Does this middle category anticipate Middle Comedy? Perhaps it does,15 even though the Aristotelian discussion remains too concise to allow further speculation. Such people could be commonly observed, because the characters of Cleophon sounded like common Athenians (contemporary to Aristotle), and the painted figures of Dionysius were not much taller than us.

8.2 A matter of emotions: the limitations of the “better” within the tragic genre Let us introduce another question. Is there a tension between the necessity that characters be nobler than us and the expectation that they display credible human behavior? Although the spoudaioi, the noble characters of epic and tragedy, are generally better than us morally, socially, and apparently stylistically, as concluded in the previous section, they have to be similar to

Varieties of characters  149 us, to the extent to which we could relate to them and respond emotionally to their plight (Poet. 13.1452b32–1453a). As scholars have correctly remarked, the criterion of similarity here pertains to the idea of intelligibility16: tragic characters ought not to be perfect, so that we may sympathize with them, and this in no way contradicts the previous requirement that they remain superior to us.17 In his characteristic manner Aristotle proceeds here to establish the proper limits of the category of the tragic characters, understood in this case as intermediary between two extremes. This delimitation of the upper and lower limits of a category can be commonly found in various Aristotelian treatises, such as the Rhetoric, presenting, for example, the age-specific characteristics of people, or the Nicomachean Ethics, presenting the upper and lower limits of people with certain virtues.18 Thus, tragedies ought not to portray decent (epieikeis) people passing from good to bad fortune, for that type of action stirs neither pity nor fear but disgust (Poet. 13.1452b34–6); nor should they represent the opposite: the depraved (mochtherous) passing from bad to good fortune, which is the least tragic at all (13.1452b36–7), nor the entirely bad (sphodra ponēron) person passing from good to bad fortune (13.1453a1–2). Instead, tragedy should portray the in-between (metaxu) person, for pity has to do with the undeserved (anaxion), while fear is felt for someone like us, or enduring something that could happen to us (homoion, 13.1453a4–7). Therefore, the limitations of tragic characters in relation to their dramatic actions pertain to the arousal of what Aristotle considers appropriate tragic emotions, namely pity and fear. Ethical deviations in character correlated to plot outcomes can produce the wrong emotional reactions and should be avoided. Two different claims occur then in Chapters 2 and 13 of the Poetics. In the former chapter, as we have seen, various artistic and literary genres represent people as better, such as we are, or worse. By contrast, in Chapter 13, Aristotle discusses the domain of those better than us, the spoudaioi of tragedy, specifying the upper and the lower limits of this category. From this point of view, the noble characters ought to be on some level similar to us, and thus relatable, so that we can feel fear when watching tragedies. The  criterion of similarity appears once more, yet from a different angle, as we shall see in the last section. Most interestingly the spoudaioi should not be morally perfect, as we read in this section of the Poetics, yet they somehow are superior to us, we remember from the earlier generic requirements. Can we decant the essence of this superiority, which Aristotle does not explain directly? I shall try to do so in Section 4.

8.3 A matter of ethics: the “worse” and the lower end arts (Politics) While discussing the appropriateness of teaching music to the young in the Politics, Aristotle gives an account of how various arts represent characters and emotions (8.1340a). He notes that in rhythms and melodies there is

150  Dana L. Munteanu the closest resemblance19 to the true nature of anger and gentleness, also of courage and wisdom, as well as of all the opposite and of other character trends (allōn ēthikōn) (8.1340a19–21).20 Because of being pleasurable, music relates to acquiring excellence in judging correctly (krinein orthōs), in enjoying decent character traits (epieikesin ēthesi) and good actions (kalais praxesin) (8.1340a14–18). By contrast, the forms and colors of visual arts do not represent character directly, but only give indications of characters (sēmeia ēthōn) and emotions (8.1340a33–4). Melodies, however, do contain in themselves such representations (8.1340a39–41).21 This point is reinforced later: forms and colors are not things very similar to characters (ēthōn), but rather indications (8.1340a34–5) of it.22 Finally, insofar as there is a difference in the contemplation (theōria) of those (i.e. characters and emotions), the young should not look at (theōrein) the works of Pauson, but at the works of Polygnotus (8.1340a35–9) – or any other painter or sculptor who represents character. Several questions can be raised here. (a) How exactly do arts represent character?23 (b) Where does music stand as an art, and more broadly in relation to tragedy? (c) Finally, what are the warnings against the “worse” types of characters for the education of the young and do they correspond to advice on observing the characters of the nobler genres? In other words, could we extend to the poetic genres the point that studying the characters of Polygnotus (similar to tragic and epic in the Poetics) can be beneficial to the young striving to acquire moral excellence? (a) Unlike in the passages of the Poetics discussed in Section 1, Aristotle does not concentrate here on characters as representations of persons within arts,24 but rather on character traits (such as courage and wisdom).25 Sometimes the difference is signaled by the use of the adjective ēthika (ethical matters) rather than the plural noun ēthē (characters). The word ēthos in Greek can refer to both the agent and the moral trait, as it can in English.26 However, the two terms have additional nuances in Aristotle,27 sometimes with no direct equivalent in English: ēthika can refer to more extensive moral tendencies and behavioral dispositions than the English morals28; likewise, even when ēthos means character in the sense of agent, it often carries moral connotations.29 To return to our passage in the Politics, the discussion here is relevant to Aristotle’s overall approach to arts, and it can provide us with valuable insights into the ethical aspects of drama, as the agents in various literary and artistic genres in the Poetics appear to be carriers of such moral trends, and have been labeled accordingly. (b) Politics 8 offers a fascinating account of how our senses relate to the reception of various arts and to the ability of these arts to transmit moral messages as well as emotions. The lowest ranked are the objects of taste or touch (foods, I suppose, not arts), for these have no ability to transmit morals (8.1340a29–30).30 Second come visible objects (forms and colors), and those should include painting and sculpture. These can transmit moral features, but only to a small degree (epi mikron, 8.1340a35–9). For the education of the

Varieties of characters  151 young, Aristotle recommends the paintings of Polygnotus and not those of Pauson.31 This is, it seems, because Pauson’s characters give the impression of vulgar morals. Finally, music, linked to hearing and speech, can intrinsically represent and probably best transmit morals and character traits. To our disappointment, drama, with its major genres, tragedy and comedy, is not listed among these arts in the Politics. Where should it be placed? Aristotle gives us enough clues to venture to place it among arts. Because of its use of speech (lexis) and melody (melos), it ought to share some of the qualities of music. In fact, while drama may be grouped with music, it should probably be ranked above it, insofar as expressing moral character is concerned, because of its use of language and rational speech. In On Sense Perception (437a), for instance, hearing is praised and placed above vision because it facilitates rational speech, knowledge, and education. Although seeing is an essential sense for human beings,32 hearing (akoē) has the greatest influence in the development of intelligent thought (phronēsis),33 not in itself but accidentally, thanks to its capacity to enable us to use speech, and more precisely to perceive the symbolical function of words (437a13–15). With amazing intuition, Aristotle briefly acknowledges the unique capacity of language to be conducive to abstract thought.34 If we follow this classification of senses, drama, and tragedy especially, ought to be placed above other arts due to its use of speech. However, because it includes visual elements and gestures, it shares characteristics with painting as well. Perhaps because of its complexity, since it uses both our audio and visual senses, Aristotle chooses not to include tragedy in his discussion of the role of arts in education in Politics. It remains surprising, nevertheless, that in the Poetics the analogies between drama and painting are more common than those between drama and music. Even in the passage we have just examined (Poet. 2.1448a), although musical genres are mentioned, parallels are drawn between poets and painters. The reason may be that both painters and mimetic poets of various sorts represent people in action, while music does not. In other words, painting seems more imitative than music in its ability to evoke a story, and therefore closer to drama in this respect, triggering the Aristotelian comparisons. Although the parallels with visual arts are more convenient with respect to the manner of imitation, we have to conclude that the ability of drama to transmit ethical dispositions ought to be closer to music than to painting and sculpture in Aristotle’s classification. (c) In the Poetics, Aristotle is not concerned with discussing the education of audiences, whereas in the last two books of the Politics he is clearly preoccupied with this subject. Examining correspondences between arts can supplement our understanding of the ethical value Aristotle implicitly ascribes to poetry and its dramatic varieties. Thus, for example, the above-mentioned specification regarding why music can be morally beneficial to young listeners (8.1340a14–18) can perhaps be applied to poetry as well. Nevertheless, in the last two books of the Politics, more often than stating the ethical benefits of the arts, Aristotle warns against exposing

152  Dana L. Munteanu young audiences to certain vulgar moral representations. Those comments, which will be briefly evaluated next, can offer direct parallels to the passages discussing character in the Poetics. On several occasions in the Politics, Aristotle warns against exposing the young audiences to vulgar artistic imitations. After assessing the benefits of music, Aristotle concludes that the young ought not only to listen to but also to learn how to play music (8.1340b). Even so, he thinks that the young should avoid playing certain instruments, such as the flute, which cannot inspire a good moral (ēthikon) influence but is rather rousing (8.1341a20–1).35 As we have seen, although painting pertains little to expressing moral character, to the extent to which it does, the young ought to look at the paintings of Polygnotus and not of Pauson (8.1340a35–9). Obviously, the recommendation concerns the moral benefits, and, respectively, dangers that the paintings could present to young viewers. We remember the reference to the painters in the Poetics (2.1448a5–6), Polygnotus (cf. Homer and tragedians) represented characters better than us, whereas Pauson (cf. mock epic, comedy) portrayed people worse than us. By analogy with the Politics, we can safely assume the ethical implications of poetic genres and of their characters. In fact, again in the Politics, Aristotle specifically mentions the potentially harmful influence of comedy on the very young; particularly those who have not reached the age of drinking at the symposia should not be allowed to be spectators of iambs or comedy (7.1336b20–1).36 However, after they come of age, education (paideia) will make them immune (apatheis) to the harm of such arts using vulgar talk.37 More generally, young audiences must be kept away from contemplating indecent paintings (graphas) and hearing vulgar speeches (logous), except for those images of gods for which law permits such representations, and those must be restricted to temples and assigned rituals (7.1336b14). In conclusion, the last two books of the Politics sketch some moral implications of the arts on audiences, which is one of Plato’s major aesthetic concerns, but not a prominent theme in Aristotle’s Poetics. In book 8 of the Politics, music (and we may infer other arts in general) benefits the audiences by providing relaxation and pleasure related to cognitive and ethical advantages. The various sub-genres of each art contain a type of representation of the vulgar subject, which may harm little children. Special restrictions are in place for such representations: the paintings of Pauson, iambs, comedy, and playing the flute. A certain level of intellectual maturity and education will allow mature audiences to contemplate such representations without the danger of copying the bad models. While the vulgar types of artistic imitations are singled out in this manner, imitations of the superior traits (paintings of Polygnotus – mentioned as a positive model but without explanations – epic, tragedy, and harp) do not receive the same treatment. What exactly can the young learn from watching imitations of those better than us? We do not receive the same kind of specific explanations of the moral benefits of the nobler genres of arts.38 Presumably, by looking at Polygnotus

Varieties of characters  153 and not Pauson, the young could be better inspired to courage, and the like, but Aristotle is more concerned with representations of the lower end of artistic imitation, so we do not have an emphasis on the moral good that we may gain from certain genres.39

8.4 Still a matter of ethics: why the “better” characters of tragedy may be better (Nicomachean Ethics) Keeping these ethical distinctions from the Politics in mind, I will return to the characters of comedy and tragedy in the Poetics to see whether we can evaluate the moral nuances of the epithets attached to them. A certain symmetry exists in the definition and classification of the characters of the two dramatic genres: comedy is an imitation (mimesis) of those rather vulgar (phauloterōn) (5.1449a32–3), while tragedy is an imitation (mimesis) of a noble action (praxeos spoudaias, 6.1449b24); tragic characters are noble (spoudaioi, 2.1448a2; 5.1449b10), whereas comic characters are vulgar (phauloi, 4.1448b25–6; 5.1449a32–7). We have already seen that phauloi relate to people worse than us, whereas the spoudaioi pertain to better than us (2.1448a). But in what way are they better or worse? In the definition of comedy, Aristotle adds that by more vulgar (phauloterōn) he means worse not with respect to every sort of vice (kakian), but rather the type related to the laughable (geloion), which is only a part of the ugly/shameless (aischrou […] morion); moreover, the laughable is a sort of error (hamartēma) and disgrace (aischos), which is painless (anōdunon) and harmless (ou phthartikon) to others (5.1449a33–6).40 Two terms explaining the laughable as “part of the shameless” and “shamelessness/disgrace” bear links to the idea of shameless behavior displayed in comedy, which Aristotle discussed in book 7 of the Politics, although translators rarely underscore this connotation.41 Conversely, no parallel explanations surround the term spoudaios, the epithet of tragic character, and it is therefore difficult to understand why it means morally better than us. For example, Held suggests that spoudaios should relate to tragikon, and to producing harm, which Aristotle fails to define, in the manner in which phaulos relates to geloion, which is not harmful.42 Surely, that “tragic” relates to a (potentially) harmful action is an easy supplement, and I am not against it, but this does not explain the moral superiority of tragic characters. Additional difficulties arise, and these are related to the connections between tragic characters and tragedy as action. As Held specifies: when spoudaios is applied to tragic characters most commentators agree that the word has ethical implications,43 and it is often translated as “noble,” whereas when it refers to the action of tragedy, commentators give it the sense of “grave, serious.”44 Held does not explain the inconsistency. In my view, the difference in our translations stems from the type of tragic actions that Aristotle admires as best arousing pity and fear, especially killing among the kin (Poet. 14.1453b14–23).45 Naturally then, commentators tend to translate spoudaia referring to tragic action as

154  Dana L. Munteanu “serious” rather than “noble,” ethically superior action. But should tragedy also be considered mimesis of a morally noble action, as the characters involved in such action are? Apparently yes, but why? A key explanation may be in the Poetics (6.1450a16–19):46 the structure of the events is the most important of the six structural components, because tragedy is mimesis not of people but of action and life; happiness and unhappiness consist in action, and the goal is a certain kind of action; and men are of a certain quality but happiness and unhappiness derive from action.47 Halliwell rightly calls this statement “Aristotle’s clearest indication in the entire treatise that tragedy is a poetic exploration of affairs which bear, at a potentially profound level, on the possibility of ‘happiness,’ eudaimonia.”48 While I do agree with this assessment, I think that we are still left with complications. The passage does not explain why tragedy, in itself, is an imitation of a (morally) superior action; it places plot before characters, speaking of the most important structural part.49 Yet, from an ethical perspective, both its action and its characters should be noble, and somehow superior to us. Without having all the answers to the problems just pointed out, I propose next that the parallel between tragic and comic characters can yield a few more clues regarding the moral superiority of the spoudaios. We remember comedy was defined (5.1449a33–6) as imitation of people rather vulgar not with respect to every sort of vice (kakian) but related to the laughable, which was a sort of error. The domain of the comic has been then defined through limitations: a type of vice, but of a special kind, which in its turn is of a peculiar type.50 Conversely, the tragic appears to be less clearly circumscribed in the Poetics. What could Aristotle have said, if he had specified the domain of the spoudaios, in the same way in which he limits that of the phaulos? As the spoudaioi of tragedy find themselves in very limited types of situations according to Aristotelian preferences, it seems to me, he could have said that these characters are noble in as far as they can be linked to the imitation of an action arousing the tragic emotions. This is made abundantly clear in the Poetics.51 As the comic character (phaulos) is not bad in every respect, so the tragic (spoudaios) is not morally perfect but noble within the limits that properly arouse pity (eleos) and fear (phobos), which is also made clear. Furthermore, the comic phaulos concerns a type of error, hamartema, which is a kind of vice (kakia), albeit a very specialized kind, pertaining to shamelessness, and may explain the comic character’s moral inferiority. On the contrary, the tragic spoudaios ideally falls because of an error hamartia (13.1453a10) and not – and here we have one limitation – because of some vice (kakian, 13.1453a8) and wickedness (mochtherian, 13.1453a9). This absence of vice does not, however, explain the tragic character’s moral superiority. Several passages from the Nicomachean Ethics can serve to explain the particular features of tragic hamartia. Without tackling the complexity of Aristotle’s discussion of voluntariness and responsibility of human actions in the ethical treatise, I will select only a few observations that directly pertain to the spoudaioi. A clear distinction (EN 5.1136a5–9) is drawn between

Varieties of characters  155 people “acting in ignorance” (agnountes) and those acting “because of ignorance” (di’ agnoian). An example of the first type is as follows: Acting because of ignorance is different from Acting in ignorance. For the person who is drunk or angry does not act because of ignorance, but rather because of one of the things mentioned (sq. being drunk or being angry) – although not in knowledge but in ignorance. (EN 3.1110b24–7)52 Of the two actions, the deeds performed in ignorance relate to not knowing the universals, whereas those done because of ignorance regard the particulars, and only the latter type of action is truly involuntary and forgivable (3.1110b28–33).53 Not knowing the universals means not knowing what one must (dei) do and abstain from, and every wicked person is ignorant of that (3.1110b 28–9).54 Not knowing the particulars can refer to various details (of who or how or with what result), so it is possible for the person hit to be your father but that you know only that he is a man or one of the company and not that he is your father (EN 5.1135a24–30), an example that surely brings to our mind Oedipus. In the Poetics, Aristotle gives a list of actions found in tragedies and the degrees of ignorance of the characters performing them (14.1453b39–1454a9). Of these, the recognition-reversal in Euripides’ Cresphontes is mentioned where Merope is about to kill her son but comes to recognize him (Poet. 14.1454a5–6).55 The same example is given in the Nicomachean Ethics among involuntary actions (not knowing the particulars; EN 3.1111a10–11).56 What does this account of actions done “because of ignorance” have to do with the morality of the spoudaioi? Generally, tragic characters, in Aristotle’s view, know the universals (what one must do and avoid), which probably ought to be qualified as better than most of us. However, they may act “because of ignorance” (not knowing the particulars) – for which it is both pity and excuse (E.N. 3.1111a2).57 The spoudaioi as characters should have better abilities than most of us to pursue a good life, and to strive for it, even if changes of fortune may overthrow their plans, thus not allowing them to actualize their efforts for living well.58 In this respect the social and moral aspects of the spoudaios converge, for social status and its usual concomitants (resources, good health, etc.) are listed as necessary conditions for the pursuit of happiness without being part of happiness.59 It is noteworthy that all of Aristotle’s favorite plots in the Poetics presuppose agents who either harm (Oedipus in Sophocles’ Oedipus the King) or are about to harm their kin (Merope in Euripides’ Cresphontes, Iphigenia in Euripides Iphigenia among the Taurians) without intending to do so and because they miss essential details. Indeed, Aristotle seems to admire changes of fortune and shock for the spectators coming from the realization that even those better than us, who know how they should act in general, can fall by missing the particulars. However, this dynamic is not clearly spelled out in the Poetics.

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8.5 A matter of emphasis, realism, and idealization: variances within the arts Regarding painting, again by analogy with tragedy, we find an interesting comparison between Polygnotus and Zeuxis. Plot (muthos) is the goal (telos) of tragedy (6.1450a22–3). Tragedy is dependent upon plot, not upon character, a fact made obvious in the works of most recent poets, which are lacking in character, and in general there are many such poets (6.1450a24–6), as with Zeuxis’ relationship to Polygnotus among painters. Polygnotus is a good depicter of character (agathos ēthographos), while Zeuxis’ painting contains no character, or perhaps rather “has nothing with respect to character” – (graphē ouden echei ēthos) (6.1450a27–9).60 Sometimes, art historians take this as a praise of Polygnotus, but in the context it needs not be so. Both Polygnotus and Zeuxis belong to the same genre of painting noble subjects, in a category corresponding among the poetic genres to tragedy.61 Furthermore, the statement should not be taken to mean that Zeuxis depicts no characters at all, because, in fact, Aristotle discusses the particularities of his characters in a subsequent passage in the Poetics, which will be mentioned. The meaning regarding Zeuxis’ painting (cf. fourth-century tragedy) has to be that the focus is on the subject matter, on the action. By the same token, the statement is not a criticism of Polygnotus (or of fifth-century tragedians) for having strong characters – those are fine, but not as necessary as plot for tragedy or subject content for painting.62 This comparison then does not pertain to the genre, or to the moral category, but to the degree of importance of character compared to other compositional elements within the same artistic medium.63 Finally, and more importantly for our topic, for both painting and tragedy, Aristotle suggests that characters differ within the same genre with respect to another conceptual category: idealism versus realism. Poetic needs make something plausible but impossible (pithanon kai adynaton) preferable to what is possible but implausible (apithanon kai dynaton) – of the sort Zeuxis portrayed, but in a better (beltion) way (25.1461b9–13).64 Similarly, to the question of whether poets should be criticized when they represent things that are not true, Aristotle responds that they ought not to be criticized for representing things as they should be.65 He adds that Sophocles has said that he himself represented people as they should be (hoious dei poiein), whereas Euripides portrayed them as they are (hoioi eisin, 25.1460b33–5). Aristotle appears to agree with this assessment, otherwise he usually states his dissent. Perhaps something similar is also implied in On the Poets 3.7, where something is said regarding Sophocles’ higher representation … sharing in emotion.66 In the Politics, excellent men are able to unify virtue, being therefore superior to commoners, just as those painted by craft (ta gegrammena dia technēs) appear superior to real ones, because their features are represented as harmoniously united in beauty (3.1281b10–15).67 In cases in which painters and dramatists (Sophocles) produce idealistic (but plausible)

Varieties of characters  157 types of characters, we do not hear whether Aristotle prefers a realistic representation of character or an idealized one in the Poetics, but only that idealized representations ought to be considered acceptable. That Aristotle slightly inclines towards the idealized depiction of character is probably a safe assumption on our part.68 Evidence to support this can be found in Chapter 15. There, after Aristotle lists the four important features of the tragic character: worthiness (specific to the peculiar types: man, woman, slave),69 appropriateness, likeness, and consistency (Poet. 15.1454a16–28),70 he concludes with yet another brief comparison between tragedy and painting. Because tragedy is an imitation of people better (beltion) than us – a return to the generic superiority of character – one ought to imitate as good portrait painters (eikonographous, 15.1454b9–10). Those artists paint people similar to how they are with respect to each feature, and thus realistically, but more beautiful (kallious, 15.1454b11), so too the poets should depict their characters, for example, being prone to anger or irascible, yet at the same time decent, epieikeis (15.1454b11–13).71 Although the following text is corrupt, the next example seems to be Homer’s Achilles, who, despite being angry, is portrayed as a worthy man (15.1454b14–16).72 Does this mean that, notwithstanding the irascibility, reasonable motivations determine the character’s choices? Perhaps. Yet again not enough explanations are offered. At any rate, Aristotle seems to endorse a little airbrushing in depicting characters in arts. A slightly idealized way of portraying the spoudaioi appears to be preferable as long as the technique keeps the protagonists recognizable in their human traits. In conclusion, I hope to have sketched the complexity of Aristotle’s observations about characters. Epithets applied to characters in drama appear in different contexts, with different meanings: first, in the discussion of arts with respect to manner and style of representations (Section 1); second, in the analysis of the limitations of characters involved in tragic actions able to arouse the proper tragic emotions (Section 2); and, third, in the appraisal of the realism or idealization of tragic characters (Section 5). The broad genre division in the Poetics is not bipartite but tripartite, including the mysterious category “like-us,” which Aristotle never fully develops. Even so, the very existence of this intermediate category, which may not produce genres on its own, remains important within genres. It indicates that Aristotle does not separate characters into two absolutely distinct categories, but rather sees them distributed along a continuum. The two poles (spoudaioi and phauloi) serve to distinguish genres by reference to their center of gravity along the continuum, but within each dramatic or artistic genre there will be characters who diverge from that point of reference. Within genres, the morality of both tragic and comic characters appears to revolve around limited circumstances (the shameful – comic, the pitiable and the fearful – tragic), and the tragic can further be related to ethical action, specifically to acting because of ignorance but not in ignorance (Nicomachean Ethics, Section 4). Aristotle often underscores in the

158  Dana L. Munteanu Politics the dangerous aspects of the lower end genres for the education of the very young (the paintings of Pauson, comedy, and playing flute), but he does not place equal emphasis on describing specific moral benefits of the nobler genres (Section 3). In certain cases, there seems to be a tension between different criteria of compositional excellence, as a delicate balance needs to be maintained by the poet. Thus, the spoudaioi of tragedy appear to be better morally, but not altogether perfect, since the better than us have to be plausibly similar to us in order to arouse the appropriate fear in audience. It is fine for artists and tragedians to idealize, even desirable, as long as they do not go too far, because excessive idealization could eventually undermine the criterion of plausibility. Far from being normative in all respects, Aristotle often seems to negotiate the boundaries of his preferences and to acknowledge diversity beyond his own critique, even when he decides not to offer details about it.

Acknowledgment I would like to thank Malcolm Heath for his comments on an early draft of this chapter, as well as for co-organizing a Symposium on Aristotle’s Poetics at the Ohio State University, where this chapter originated; all the participants in that Symposium have sharpened my thoughts with their questions and suggestions. I am also grateful to Stephen Halliwell who has kindly discussed with me various matters pertaining to this subject and directed me to additional bibliography. Last but not least, thanks are due to Joe Tebben and Ann Michelini for stylistic observations and helpful observations.

Notes 1 The translation of the term itself is problematic. For example, Janko (1987, 209) proposes (and most commentators agree) that spoudaios means both “good” and “serious” and translates it both ways. Yet, other scholars want to underscore the social connotation of the term. Zanker (2000) argues that the epithets good, better, and worse must be understood in connection with social class alone and not as moral. While I do not deny the social implications of these terms, on the contrary, I believe that the broader Aristotelian context (especially the Politics) suggests that the epithets ascribed to characters should be taken to have a moral connotation as well. As Schütrumpf (1970, 52–3) notes, the moral connotation of spoudaios seems to dominate in the Poetics: the only time we find an allusion to the higher social status of the tragic characters (“being of great reputation and good fortune,” is in 1453a10); see also Seidensticker (2008) for a balanced view of tragic characters’ superiority as both social and moral. 2 For this passage I have used Halliwell’s translation (1987), adding transliterated Greek terms. I have also included the bracketed text from Kassel’s OCT (1965). Otherwise, translations are mine unless specified. See also Bouchard’s essay in this volume for a detailed analysis of the Aristotelian comparison between poetry and painting, including a discussion of 2.1448a. 3 On the authenticity of this parenthetical observation, see endnote 47 of my essay. 4 Cf. Poet. 1.1447a27–8 on identifying different characters in dance.

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164  Dana L. Munteanu 64 There is a lacuna in the text here. I am following Halliwell’s view (1987, 63, 68). 65 This, however, has to remain in the realm of possible human behavior; see Halliwell (2011, 214–17) for a pertinent analysis of the boundaries of poetic correctness and the criteria of necessity, plausibility, and probability in the Poetics. 66 Cf. 3.5, and 3.6 – referring to Pauson again (Janko 1987, 57). Janko (2011, 280–1); 357 shows Philodemus’ preoccupation with and critique of the Aristotelian division between genres representing character. 67 Lane (2013, 260–1) emphasizes the importance of this passage in understanding the qualities of the virtuous men in the Politics. 68 As Zagdoun (2011, 106) remarks, Aristotle implicitly endorses Sophocles’ style in this instance. 69 The term is chrēstos, since a woman and a slave can be worthy in their own right, though (by comparison to a man) the woman is inferior (cheiron) and the slave vulgar (phaulos), Poet. 15.1454a20–3. As Heath (1996, 54 ad loc.) points out, Pol. 1259b–60b generally explains how women and slaves can be good; this is later important for the criterion of appropriateness (e.g., a woman should not appear more courageous than appropriate for her gender). 70 Brito (2012, 32–3) suggests that those features pertain to the universals, the sort of things that people say or do according to probability and necessity (cf. 9.1451b7–10). 71 Looking generally at the attributes ascribed to the tragic characters, Reeves (1952, 173–81) carefully examines the connotations of epieikēs, in the Poet. in the context of EN 10.1137a31–1138a, in which the world means equitable, and Rhet. 2.1378a7–18, where again it means sensible. 72 There appears to be here the same tension between realism and an idealized version of character in our earlier example, Poet. 25.1460b33–5.

9

The ethical context of Poetics 5 Comic error and lack of self-control Valeria Cinaglia

9.1 Setting the question about comic hamartēma Many studies have been undertaken on the concept of tragic error in Aristotle’s Poetics. Scholars have often tried to specify the kind of tragic error Aristotle has in mind, focusing especially on the question whether we should interpret the hamartia mentioned in Chapter 13 as an intellectual mistake or a moral flaw (1453a8–12).1 There has been less discussion of what Aristotle means by “comic error.”2 In part this is because Aristotle’s mention of the concept is brief and undeveloped. However, Aristotle’s idea of comic error is also significant. In this discussion, I aim to give one possible interpretation of comic error, in order to make sense of Aristotle’s thinking about dramatic action and characterization in the comic context. Aristotle mentions comic error in Chapter 5 of the Poetics: Comedy is, as we said, a representation of people who are inferior (mimēsis phauloterōn) – not, however, with respect to every [kind of] defect (kata pasan kakian), but the laughable is part of what is ugly. For the laughable is a sort of error and3 ugliness (hamartēma ti kai aischos) that is not painful and destructive; to take an immediate example, a laughable mask is something that is ugly and distorted (aischron ti kai diestrammenon) without pain (aneu odunēs). (1449a32–37)4 As Aristotle suggests here, comedy represents people who show some sort of inferiority but are not affected by every sort of defect5; they show a kind of ugliness6 that is amusing.7 Thus, comic characters do not have the stature of tragic ones; they represent inferior people who have “not been bred to aspire to aretē” but that, nevertheless, do not excel in wickedness.8 Comic characters are the source of actions that are shameful to a limited extent and, for this reason, are amusing.9 As Aristotle goes on to say, the comic error is an amusing error, that is, a defect that is visibly shameful, but not to the extent of being painful or destructive, as in the case of tragic characters.10 The comic error is exemplified by the comic mask: a laughable mask

166  Valeria Cinaglia represents someone who is ugly; that is, the distorted traits of the comic mask11 represent visibly the lack of graciousness that characterizes someone who diverges from the ideal of an upright, fine person.12 However, in comedies, says Aristotle, this ugliness and distortion would not be taken to the extent that will cause pain.13 Accordingly, we can infer that a comic mistake produces a situation that is not extreme, as it should eventually arouse laughter and not blame or censure.14 More importantly, I believe, it constitutes a defect that can be easily identified as such by the audience (as the distortions of the comic masks are) and something which, at the same time, allows the story to evolve into a happy ending in the short space of the comic plot. Certainly, the ugly appearance of the comic mask cannot evolve into something completely different: the facial alterations of people of a certain kind (i.e. inferior) will always indicate some sort of imperfection; however, their ugliness needs to adapt to the evolution of the plot to allow an ending that is pleasing for the audience or that, at least, leads the play to a conclusion that is somehow different (and better) with respect to the beginning.15

9.2 Comic hamartēma and tragic hamartia The first question to address, in order to explore the concept of comic hamartēma, is that of the relationship or lack of relationship between the definition of comic hamartēma in Poetics 5 and that of tragic hamartia later in the book. Scholarly debate on this point has produced a range of different answers. In his commentary on the Poetics, Gerald Else describes comic hamartēma as the counterpart of tragic error.16 Lucas, Janko, and Halliwell, however, draw a sharp distinction between the two concepts: the two kinds of mistakes, comic and tragic, are, first of all, ascribed to two very different genres and different kinds of characters.17 Tragic characters are expected to be better than us; the quality of their actions and their mistakes cannot be comparable to those performed by comic characters, who are generally people who are worse than us (2.1448a2; 5.1449a32–33).18 Tragic errors can bring disastrous consequences; comic errors, on the contrary, are laughable and do not bring pain and destruction. Janko argues further that the meaning attributed to comic error in Aristotle is wider than its tragic counterpart. Comic error, in fact, includes accidents, physical blemishes, as well as mental errors as attested, he argues, by the Tractatus Coislinianus.19 As R. Janko states, “this use of faults excludes the hypothesis that Aristotle made mental errors or failures of knowledge the basis of his interpretation of comedy.”20 In comedy, Janko suggests, laughter can be aroused by various sorts of hamartēmata, such as accidents and physical deficiencies, and these may not be dependent on the ēthos or the mental processes of the characters in question. Nevertheless, I believe that Aristotle gives ethical failures a substantial role in the comic plot: I will now explain this point, analyzing the possible differences and similarities between the presentation of errors in comedy and tragedy, according to Aristotle.

Comic error and the lack of self-control  167 Fifth-century Attic tragedy, to which Aristotle mainly refers in the extant text of the Poetics, presents characters that find themselves involved in inextricable situations and extraordinary sufferings that arouse the audience’s pity and emotional engagement in their experiences. Independently of the meaning we give to the term hamartia in Poetics 13, and of the various kinds and degrees of mistakes made in tragedies, in Aristotle, tragic characters (at least in what he considers the best kind of tragic plot) are presented as suffering beyond what they deserve and therefore as objects of our pity. Tragic characters are not typically presented as meriting their misfortune: they are not wicked people who bring upon themselves disasters they deserve; if they were characters of this kind, we would not feel pity and fear for them and their fall (1452b36–3a4) but, rather, we would find that their malice has been rightly punished. Tragic characters arouse our pity because we feel they do not entirely deserve their loss or sudden reversal of fortune; they do not show evident moral flaws but, somehow, they eventually fall.21 As Aristotle observes, they should not fall because of their vice (kakia) or their ethical depravity (mochthēria – 1453a8–10): they make mistakes but, as audience, we feel we cannot straightforwardly resolve to condemn the agents’ decisions as ethically right or wrong.22 And even if, in some cases, we could do so, the history behind the tragic character and the way in which the circumstances are presented makes the structure of these errors more complex to assess.23 We cannot avoid thinking that the disastrous consequences that followed those errors were somehow excessive and that those characters did not deserve that tragic ending. Moreover, when tragic characters make a choice, the audience is emotionally engaged in the motivations of this choice and appreciates the rationale of their actions. We cannot resolve to unequivocally condemn characters such as Creon or Oedipus for their choices; we understand that their reasoning does not straightforwardly express vice and badness of character even if it eventually brings disaster. The way in which tragic characters are presented seems to invite us “not to make inferences about moral character, but to share the point of view of the tragic agents and to try to understand them however bewildering their predicaments and however horrible their actions.”24 Tragic characters are usually led to disaster independently of their good or bad character and independently of the rightness of ethical reasoning or virtuous behavior that they display to the audience.25 Accordingly, what is important above all in tragedy is facts and accidents, and the pathos they arouse in the audience (1450a16–20).26 Comedy is, instead, defined by Aristotle as an imitation of people that are inferior to us.27 What is specific to comedy, in Poetics 5, seems to be the fact that laughter is aroused because of the obvious “distortions” of the figures on stage.28 The audience is able to make judgments about them and see clearly what is wrong in the characters appearance and in their actions. In contrast to what I have suggested with respect to tragedy, it is possible that comic mistakes, from Aristotle’s point of view, arouse laughter because they are not presented as ethically complex and difficult to assess. Contrary to the

168  Valeria Cinaglia kind of error made by tragic characters, which brings undeserved suffering and arouses pity and fear, the mistake or ugliness typical of the comic character is ludicrous, and suits the comic figure and its actions. Accordingly, the imitation of an action in which people, with no evident defects, are subject to various sort of unfortunate accidents or make various sort of mistakes, arouses pity and fear.29 Laughable is instead the imitation of people that are clearly “inferior”: the imperfections of such figures become funny, and their flaws are interwoven into a plot that leads to a happy ending in which the desires of the audiences are satisfied – by contrast with what happens in tragedies (13.1453a33–6). Hence, the definition of comic hamartēma in Poetics 5 should include elements such as physical deficiencies and accidents, as suggested by Janko. Physical imperfection, ugly masks, and isolated jokes are, undoubtedly, important ingredients of comedy; it is, however, difficult to see how these, even if they arouse sudden laughter in the audience, would significantly contribute to the happy evolution of a comic plot that is understood as a unified whole, having an internal consistency and that, at the same time, is amusing.30 With reference to tragedy, Aristotle says that it is possible to impress the audience by means of spectacle; but this by itself would not be the mark of a good poet. A good poet would in fact arouse pity and fear by means of a plot adequately constructed. Moreover, those poets who choose to shock the audience displaying a horrific masks not only show their artistic inferiority but they also produce an effect that is monstrous and not fearful and, therefore, completely different from tragedy (1453b8–11).31 Accordingly, also for comedy, the reactions that the audience is expected to have in watching a properly constructed comic plot are aroused by the whole trajectory of the story, not just by the random ridiculous accidents or the characters’ visible physical deficiencies. This is why I believe that comic mistakes, according to Aristotle, must include something more than these isolated comic elements; they must represent something that contributes to the unity, the progress, and the pleasant conclusion of the whole plot. Accordingly, without excluding the other meanings of comic error mentioned so far, we should give ethical mistakes32 a substantial role in an ideal list of possible comic hamartemata, and, we should reflect further on which kind of ethical mistakes would be suitable to the comic plot, as Aristotle may have intended it. I suggest that there is one kind of ethical mistake that is particularly adaptable to the definition of comic error in Chapter 5: that is, the ethical lapse typical of the akratēs. The akratēs, the person “who lacks self-control”, is, according to the Nicomachean Ethics, someone who, while being not completely wicked nor completely virtuous, fails to reason and to act properly being momentarily overpowered by his anger or desires (7.1147a10–b19). The mistake typically made by a person such as the akratēs fits the definition of comic hamartēma in the following respects. First, it is a mistake that, although it is done by a person that is clearly defective or “inferior,” is not performed on the basis of a completely evil character – it does represent

Comic error and the lack of self-control  169 some kind of ugliness but not extreme wickedness. Second, it is more likely that the comic error will be resolved in a happy ending because it is likely that a character of this kind will finally understand what he did wrong (because he knows potentially what it is right to do) and would possibly try to set right his ethical imperfections, his being, to some extent, (ethically) aischos or, at least, mitigate these imperfections to allow a positive evolution of the plot. Third, the ethical implications of the error of the akratēs are easily recognizable by the audience who, from outside the action, is able to understand clearly what is inappropriate, ridiculous (and should be avoided) in the characters’ actions. Despite the fact that there is no explicit textual evidence to support this comparison, the correspondence between these two concepts – without excluding other possible readings of comic error – makes particular sense if we look at relevant features of Aristotle’s ethical and aesthetic thought and, also, at the comic tradition Aristotle may have been familiar with.

9.3 Akrasia and ancient Greek comedy In fact, my interpretation of comic error seems to be particularly suitable to explain the kind of errors characteristics of the plots and figures that we find in New and (most probably) Middle Comedy. If we look at the comedy of Menander, for instance, we find a special interest in describing the good or bad choices of the figures on stage, their ethical lapses, and the function of these in the context of the plot. For instance, Demeas and Polemon, in Samia and Perikeiromene, are good examples of characters who lack self-control with regard to anger – that is, akratēs tou thumou (7.1149a25–34): anger affects their good judgment on people and circumstances and leads them to behave wrongly. Also, the typical young men’s sudden, impetuous passion for a girl is, usually, in New Comedy, the cause of the accidents at the core of the plot, and it is presented in a way that is comparable to the psychological and ethical mechanism of the person who lacks self-control with regard to appetite – akratēs tōn epithumiōn (7.1149a35).33 Of course Menander’s comedy is post-Aristotelian, so Aristotle’s cannot have him in mind in his characterization of comic error. However, Menandrian comedies were preceded, and perhaps strongly influenced, by the works of Middle Comedy: poets such as Alexis, Amphis, Anaxandrides, and Theophilus, belonging to this tradition and active during 404–323 bc, pioneered a new type of plot that was elaborated later in the form of New Comedy.34 Due to the fragmentary evidence of Middle Comedy, it is difficult to establish whether these kinds of plots had the same focus on character and ethics as those of Menander.35 However, as it appears from the extant texts, their plots probably had a very similar structure and content of dialogues and monologues. They seemed to be interested in the same set of characters (i.e. parasites, young men in love, soldiers, witty hetairai), who perhaps made similar kinds of ethical mistakes.36 The evidence is fragmentary but it

170  Valeria Cinaglia seems to indicate that also Middle Comedy had interest in describing the consequences of people’s ethical failings and, in particular, the influence of badly managed desires and emotional reactions on people’s state of mind and knowledge.37 Thus, this material – charactrerized by the decrease of political commentary, personal invective, and the emergence of character types taken from everyday life38 – most probably inspired Menander39 and could have been what Aristotle may have been familiar with.40 My interpretation of comic error is less suitable to explain Old Comedy’s – or, more specifically, Aristophanic – characters.41 I believe that this point should not compromise my reading. First, I do not intend to exclude Old Comedy from the definition of comic error in Poetics 5. Without excluding other possible meanings of comic error that may be closer to the format of Old Comedy, my aims are: 1 2

to specify further possible nuances of the idea of comic error – other than its broad identification with physical imperfection, ugly masks, and silly jokes; to look at the definition of comic hamartēma including in the picture a less obvious and vastly fragmentary format of comedy, that is Middle and New Comedy.

Second, despite the fact that numerous extant plays of Aristophanes represent for us, to a large extent, what we know about Old Attic Comedy, its main features may not have been shared by the whole genre and, therefore, also in the context of Old Comedy, there may have been plots and characters that could be suitable examples for my reading.42 As Aristotle notices further ahead in Chapter 5 of the Poetics, Crates (active around 450s and 440s) was one of the Old Comedy poets writing comedies with a more general (katholou) and less socially and politically focused plot (1449b8–9). In his turn, Crates, according to Aristotle, was influenced by an already existing tradition that started in Sicily with Epicharmus (probably active between 480s and 470s), who was particularly interested in developing stories around everyday characters.43 Accordingly, it is plausible to argue that, in the context of Old Comedy itself, there was a long-standing tradition built on themes and characters that we will find again later in the fourth century with Meander and that, like Menander’s characters, might have been suitable examples of my reading of comic hamartēma. My suggestion is to keep this tradition in the picture as a relevant source when we try to give an interpretation of Aristotle’s thoughts on comic error.

9.4 Comic hamartēma and akrasia Having examined this general premise about the comic material that can be addressed in support of my argument, I am now going to analyze the three points of comparison between comic error and akrasia, in the order in

Comic error and the lack of self-control  171 which I have listed them above. This part represents the main focus of my remaining argument. The most obvious feature which people who lack self-control (akratēis) seem to share with those who commit comic hamartēma is that they are both typical of people who are not characterized by kakia in the full sense. People such as the akratēs and comic characters are in the middle ground between complete wickedness and brutishness (kakia and thēriotēs) and, on the other hand, virtue and self-control (aretē and enkrateia) (EN. 7.1145a15–17; Poet. 5.1449a31–35). Generally speaking, people such as the person lacking self-control (akratēs) and comic characters share faults that remain within certain boundaries of badness: both of them are certainly not identified as fully virtuous persons or as people with self-control. The akratēs shows that he has not been able to develop a consistently virtuous disposition as, for instance, someone who has the virtue of temperance (sōphrosunē). That is, the akratēs has not been able to educate his character and cultivate his emotional responses and desires so to naturally respond to circumstances in a way that is adequate and ethically appropriate (EN. 3.1119a11–15). Moreover, the akratēs does not appear either to have adequate self-control (enkratēs) in regard to his emotions (7.1145b8–14). That is to say, he is not comparable to someone who, while feeling emotions and desires in a way that is not appropriate or virtuous, has learnt to manage and repress them according to circumstances. On the other hand, people who lack self-control cannot be identified as completely bad people either. The akratēs is affected by emotions that are natural: he is not blamed for having the emotions he has, but because he is excessively affected by them at a given moment.44 As in the case of someone who is sleeping, drunk, or mad, emotions drive the akratēs to a state in which, even while knowing what would be right to do, he fails to act appropriately at the relevant time (7.1147a10–24; 1151a20–6). In this respect, in fact, akrasia differs from akolasia: the akolastos deliberately chooses always to follow excessive desires, even if he is not affected by strong emotions. By contrast, akrasia is typical of someone who potentially knows what is right to do but, at a given moment, and not unconditionally or always, fails to act on this knowledge (7.1148a16–20). Similarly, in Poetics 5, comic characters are represented as phauloteroi but only to a certain extent. Comic characters seem to be equally far from being virtuous or from showing complete lack of restraint and self-control. They are, as Aristotle points out, inferior people; their hamartēma is defined as aischos, that is opposed to what is kalos: what they show on stage is a sort of ugliness “incompatible with conventional aretē.”45 Comic characters are presented in a way that clearly attracts audience criticism and laughter: by contrast to tragic characters, who are not inferior to us and invite us to share the progress of their reasoning and to emphasize their suffering, comic characters are presented as clearly wrong when they make decisions and are easy targets of derision.46 In fact, as in cases of akrasia, the emotional

172  Valeria Cinaglia reactions of comic characters are often inappropriate to the situation and expose them to ridicule: typically, the comic agents’ lack of control clouds their better judgment and brings about the sort of misapprehensions at the basis of most of the comic plots mentioned above. However, as Aristotle says, these mistakes do not present a sort of vice that irremediably compromises the characters’ actions and thoughts. Comic characters only have that share of badness that triggers amusing situations and produces the sort of misunderstandings that plausibly evolve into a happy resolution, once the characters come back to their senses. The comic character, as the example of the comic mask suggests, should not be completely distorted.47 Accordingly, Aristotle specifies that comic mistakes should not bring destruction and pain and that they should be likely to lead the action to a happy ending. To follow up on this observation, there is a second aspect that suggests a possible comparison between the comic error mentioned in Poetics 5 and akrasia. I have suggested that the kind of error made by the akratēs is likely to be resolved by a happy ending; it is, in fact, more likely that a character of this kind finally understands what he did wrong because he potentially knows what it is right to do and he can, in principle, make amend for his ethical “ugliness,” setting things right with the other characters. Thus, likelihood is another important factor to take into account. In his discussion of tragic plots and characters, Aristotle specifies that the presentation of tragic figures should meet certain criteria.48 The plot, according to Aristotle, has to possess a coherent internal logic so that the action is rationally intelligible by an audience in the picture it offers of human actions and interactions. This derives from the fact that tragedy should represent people that act and think as human beings, given the specific nature of their status and character, would probably act and think. Drama should represent an intelligible motivational chain that links events to actions and to other events that develop according to necessity. Once the events have been created, someone with a specific type of character will probably respond in a certain way because his character will necessarily lead that person to take one decision rather than another.49 It is indeed necessary to aim always at the necessary and the plausible in the characters just as in the structure of the events. So that [it is] either necessary or plausible that a person of such and such a sort says and does things of the same sort and that [it is] either necessary or plausible that this thing happens after that one. (17.1454a33–6) It is reasonable to argue that Aristotle would have applied the same criterion to comedy. If this inference is plausible, it should then follow that to write a good comedy the comic playwright should construct his characters in such a way as that it is likely that such and such a character will do such and such things so as to allow the plot to evolve logically and to end in a way which is

Comic error and the lack of self-control  173 pleasant for the audience (1453a33–6). A perfectly virtuous character would indeed be likely to bring the plot to a happy ending, but that would be in contradiction with Aristotle’s definition of comedy as imitation of inferior people. Hence, we should expect to find in comedies examples of inferior characters that are likely to lead the plot to a happy ending and, at the same time, are capable of arousing laughter. The akratēs seems again to be an example that fits our case. A mistake due to akrasia is a momentary failing, a state like sleep and drunkenness (EN 7.1147a10–18), which can allow the subject to later understand his mistake and can give him the chance to make amends for his behavior. A complete redemption to virtue is indeed unlikely in the case of the akratēs, and this would require time and habituation (7.1147a17–22); however, this state of character, still with its evident flaws, is likely to lead to an improved disposition. Thus, on the one hand, the akratēs shows a weak ethical disposition and is prone to be driven by his emotions; on the other hand, this ethical state leaves some scope for redemption: the akratēs could, in principle, rectify his ethical imperfections as he knows potentially what is right to do and he understands why he has made a mistake. Even if the akratēs cannot completely rectify his character, the fact that he knows what would be right to do, makes possible his resolution to do better the next time, and allows him to solve, at least momentarily, the conflicts that his error has caused. These ideas are explained more clearly in Nicomachean Ethics 7.8 where Aristotle distinguishes two forms of akrasia: the impetuous and the weak. The impetuous akratēs is someone who displays a precipitous reaction when stimulated by a certain emotion: without considering things thoroughly he follows what his phantasia suggests and goes straight into action. In the case of the weak form of akrasia, the agent takes time to reflect on the best course of actions but fails to stand by his reasoning, being instead driven by his desires. In this context, Aristotle further explains that once one is acquainted with certain emotional solicitations, one is less sensitive to their urges. Thus, it should be possible for the akratēs to awaken his better judgment before he actually gets into the action, especially if he has already been through certain circumstances (7.1150b19–25). Accordingly, later on, Aristotle concludes that while the intemperate person (akolastos), whose judgment is completely flawed, is not keen to regret and has an incurable disposition, the akratēs is the sort of person that has regrets because he potentially knows what would have been right to do in a given situation, and thus, his disposition is, in principle, curable (7.1150b29–34). Accordingly, akrasia is the sort of ethical lapse that, even if it corresponds to an imperfect state of character, it is still not completely irremediable. The fact that the akratēs intuits the right principles of conduct leaves hopes of improvement. It is, thus, likely that Aristotle would have liked such people to be mainly displayed in comedy: the akratēs is someone who is prone to make mistakes driven by his emotions, and he is certainly relatively weak compared to how people should be. However, once such character recovers from his emotions and is able to appreciate what he has done, he is capable

174  Valeria Cinaglia of understanding what he did wrong and what, in principle, he should avoid doing next time. Such character would then comply with the evolution of the plot into a happy ending while entertaining the audience with the observation of ethical flaws that can be, in principle, rectified. For instance, in Menander’s Samia, Demeas’ lack of self-control leads him to formulate false conjectures and build a misleading scenario, in which he struggles alone, deaf to any advice or attempt at explanation from the other characters. At the end of Samia, we know that although Demeas is now reconciled with the other characters and he has promised not to lose his temper again, it is still very much possible that he will make in the future similar mistakes. However, at the end of the comedy, because he has recognized his mistakes and he has understood what went wrong, he is determined to make amends for it, to become a better person, and to adjust as much as possible his short temper. This factor allows the plot to evolve in the expected happy ending and into a finale where spectators are able to perceive that there is scope for improvement into a better ethical disposition or into a possible reform of the character(s) who showed lack of ethical judgment. The final point of comparison between akrasia and comic hamartēma starts from a broader consideration about the intelligibility of comic mistakes. I suggest that the sort of hamartēma that Aristotle refers to in Poetics 5 is a mistake which is easily recognizable by the audience. That is, it is a defect that can be immediately identified as comic; it should not be something excessively serious or complex or else laughter would be prevented by the audience’s engagement in the complexity of the action. The Tractatus Coislinianus offers some possible lines of inquiry to develop this suggestion further. The author of the Tractatus presents us with a list of possible sources of laughter in comedies; in particular, two of them are relevant to my argument as they refer to two kinds of mistakes made by the characters on stage. In comedy, laughter is produced, among other cases: When someone who has the power (to choose) lets slip the most important thing and takes instead the most worthless. When the reasoning is disjointed and lacking any sequence. (fr. VI 8–9 Janko) The first statement relates to comic characters’ choices and the fact that often, due to an incorrect evaluation of the circumstances, they may fail to make the most suitable decision. The error of a comic character is often similar to our errors in real life.50 By contrast with the tragic character’s error, the error or ugliness of the comic character depends on natural human flaws and vices and the audience is able to appreciate how the character is reasoning while he is clearly making a mistake. The second statement that we find in the Tractatus Coislinianus is connected to the first, and it focuses particularly on the laughter generated by seeing a character engaging in inconsistent reasoning.51 Accordingly, it seems that one source of laughter, in comedy, is to see

Comic error and the lack of self-control  175 characters who misunderstand the situation: the happy ending arrives when they understand (or are told) what the truth is.52 In this respect, therefore, our laughter at them is motivated by the fact that we can clearly see from outside the stage what is wrong with their reasoning, from a detached perspective and well aware of the inevitable happy ending. We recognize their inconsistency, and we laugh at them because we are not on the stage with them. Furthermore, as spectators, we also anticipate the accidents that a certain mistake is going to trigger being well aware that the problem will be somehow resolved in the end. The example of the akratēs is again compatible with these observations: in comparing alternatives the akratēs potentially knows which is the right and which is the wrong resolution to take but his emotions overwhelm him (1147a24–34). Accordingly, someone looking from a detached perspective at what the akratēs is doing knows – as the one involved in the process of decision-making – what it is right to do and is therefore able to see how that person, driven by emotions, finally fails to do so. The emotions of the akratēs, as we have said, are in fact natural for a human being, and people can identify them and appreciate how they act on someone’s weak character. At the same time, we know that these sorts of errors identify a character that is not evil and that can reform by the end of the play, much like the case of Demeas discussed above. Accordingly, also in this respect akrasia and comic error appear to be similar: they seem to be ethical mistakes that can be easily interpreted by an outside observer as they are lapses which are shared for the most part. Their evolution and inner mechanism is therefore part of the life experience of those who observe these kinds of mistakes.53 So far I have argued that we can compare the comic mistake defined in Poetics 5 with the error typical of an akratēs. This kind of error seems to share common features with the comic hamartēma, and it seems to be suitable to the aims and objectives of the comic plot, as Aristotle conceived it. In particular, I have just suggested that the error typical of the akratēs and the comic hamartēma share the feature of being easily recognizable by an external observer who assesses and judges them. This last point may also help to define what the aesthetic aims of comic performances are according to Aristotle. Generally speaking, in Aristotle, mimetic arts come from a natural human inclination to imitation and from the natural pleasure derived from the use of these imitations (Poet. 4.1448b4–17). We enjoy seeing a correspondence between the real thing and the representation of it because looking at the representation we learn and infer “this is so and so.”54 The pleasure that the audience receives from attending a dramatic representation inheres precisely in the final understanding that this cognitive exercise produces.55 As Leo Golden states, Aristotle’s aesthetic theory explains our attraction to tragedy and comedy on the basis of a deeply felt impulse arising from our very nature as human beings to achieve intellectual insight through that process of learning and inference which represents the essential pleasure and purpose of all artistic mimesis.56

176  Valeria Cinaglia I suggest that, in the case of comedies focusing on ethics and character, the audience is also pleased by another kind of understanding: while observing the comic plot, people in the audience are led to follow the characters’ reasoning and they are given clear indications when characters go wrong. Audiences also understand the reason why a given character, being a certain kind of person, made that particular mistake. As suggested already, the response invited by fifth-century Attic tragedy is quite different. Typically, we follow the characters’ reasoning, sympathize with them; by the end of the tragedy, good people may suffer disaster. This is why the performance arouses emotions of pity and fear, in Aristotle’s terms (Poet. 6.1449b27). In some comedies instead, according to my interpretation of Poetics 5, the audience is invited to look at characters on stage as clearly mistaken and ethically weak: their negative example should then produce a better understanding of how to deal with situations and emotions that are shared by the audience in real-life experiences. This conception of the dramatic experience is, furthermore, supported by Aristotle’s ideas on the nature of social and political life, as expressed in the Politics. The activity of getting together and communicating about shared values and common experiences is naturally experienced by every human being and is an indispensable vehicle for improving each person’s understanding of these values and ideals (Pol. 1.1253a7–18).57 The polis should promote and support occasions in which the citizens get together and compare experiences and values. The tales that young children should hear are imitations of the occupations which they will pursue in future as good citizens (7.1336a30–4). The aim of the political community and the activity at the basis of its constitution is to learn (collectively) how to live well on the basis of shared reflection about the aims of human life and what it is to live a good life as human beings. Accordingly, to be part of a community means to be actively involved in a dialogue that shapes those universal principles that are fundamental for guiding our practical understanding and our choices. I suggest that the kind of comedy described in my reading of Poetics 5, and the human imperfections it shows, can contribute to the sort of dialogue and understanding that should be at the basis of every human community. The comparison drawn here between comic mistakes and the mistakes of people affected by akrasia allows us to conclude that Aristotle thought of comedy as a kind of performance which was, to an important extent, ethical: that is, concerned with ethical values, reflections, and discussion about right and wrong ethical behaviors. We can still think of comic hamartēma as a more generic physical ugliness, a silly joke, or a funny accident; nevertheless, by including akrasia in the picture, we are able, I argue, to give a more grounded definition of this concept. Furthermore, I have shown that this suggestion helps the interpretation of the texts of New and Middle Comedy, which are more explicitly ethical. These considerations do not intend to exclude from the Aristotelian definition of comedy and comic error the

Comic error and the lack of self-control  177 other formats of comedy less focused on character and ethics. It does, however, prompt us to consider other sources that can potentially hold a key function for the interpretation of Aristotle’s thoughts on comedy. Thus, my analysis has shown why it makes sense to identify comic errors also with a certain kind of ethical mistakes.

Notes 1 For a broader discussion of hamartia and its meaning (as intellectual mistake or moral flaw) see van Braam (1912), Hey (1928), Kommerell (1940), Harsh (1945), Pitcher (1945), Dawe (1968), Bremer (1969), Stinton (1975), Golden (1978, 3–12), Saïd (1978), Moles (1979), Sorabji (1980, 295–8), Halliwell (1986, 202–37), Sherman (1992). 2 See mainly Else (1957, 189), Lucas (1968, 88 and 300), Janko (1984, 208–10) and Halliwell (1986, 275). For extensive discussion on scholarly debate on the subject see below. 3 I take the kai here as introducing an explanation of hamartēma: Cf. Lucas (1968), ad loc. 4 Adapted translation by Janko (1987) for all the passages of Arist. Poet. 5 Compare my interpretation with G. Fendt for whom phaulos “which ordinarily might include the (morally) bad (kakia), or be included under it, and so contradict virtue (which would be a serious matter), is here being limited to the ridiculous – which could be neither vice or virtue” (Fendt 2007, 110). 6 Cf. Munteanu (2011, Chapter 4), for a discussion of the concept of aischos and its connection to the idea of “shame.” The Greek term is hard to translate since has both implications: i.e. ugliness and shamefulness. 7 I take “ugliness” both in a moral and aesthetic sense: cf. LSJ, sub voce; Lucas (1968, 87) and Bywater (1909, 142) commenting on 1449a33. 8 Cf. Lucas (1968, 87) with reference to kakian at 1449a33. 9 “The personages in comedy are worse than most men, but only in one particular respect, as presenting a certain harmless deformity or ugliness of character, which make them ridiculous only – not objects for blame or aversion. It is, in Aristotle’s view, the harmlessness of the evil in them that makes them fit objects for laughter” (Bywater 1909, ad loc). 10 Cf. Lucas (1968, ad loc): “it is not the sort of hamartēma in which a superior character would find himself involved.” 11 Cf. n. 3: as in the line above (hamartēma ti kai aischos) I take here kai diestrammenon to be explanatory of aischron ti. 12 Cf. (n. 7). According to Julius Pollux’ Onomasticon Middle and New Comedy masks have features (e.g. a particular skin-complexion, a specific arrangement of facial traits, etc.) that suggest a certain kind of character. The mask identifies certain character traits: for instance, the mask of the Wedge-bearded Old Men with receding hair, pointed beard, and raised eyebrows suggests a difficult character (Webster 1995, 13); the mask of the Flatterer and the Parasite with a “squat, slightly drawn face, receding hair in tight curls close to the skull, a broad and prominent broken nose, short upper lip, sharply raised braw, a frown, furrows on the forehead and large ears, signals a malicious character” (Webster 1995, 22). 13 Cf. Destrée (2009, 80): Die Art des Häßlichen, auf die sich Aristoteles in dem Maskbeispiel bezieht, is eindeutig eine köperliche Häßlichkeit […]. Dies deutet darauf hin, welche Art des Lächerlichen hier gemeint is: Sich über eine häßliches Gesicht lustig zu machen, erzeugt ein verächtiches Lachen.

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Comic error and the lack of self-control  181 and structure is comparable to the understanding of a logical or a quasi-logical argument; the audience’s sense of intelligible structure is a matching response to the causality within the plot” (Halliwell 1986, 100–1). See Heath (2013, 83–8) for a recent discussion on this topic. 49 For further discussion of this topic see Frede who interprets the kind of necessity of which Aristotle is talking about here as necessity in the sense that the character’s action springs necessarily from the kind of person (character) he is. For the critical spectator it is a pleasure to recognise how and why the decision the agents are making, or the sufferings they have to undergo, are necessary or plausible ones, so that in the end the tragedy appears as an organic whole. (Frede 1992, 214) 50 Cf. Frye (1957, 34): if superior neither to other men nor to his environment, the hero is one of us: we respond to a sense of his common humanity, and demand from the poet the same canons of probability that we find in our own experience. This gives us the hero of the low mimetic mode, of most comedy and of realistic fiction. 51 See Watson (2012, 214). 52 See Cave’s treatment of Donatus-Evanthius’s formulation of comic anagnorisis in De Comoedia 4.5: […] the [comic] ‘knot’ (nodus, from Greek desis) is constituted by ‘error’ and the denouement by a conversio rerum (equivalent to peripeteia) which is also a cognitio gestorum. The account is clearly analogous to Aristotle’s description of the complex plot in tragedy, except that the place of anagnorisis is taken by a wider term (cognitio) denoting the disclosure to all concerned of ‘what has been done’. This is no doubt because the plot of New Comedy is in virtually every case dependent on disguises, secrets, confusions, as well as false identities. (Cave 1988, 51) 53 “Rather than stress our sense of superiority to the object of our laughter, he [Aristotle] emphasizes our own consciousness of error, no our awareness of the faults of others” (Janko 2001, 59). Cf. Fendt (2007, 148): “the comic intensification of opposition between vices is pleasant to us and can only be pleasant to all because it makes that good we all naturally desire appear more clearly and obviously – many times precisely by not appearing.” 54 See Heath (2013, 66–72). 55 For a recent discussion, see Halliwell (2011, 235). 56 Golden (1992a, 106). 57 See Sorabji (1993, 79–96) on the possession of speech as a criterion to differentiate humans from animals.

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Part 3

Language and content Poetic puzzles in philosophical context

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10 Taxonomic flexibility Metaphor, genos, and eidos Thomas Cirillo

Aristotle regarded metaphor as an important poetic and rhetorical tool because it contributed to “excellence in diction” (lexeōs aretē), which consisted of clear speech and yet did not employ ordinary words, phrases, and generally “low” language: “excellence in diction is clarity and the avoidance of banality” (Poet. 22.1458a18). A similar description is provided in the Rhetoric: “metaphor especially has clarity, sweetness, and strangeness…” (3.2.1405a8–9). In the Poetics Aristotle describes metaphor as “the transference [or movement]1 of a strange2 word from a genos to an eidos, from an eidos to a genos, from an eidos to an eidos, or in accordance with analogy” (20.1457b6–9). Aristotle’s use of the terms genos and eidos is striking because it suggests that, although metaphors and other figures of speech are intended to amplify the creative and aesthetic appeal of a poem or speech, they were initially approached with a logical rigor similar to that exercised in the treatises of the Organon. Previous scholarship on metaphors and analogies in the Poetics has unfavorably compared the former to the latter by suggesting that metaphor is the little brother of analogy when it comes to verbal sophistication and rhetorical creativity.3 The alleged simplicity of taxonomic metaphors is, however, an apparition and the negative juxtaposition of them to analogies unwarranted. In the Poetics, Aristotle extended the limits of his classificatory system in order to make taxonomic metaphors suitable to the art of poetry. The taxonomic approach to the composition of metaphors provides these figures of speech with logical clarity that makes them intelligible at a cognitive level, yet Aristotle bends the rules of his classificatory hierarchy in order to enable the creation of vivid expressions that bring the action of poetry before the eyes of the audience. The first three types of metaphor identified by Aristotle are modeled on the genus-species system of taxonomic classification developed in the Categories. With this system Aristotle orders all types of information and data, from abstract kinds to metaphysical properties to plant and animal life to elements of political constitutions and types of governments. The basic taxonomic hierarchy is as follows: a genos includes within it multiple eidē, which include within themselves a greater multitude of individual

186  Thomas Cirillo substances (which Aristotle refers to as ousiai or atoma). Eidē within a single genos and individuals within a single eidos are distinguished from one another via the identification and description of “differences” (diaphora). A clear description of this hierarchy, with examples drawn from the natural world, is found early in the Categories: …[We take as examples of primary substances] the individual man or the individual horse. Secondary substances are spoken of, the species (eidē) in which the so-called primary substances exist, and of these species there are genera (genē). For instance, the particular man exists in the species ‘man’ and the genus of the species is ‘animal.’ These then are secondary substances, ‘man’ and ‘animal,’ [the species and the genus]. (2a13–19) Verbal predication is derived from this system because when one goes through the processes of naming and description, general classes and attributes can be “said of” specific and individual things.4 So, to use the examples just noted, because a particular man is found in the species “man,” and the species “man” is part of the genus “animal,” one can predicate “man” as a species of the individual man and the genus “animal” of both the species “man” and the individual man. In the Poetics, metaphor is essentially the movement of words from one taxonomic level or set to another. We will explore the intricacies of this movement below, but for the time being, we may say, for instance, that using the term “animal” to describe a member of the species “man” is an example of a taxonomic metaphor. To be precise, to use “animal” in place of “man” is to compose a genos-to-eidos metaphor because “animal,” the higher and more general term, is transferred to “man” at the species level. The movement that occurs in each of the four types of metaphors is different: we move up and down a vertical taxonomic hierarchy, as if on a ladder, when creating genos-to-eidos and eidos-to-genos metaphors; we move between coordinate taxonomic subsets in eidos-to-eidos metaphors; and in analogies, as I will argue below, we move among unrelated taxonomic categories. Each type of movement has a different poetic and cognitive purpose and outcome. The logical and taxonomic basis of Aristotle’s metaphors satisfies the requirement that these figures of speech contribute to the “clarity” demanded by “excellence in diction.” But in order to avoid banality and to communicate “sweetness” and “strangeness” to the reader or listener, Aristotle imparts a flexibility not found in the system described in the Categories to the classificatory and predicative framework on which metaphors are based.

10.1 Examples of metaphor Let us first consider Aristotle’s systematic presentation of the types of metaphor and proceed from those of the genos-to-eidos variety to analogies.5

Metaphor, genos, and eidos  187 i. Genos-to-eidos metaphor: Aristotle quotes from book 1 of the Odyssey: ‘Here stands my ship.’ For to be at anchor is a particular species of standing. (21.1457b10–11) In this example a more general term (“standing”) is employed in a specific context (“being at anchor”). An example of a genos-to-eidos metaphor is perhaps also found in the Rhetoric, though Aristotle does not describe it as such. He quotes from Euripides’ Telephus where the tragedian uses the expression “ruling the oar”: “[The expression] ruling the oar […] is inappropriate, because to rule is greater than the worth [of the subject/of the activity]” (3.2.1405a28–9). “Ruling” is not, to Aristotle, a suitable way to describe someone rowing. “Ruling” might be viewed as a genos to which the eidos “guiding” or the sub-eidos “rowing” belong. In Aristotle’s opinion, however, Euripides has transferred a general term that is “greater” (meizōn) in a taxonomical sense (in that it is too broad or too high in the hierarchy) to the specific context of rowing and guiding an oar. ii. Eidos-to-genos metaphor: Aristotle again draws from epic poetry, ­the second book of the Iliad: ‘Indeed Odysseus did 10,000 noble things.’ For 10,000 (to murion), which is here used instead of “many” (to polu), is a particular species of many. (21.1457b11–13) In this example a specific number signifies the generally large number of noble deeds performed by Odysseus.6 iii. Eidos-to-eidos metaphor: Aristotle quotes Empedocles, whom he regarded as a master of metaphor7: ‘Having drawn off life with bronze’ and ‘cutting with slender-edged bronze.’ For here he [Empedocles] said ‘to draw off’ (arusai) for ‘to cut’ (tamein) and ‘to cut’ for ‘to draw off.’ For both are a particular kind (ti) of removing. (21.1457b13–16)8 The first metaphorical phrase, “to draw off life with bronze,” refers to the sacrifice of an animal; the second phrase, “to cut with slender-edged bronze,” to filling a bronze vessel with liquid. In normal usage one would say “to cut the soul with bronze” in the context of sacrifice and “to draw off with bronze” in reference to removing liquid with a bronze cup.9 In eidos-to-eidos metaphors there is movement not only among taxonomic levels (from a genos downward to an eidos) but also lateral movement between different classes located at the same level of the

188  Thomas Cirillo hierarchy. This results in a substitution of two species terms for one another. In eidos-to-eidos metaphors, one first identifies a term, in this case “removing,” as a superordinate genos.10 One then moves down to the eidos level of the hierarchy where two particular eidē of “removing” are found, “drawing off” and “cutting.”11 Both species of “removing” occur in particular contexts that reflect normal, non-poetic usage. When the eidos level terms are substituted for one another, metaphors result. The verb aruō is transferred to a context where the term “cutting” (temnō) is more appropriate, and likewise, temnō to a context where “drawing off” represents standard usage. If in the second phrase we had an object such as water or wine, to match psuchēn, soul, the metaphors would fully reciprocate one another.12 The necessity of identifying a superordinate genos in order to compose eidos-to-eidos metaphors is highlighted in the Rhetoric. In this text Aristotle draws upon technical taxonomic language to describe the composition of a metaphor: “It is necessary,” Aristotle writes, “to metaphorize not from afar [that is, with distantly related terms] but from things that are related in genus and similar in species” (3.1405a33–5).13 The taxonomic pedigree of the word suggenēs is demonstrated by a passage from The Parts of Animals that describes the general method of categorization rather than animal classification specifically. As an addendum to his discussion of why certain organs are located in the right or left sides of the body (watery and colder organs on the left, hotter ones on the right), Aristotle writes that each of the opposites is divided (diēirētai) into a ‘related-in-genos’ column (suggenē sustoichian), for example, right is opposite to left and hot to cold. And these (the dual series of ‘hot-right’ and ‘cold-left’) are coordinated (sustoicha) with each other in the way just mentioned. (3.670b20–2) The word sustoichia was normally used of a columnar series of coordinated ideas or terms, and the adjective sustoichos is often translated as “coordinate” or “corresponding.”14 The presentation of terms in ‘related-in-genos’ columns is likely the product of an ancient philosophical school (Pythagorean, perhaps) that sorted principles (archai) into a series of oppositions. Aristotle elaborates in the Metaphysics: others philosophers say that there are ten principles said to be arranged by columnar series, they are limit and infinite, odd and even, one and many, right and left, male and female, rest and motion, straight and curved, light and dark, good and evil, square and oblong. (5.986a22–6)15 In a poetic or rhetorical context we might envision these ten oppositions as presenting a bank from which one could select terms for metaphors.

Metaphor, genos, and eidos  189 The supposition of a genetic relationship among terms within each genus would allow one to compose a metaphor by substituting an A-list item for another item in that genus or to do likewise with terms found in the B-list. For example, we might think of the metaphors still used today that describe a “good” person as “straight” and an “evil” person as “crooked” (Aristotle’s “curved”). The terms “good” and “straight” are species members of the same genus and can thus be said to be both suggenes and homoeides.16 In the Rhetoric Aristotle demonstrates another way that metaphors can be composed by substituting taxonomically affiliated terms for one another. Metaphors can be used either to ornament or to denigrate a subject; to do so, a writer derives metaphors from terms that represent “the better” or “the worse” within a single genos by selecting contraries or opposites within a single genos: And if you want to ornament [a subject], make the metaphor from the better terms in the same genos, and if you want to denigrate [a subject], make it from the worse terms [in the same genos]. I mean, for example, since they are opposites in the same genos, saying that the begging man prays and the praying man begs, because both are ‘askings’. (3.2.1405a14–19)17 Aristotle begins with the genos “asking” (hē aitēsis) and identifies “praying” and “begging” as species within this genus, praying being the “better” term and “begging” the worse. The verbs are then substituted for one another in order to ornament the beggar by saying that he “prays” or to denigrate the prayer by saying that he “begs.” Aristotle also includes in the Rhetoric’s section on figures of a speech an example from Homer that again illustrates the importance of genosidentification in eidos-to-eidos metaphors: Metaphor best accomplishes this [learning]. For whenever he [Homer] calls ‘old age’ ‘stubble,’ he creates understanding and knowledge through the genos. For both [old age and stubble] are things that have lost their bloom. (3.9.1410b13–15)18 The Homeric metaphor is very similar to the Empedoclean one (“cutting” and “drawing off”) cited by Aristotle in the Poetics: a specific term is substituted for another that is a member of the same genus. Aristotle’s assertion that understanding and knowledge are created “through the genos” suggests that the metaphor achieves its desired artistic or cognitive effect when the audience perceives the genetic relationship of “stubble” to “old age” when hearing the former term though expecting the latter.19 iv. Analogies: Following his discussion of the three varieties of taxonomic metaphors, Aristotle moves to analogies: By analogy I mean whenever B is to A as D is to C. For instead of B the poet says D or instead of D the poet says B. And sometimes people add

190  Thomas Cirillo that to which the replaced term is relative. I mean, for example, the wine cup is in the same relation to (homoiōs echei pros) Dionysus as the shield to Ares. So now the poet can say that the cup is the shield of Dionysus and the shield the wine cup of Ares. (21.1457b16–22) B:A as D:C. so that D = B; Wine cup (B):Dionysus (A) as Shield (D):Ares (C). so that B = D of A, “the wine cup is the shield of Dionysus,” or D = B of C, “the shield is the wine cup of Ares.” Aristotle also cites as an example of analogy an Empedoclean phrase that posits a similarity between a man’s lifetime and the passage of a day, and thus between old age and evening, that is, the end of a lifetime and the end of a day, so that old age can be called “the evening of life”: “…old age is to life as evening is to a day. So a poet will call old age ‘the evening of the day’ or as Empedocles writes, ‘old age is the evening of life or the sunset of life’” (21.1457b22–5). The difference between analogical metaphors and those that are based on movement from genos-to-eidos, eidos-to-genos, and eidos-to-eidos resides in the emphasis placed on the recognition of a relationship similarity in analogies which is marked in Greek by the phrase homoiōs echei pros … (“is in the same relation to…”).20 In the Rhetoric, however, we find that analogies, like the three previously discussed kinds of metaphor, begin from an understanding of logical taxonomy. Aristotle writes that it is always necessary that an analogical metaphor makes two items of the same genos convertible to the other side (antapodidonai), so that if the wine cup is the shield of Dionysus, then the shield can fittingly be called the wine cup of Ares. (3.4.1407a15–18) The verb antapodidonai that Aristotle uses in the Rhetoric represents the same recognition of relationship similarity that homoiōs echei pros … identifies in the Poetics. Dionysus and Ares form one homogenous pair, both are species members of the genos “God.” Wine cup and shield form another pair, both are species members of the genos “Emblem.” Or, to consider the Empedoclean analogy: lifetime and day are both species of the genus “Period of time” and old age and evening are species of the genus “End.” The vital point is that two genera must be identified in order to compose analogies, and the final product is not a result of movement up, down, or within a taxonomic hierarchy from genos-to-eidos (or vice versa) or from eidos-to-eidos. In analogies there is no identification of a superordinate genos such as “standing,” “many,” or “removing” from which the “movement” (epiphora) that Aristotle associates with metaphor begins.21 Analogies instead rely on the recognition of a similar relationship among several

Metaphor, genos, and eidos  191 items in different taxonomic sets. This recognition leads the poet to be able to “convert” or “exchange” (antapodidonai) an item in one set for an item in the other. The result is a quasi-mathematical formula through which the analogy is created.22 The pairs “God” and “Emblem” and “Period of time” and “End” each comprise two distinct genera. There is no initial logical or demonstrable relationship between the items in each pair, and movement within a single taxonomic hierarchy cannot link items from, for example, the “God” genus with those in the “Emblem” genus.23 Analogies reduce this distance between logical genera.24 A perceived relationship between objects in separate genera is more important than the taxonomic positions of the objects in their discrete genos.25 Analogies incorporate species-genus relationships, but they are not primarily defined by a shift in taxonomical grade.26 Some have suggested that eidos-to-eidos metaphors occupy a position between genos-to-eidos/eidos-to-genos metaphors and analogies because eidos-to-eidos metaphors, like analogies, utilize a form of substitution or exchange.27 Eidos-to-eidos metaphors, however, require the identification of a single superordinate genos, under which both subordinate species fall. Conversely, analogies cannot be created within a taxonomic hierarchy consisting of a single genos and its subordinate species. The account of metaphor provided by George Lakoff and Mark Turner is helpful for understanding this difference. Lakoff and Turner situate their discussion of metaphor around the notion of source and target “domains.”28 In a metaphor in which one says “A is B” (e.g. “the wine cup [A] is the shield [B] of Dionysus”), B is the source domain and A the target domain. To compose a metaphor one maps his knowledge about source domain B onto target domain A.29 Our knowledge about the shield (B) includes its association with Ares, and the fact that the shield is the emblem of this particular god.30 We find a similar correspondence between A, the wine cup, and its particular god, Dionysus, and then compose the analogical metaphor. This is much the way that Aristotle uses the term in his biological works, which discuss analogy extensively. Analogical comparison of animals is indicative of a greater separation in class, in that animals differentiated in this way fall into different gene.31 Bird and fish (among other animals), for example, differ in their constituent parts “by analogy (kat’analogian), for instance bone corresponds to fish-spine, nail to hoof, hand to claw, scale to feather. For what is a feather for a bird, this is a scale for a fish” (HA.1.486b19–22). At the same time, however, analogy establishes a relationship between heterogeneous beings and their groups, thus providing “a way of going from one genos to another” and “permitting propositions of the type: ‘that which is (a) in genos A is (b) in genos B’.”32 Analogy implies a combination of sameness and difference. As Pierre Pellegrin explains, “in the case of wing/fin, for example, the otherness is immediately perceptible, for wings are not fins; their similarity flows from their both belonging to the genos ‘locomotive organ.’”33 To put these ideas in a poetic context one could say that Fin(B): Fish(A) as

192  Thomas Cirillo Wing(D): Bird(C), so that B = D of A, “the fin is the wing of a fish,” or D = B of C, “the wing is the fin of a bird.” Lakoff and Turner devote most of their attention to analogies, and they call the figures of speech we are treating as genos-to-eidos and eidos-to-eidos metaphors “metonymies.” For present purposes, the most significant difference between metonymy/taxonomic metaphor and analogy that Lakoff and Turner identify is that the former involves a single conceptual domain, whereas in an analogy there are two conceptual pairs of source and target domains, and items in each pair are understood in terms of one another.34 As Lakoff and Turner explain, in analogies a whole schematic structure is mapped onto another schematic structure.35 Analogies are not typified by a transfer of words but by a transaction of contexts.36

10.2 Taxonomy and metaphor Rather than partaking in an exchange of schematic structures, the metaphors of the Poetics that revolve around the replacement of general terms with specific ones and vice versa (genos-to-eidos and eidos-to-genos metaphors) mimic the process of predication described by Aristotle in the Categories. This is so because such metaphors are confined to a single taxonomic domain. Perhaps for this reason many scholars have unfavorably compared overtly taxonomic metaphors to analogies. W.B. Stanford claims that Aristotle believed that taxonomic metaphors were “obvious and not very important tricks of language” and thus “rightly dismiss[ed]” them.37 D.W. Lucas calls “analogy” the most important type of metaphor and mentions that Theophrastus confined his account of metaphor to analogy.38 Samuel Levin finds the substance of Aristotle’s theory of metaphor to reside primarily in analogy and suggests that Aristotle’s examples of the first three types have a “pedestrian quality.”39 Ancient writers on style and rhetoric, too, routinely devoted most of their analysis of poetic metaphors to analogy, often at the expense of any substantive comments on genos- and eidos-based figures of speech. For example, the author of “On Style” attributed to Demetrius writes that all metaphors should be constructed out of the recognition of sameness (ek homoiou) and appears to base his example on Aristotle’s “wine cup is to Dionysus as shield is to Ares” analogy. He writes that metaphors should not be far-fetched, …but [should come] from sameness, for example, the general, the helmsman, and the charioteer are similar to one another. All are commanders. So one can safely say that a general is the helmsman of the state and, likewise, that the helmsman is the commander of the ship. (De eloc.78) The author detects an analogical equivalence in which the relationship of a general to a city is the same as that of a helmsman to a ship.40

Metaphor, genos, and eidos  193 The alleged simplicity of taxonomic metaphors is, however, an apparition and the negative juxtaposition of them to analogies unwarranted. In the Poetics Aristotle extends the limits of classificatory predication in order to make taxonomic metaphors suitable to the art of poetry. Predication, in an Aristotelian sense, is best regarded as a sequential collation of descriptive terms applied to a single subject. In the Categories Aristotle explains the assembling of terms with a series of words all of which generally mean “to say of” or “to assert of” (katēgorein, legein, rhēthēnai): whenever one thing is predicated of another as of a subject, all of what is said of the predicate will be asserted of subject. For example, ‘man’ is predicated of the individual man, and ‘animal’ is predicated of ‘man.’ So ‘animal’ is also predicated of the individual man. An individual man is both a ‘man’ and an ‘animal’. (1b9–15) The individual man is the subject; ‘man’ as a species is the first predicate and ‘animal’ as a genus is an additional predicate. Because ‘man’ can be said of individual man, and ‘animal’ can be said of ‘man,’ ‘animal’ can also be said of the individual man. The subject and its predicates in this example were also found in Aristotle’s basic explanation of the genos-eidos hierarchy (see 2a13–19, quoted earlier). Aristotle describes the structure in which subjects and predicates are ordered as vertical or top-down: When genē are under one another nothing prevents the diaphorai from being the same. For the higher genē are predicated of those beneath them, so that the diaphorai of the predicate will be the same as those of the subject. (1b20–4) By describing these genē as “under one another,” Aristotle creates a hierarchy in which terms are higher or lower than others but confined to a single domain. A higher term can be predicated of a lower one, and likewise any diaphora or characteristic applicable to a higher term can be asserted of a lower term. For instance, if “having a soul” is a predicable attribute of the generic class ‘animal,’ it is also a predicable attribute of the specific subordinate class ‘man,’ as well as of every individual man. With Aristotle’s account of relative high and low positions in the hierarchy, we begin to see how predication bears upon the notion of movement (epiphora) in the metaphors of the Poetics.41 When one predicates a higher term or one of its associated qualities of a lower term, that term is moved or transferred within the domain headlined by the superordinate genos. Aristotle remarks that

194  Thomas Cirillo it is necessary that the name and the definition of the predicates be asserted of the subject. For instance, ‘man’ is predicated of an individual man as a subject, and indeed the name is asserted – for you will say ‘man’ of an individual man. And the definition of ‘man’ will be said of the individual man – for an individual man is a ‘man.’ Thus the name and the definition will be said of the subject. (2a19–27) To complete the taxonomic hierarchy Aristotle adds the genos ‘animal’: “… for example ‘animal’ is predicated of ‘man,’ and so too of individual man…” (2a36–8). The genos “animal” can be said of every individual member of the eidos “man.” Every attribute that is demonstrable in the genos “animal” will also be found in the eidos and the individuals comprising it.42 In all his descriptions of predication and in examples that utilize the genos “animal” and the eidos “man,” Aristotle moves from higher, wider, and more inclusive terms and classes to lower, narrower, and more exclusive ones. We might say that the term “animal” is transferred to the term “man” as a species and that both “animal” and “man” can be transferred to an individual man.43 Paul Ricoeur, in The Rule of Metaphor, argues against a connection between the composition of metaphors and the process of predication.44 He, like many others, considers only the possible relationship of analogical metaphors to predication. Ricoeur describes predication as “[a] concentric structure extending progressively further from a ‘substantial’ center.”45 We may envision this structure with the following diagram: HORSE (Individual) MAN (Species)

HORSE (Species) ANIMAL (Genus)

MAN (Individual)

This image, while it does not fit the structure of analogies, suits the single domain structure that comprises taxonomic metaphors. The genus resides at the center of this circle, and species, subspecies, and individuals are situated on the concentric rings, which correspond to lower rungs on the vertical taxonomic ladder which we discussed in the introduction of this chapter. A set of concentric circles or a vertical hierarchy does not offer opportunities for the composition of analogies because, although the things or terms which

Metaphor, genos, and eidos  195 occupy positions in this structure have ontological and taxonomic relationships to one another, the relationships themselves cannot be cross-referenced with other relationships in other circles or on other hierarchical ladders. In single domain structures, whether fashioned as concentric circles or descending vertical rungs, we have A is to B, but no corresponding (yet independent) D is to C, and the analogical ratio of B:A as D:C cannot be constructed. 10.1.1 Genos-to-eidos metaphors and “top-down” predication Genos-to-eidos metaphors, the first type of metaphor identified by Aristotle, emulate top-down predication. Because “to be moored” is a species of the genus “to stand,” we can predicate “to stand” of “to be moored.” Every general quality associated with “standing” can also be asserted of “being moored,” and every instance of “being moored” is also an instance of “standing.” In genos-to-eidos metaphors, epiphora is conducted in a downward direction akin both to predication and to the taxonomic identification of an object first by its genos, then by its eidos, and finally by its individual substance and essence (tantamount to the particular instance of “mooring” described by the poet). In the Categories Aristotle places limits on the movement allowed in predication. Species terms and associated attributes cannot be transferred from the “bottom-up”: “Thus indeed primary substances are to everything else as eidos is to genos. For eidos underlies genos. For the genē can be predicated of the eidē, but the eidē are not conversely predicable of the genē” (2b16–21). The relationship between genos and eidos and the acts of predication based on this relationship are always conceived of in a top-down manner. To reverse direction results in a logically and scientifically inaccurate statement. For instance, we can predicate “animal” of every member of the species “man,” but if we reverse this predication and assert “man” of every member of the genus “animal” we are incorrect. Every man is an animal, but not every animal is a man. 10.1.2 Eidos-to-genos metaphors and flexible predication Reversal of direction, however, is precisely what occurs in eidos-to-genos metaphors in the Poetics. In the quotation from the Iliad, “10,000” is predicated of “many” as if the specific qualities of “10,000” also apply to “many.” Logically, scientifically, and taxonomically this is untrue. In the context of the Categories, “10,000” could not be “said of” “many” (though “many” could be predicated of “10,000”). By permitting bottom-up predication and allowing the movement of words from a species context to a genus one, Aristotle endows metaphor with a degree of flexibility not found in the taxonomic hierarchies of the Categories. Although the Categories rules against the predication a specific term in a general context, the text does laud the greater descriptive power of the

196  Thomas Cirillo identification of a thing by its eidos rather than by its genos. In response to the question “What is it?” (ti esti;), Aristotle explains that “a more instructive and more specialized” answer is given by providing the eidos rather than the genos of a thing. For instance, the taxonomist more fully describes an individual man by referring to him as a “man” in the sense of a member of the species anthrōpos than he does if he describes him as an “animal,” a term that Aristotle labels “too common.” Likewise, calling an individual tree a dendron (“tree”) is more accurate and more instructive than calling it a phuton, a plant (2b9–14). In a poetic context this positive account of eidos-identification is part of the excellence in diction to which the poet aspires because it provides an accurate and nuanced account of the thing being described, whereas a word or term that it is “too common” might provoke a charge of banality against the poet. So while it may be logically and scientifically misleading to use the specific term “10,000” when referring to the “many” deeds performed by Odysseus, it does provide a more vivid and engaging description of Odysseus’ actions. 10.1.3 Analogy Although the language of taxonomy and predication is best represented in the genos-to-eidos and eidos-to-genos metaphors of the Poetics, poetic analogies, also, are not immune to the influence of the Categories. After the section of the Categories in which Aristotle describes the basic tenets of predication (we predicate “animal” of “man,” and both “animal” and “man” of individual man), he addresses genē that are different and, importantly, “not arranged under one another”: when genē are different and not arranged under one another, the diaphorai also differ in species, for example [the diaphorai] of ‘animal’ and of ‘knowledge.’ Diaphorai of ‘animal’ are footed, winged, aquatic, none of these is a diaphora of ‘knowledge’. (1b16–19) The impression left by this passage is that “animal” and “knowledge” belong to such disparate taxonomic sets that any link, by means of shared attributes (diaphorai) or otherwise, is absurd to Aristotle. There is nothing that one could say about “animal” that also pertains to “knowledge.” However, by pursuing a bioptic view of unrelated genera a poet can form analogies that target similarities between the relationships of various diaphorai to the genos term with which they are associated. A connection may be found among how particular attributes of the genera “animal” and “knowledge” relate to each genus rather than between “animal” and “knowledge” themselves. For instance, Aristotle writes elsewhere in the Categories that “knowledge” can be predicated of “grammar,” in such a way that “grammatical knowledge” can be viewed as a species of “knowledge” in general.46

Metaphor, genos, and eidos  197 “Grammatical” is an attribute or diaphora of “knowledge.” Similarly, “footed” and “winged” animals are eidē of the wider genos animal, and “footed” and “winged” are attributes of “animal.” A talented poet, seeing that the relationships between “grammatical” and “knowledge” and between “winged” and “animal” are the same, could craft an analogy such as “grammar is the wing(s) of knowledge.”

10.3 Conclusion Aristotle concludes his discussion of metaphor in the Poetics by writing that of all the types of verbal ornamentation, “metaphor is by far the greatest” (22.1459a5–6). Metaphor is an important skill for a poet because, more than just artistic embellishment, it is both a stylistic and cognitive feature of language.47 It requires acts of perception, mimetic expression, and recognition on the part of both the poet and the audience.48 Aristotle remarks further that the ability to create a metaphor is not a skill that can be learned from another, but is owed to inborn talent, and, finally, that “to compose metaphor well is to perceive sameness” (22.1459a6–8). Analogies, in particular, are the products of creative minds and are essentially the articulation of relationship similarities among disparate items. The poet, through his inborn artistic talent, recognizes that the wine cup stands in the same relation to Dionysus as the shield to Ares and then produces the analogy that calls the wine cup “the shield of Dionysus.” Analogies require a logical jump,49 a taxonomic jump in fact, from one self-contained taxonomic set to another as a poet perceives and then embellishes a merely adumbrated similarity among objects and their relationships to one another.50 The logical and taxonomic jumps that connect disparate classes and items are what make analogies thought provoking components of poetic language. Analogies, by most accounts, supply the cognitive punch that poetic devices and figures of speech are expected to deliver. They are what trigger contemplation and enable understanding on the part of the audience. Aristotle associates metaphors with bringing the action of a poem or dramatic production “before the eyes.” “Bringing before the eyes” is most strongly linked with metaphor in the Rhetoric: “For one word [in a metaphor] is more proper than another and more similar and more adapted to making the thing appear before the eyes” (3.2.1405b10–11; transl. adapted from Kennedy).51 In the Poetics, “bringing before the eyes” is linked with the successful structuring of plots aided by diction: “It is necessary to compose plots and to work them out with diction so that [the material] is very much set before the eyes” (17.1455a22–3).52 The visualization implied by this phrase emphasizes that rhetoricians and poets use metaphors and other figures of speech to signify and actualize actions immediately to their audiences.53 Signification and actualization are the outcomes of the cognitive stimulus that metaphor elicits. The example of analogy in the Poetics shows how this happens: when prompted to understand the shield in terms of a wine cup or vice versa, we

198  Thomas Cirillo must picture each item and cognitively map our conceptions of one onto the other. The mapping of conceptions and the understanding of item B in terms of item D are what produce vivid images. Can the same be said about basic taxonomic metaphors? At first sight, shifting rungs on a taxonomic ladder from genos-to-eidos does not appear to entail the same cognitive activity required to see the death of a man as the end of the day, nor does it seem to provoke the same insights into or questions about the nature of human life. Unlike analogies, genos- and eidos-based metaphors target objects whose relationships are already logically demonstrable and articulated through a taxonomic hierarchy. By adhering to a pre-set system, taxonomic metaphors are exceedingly clear. There is no confusion in the meaning of a genos-toeidos metaphor when Homer transferred a general term to a specific context and says “a ship stands” instead of “a ship is moored.” No confusion, but perhaps little creativity either. However, in eidos-to-genos and eidos-to-eidos metaphors, Aristotle maintains the taxonomic basis of metaphor but permits a greater degree of movement within the hierarchy than is found in the Categories. In logical taxonomy one cannot predicate in a bottom-up manner and transfer terms from the eidos level to the genos level, but in poetry one can use a specific term like “10,000” to replace a general term like “many.” The specific term allows us to better visualize the large number of deeds accomplished by Odysseus. In the case of eidos-to-eidos metaphors, the recognition that the term comprising the metaphor is replacing another term with which it shares a taxonomic genos is critical to the cognitive pleasure that one derives from the metaphor. This is the case in Aristotle’s quotation of Empedocles where different eidē of the genos “removing” were transferred from their normal contexts representing prosaic usage and substituted for one another. The logical schema of the Categories and the process of verbal predication provide to the taxonomic metaphors of the Poetics a demonstrable and logic-based clarity, yet Aristotle also endows the epiphora of words in metaphors with flexibility upward from eidos-to-genos and laterally from eidos-to-eidos within a genos that absolves such figures of speech from the charge of banality.

Notes 1 The word of epiphora has received some attention from scholars: Gordon (1990, 85) adds the meaning “supplement” to standard translations like “application,” “giving,” and “transference” because he understands metaphor as a process that adds something new to what is already complete. Kirby (1997, 532–3) explores the tautology of Aristotle’s definition of metaphora as epiphora and suggests, like Gordon, that epiphora may differ from metaphora only in that it implies the addition of something new to something that already has a name. In a note (532, n.51) Kirby comments on the possible use of the term “diaphor” to describe a metaphor that articulates a new meaning by emphasizing differences rather than similarities. 2 The use of allotrion is proleptic: the word is “strange” or “out of context” only after the transference has taken place. Gordon (1990, 85) translates the phrase as

Metaphor, genos, and eidos  199

3 4 5 6 7

8 9 10 11

12 13

“Metaphor is the introduction [epiphora] of a word which belongs to something else [onomatos allotriou].” Stanford (1936), Lucas (1968), Levin (1982). To be clear, the Categories concerns “substances” and “things,” predication involves the description and classification of such things (Ackrill 74–6, 1963 and Mann 2000, 10). The types of metaphors appear to be arranged in accordance with how striking the transference is (Janko 1987, 129). Bywater (1909, 283): “Aristotle’s assumption is that a generic may be supplanted by a specific term, when it comes to be applied to a special kind of object.” Lucas (1968, 204): “…a definite number in place of the more general ‘many’…” Bywater (1909, 283). Cf. “In On Poets [Aristotle] says that Empedocles is both Homeric and skilled in expression, since he is metaphorical and uses other successful poetic devices. He wrote, among other poems, a Xerxes’ Crossing and a Hymn to Apollo” (fr.70 Rose = D.L.7.2.57–58; see Janko 1987, 64 and 193). Halliwell (1987, 55 n. 1) considers these metaphors “two barely intelligible poetic quotations.” See Lucas (1968, 204–5) for the prima facie contexts of each verb. Lucas (1968, 204) comments that eidos-to-eidos metaphors are “the use of a term from a different class.” (Cf. Janko 1987, 129): “When the transference is from one species to another within the same genus, the process is still more striking.” Levin (1982, 33) suggests that eidos-to-eidos metaphors could also be examples of eidos-to-genos metaphors if one understands a term like “cutting” or “drawing off” taking the place of “removing,” however it is likely that Aristotle envisions the composition of eidos-to-eidos metaphors as developing out of the audience’s pre-existing knowledge of the prosaic usages of the species terms “cutting” and “drawing off.” Levin (1982, 30) comments on the asymmetricality of the examples. Janko (1987, 50), in his reconstruction of a section of Poetics II that deals with “the laughter of comedy arising from diction” (Tractatus Coislinianus, 5.1–2), uses similar taxonomic language: Again, from metaphor. By ‘metaphor’ I mean, as we said, the transference of names from things similar] either in sound or [in appearance or potential or some other perceptible quality, especially if ugly but not painful or destructive; one should not transfer a name from something to dissimilar, but use] something of the same genus [or similar by analogy, otherwise it will be a riddle not a metaphor.]

See also Janko (1984, 94) for a similar reconstruction and 183–6 for comments on “transference (metaphora)” in Aristotle and in the Tractatus. 14 Aristotle uses the word frequently in the logical texts to refer to, for example, the series of terms in a syllogism: That D is not able to be contained in the whole in which A is, or, in turn, A in that in which B is, is clear from series (sustoichia) that do not overlap one another. For if no term in the series ABC can be predicated of any term in the series DEF, and A is in the whole series H, it is clear that D will not be in H. For the columnar series do not overlap. (APo. 79b5–11; transl. adapted from Tredennick 1997) 15 Aristotle appears to refer to these columnar series in On Generation and Corruption: Nevertheless, in all things alike, generation is spoken of in reference to things in either column, for example, in substance if it should come to be fire but not

200  Thomas Cirillo if it could come to be earth, and in quality if it should come to be learned but not if it should come to be ignorant. (1.319a14–17) 16 Ricoeur (1979, 194) comments that “things that until that moment were ‘far apart’ suddenly appear as ‘closely related’ … [when] metaphors [are] derived from material that is ‘kindred (sungenōn) and ‘of like form’ (homoeidōn).” 17 Cf. “the third genos of quality is pathetic qualities and pathē: these are such things as sweetness, bitterness, sourness, and all the things suggenē with them, as well as heat and cold, and white and black” (Cat. 9a28–31). As in the Rhetoric, here opposites are conceived of as being in a single genos and thus are suggenes with one another. “Heat” and “cold” are species members of the genus “temperature” and “white” and “black” of “color.” 18 The reference is to Od. 4.213. 19 Elsewhere in the Rhetoric Aristotle comments on how the deception of expectations through metaphorical substitution can provoke learning: “many urbane sayings come about through metaphors and from an unexpected deception. For it becomes very clear that he [the listener] has learned something from the opposite occurring, and the soul seems to say ‘How true, I was mistaken” (3.11.1412a19–22). 20 Cf. Lucas (1968, 205): “this [analogy] depends on the resemblances of the relations between pairs of things.” 21 See Levin (1982, 35). 22 On mathematical aspects of metaphor, see Stanford (1936, 11). Levin (1982) interestingly casts the taxonomic metaphors into proportional form (e.g., ship:stand :: ship:ride at anchor) (26) but notes that these proportions “do not manifest analogical relations” (28), rather the proportions are said to be “degenerate.” 23 Levin (1982, 35) suggests that we must understand the shield and the cup in these examples precisely as the particular implement of the God and that otherwise the metaphor does not work and that knowledge of the relationship is empirical not semantic. 24 Ricoeur (1979, 349 n.27). 25 Levin (1982, 38). 26 See Levin (1982). Levin’s major point is that Aristotle’s theory of metaphor is consistent throughout, in that all four kinds of metaphor utilize genus-species relationships (see esp. p. 44). Levin (1982, 36–7) recognizes this in the case of the gods and their emblems and also comments “a day and life are species of temporal duration. Evening is a diminution (of life), old age an enfeebling (of health), and diminution and enfeebling are species of the genus weakening (of strength or vitality).” See also Levin (1982, 43) on the coordination of species in analogies. Cf. Bywater (1909, 285): “The idea [of this analogy] was doubtless suggested by the similarity of shape between a shield and the phialē which Dionysus sometimes had in his hand in ancient art.” 27 Levin (1982, 38). 28 Lakoff and Turner (1989, 59). 29 Lakoff and Turner (1989, 59): here the authors describe how source domains are not understood metaphorically, but conceptually and are usually grounded in the experiences of our everyday life. See also 64: “When a domain serves as a source domain for a metaphoric mapping, inference patterns in the source domain are mapped onto to the target domain.” See also Newman (2005, 183–8). 30 Conceptual mapping occurs in genos- and eidos-based metaphors as well; for instance, we map our conceptual knowledge of “standing” onto a target which is a ship at anchor, or we use “removing” as a primary source domain and either

Metaphor, genos, and eidos  201

31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42

“drawing off” or “cutting” as a secondary source domain and the other term as the target domain. Pellegrin (1987, 328–9) makes the valid point that two groups of animals must be taken as separate genē before certain of their parts can be considered analogous. Pellegrin (1986, 71–2), quotation from 71, see also 88–94; cf. Pellegrin (1987, 321–2). Pellegrin (1986, 127); see also Wilson (2000, 79–83). Lakoff and Turner (1989, 103); cf. Newman (2005, 193–4). Lakoff and Turner (1989, 103). Ricoeur (1979, 80). Stanford (1936, 10–11). Lucas (1968, 205). Levin (1982, 24). The case could also be made that this is an example of eidos-eidos epiphora in which archōn represents the superordinate genos and general, helmsman, and charioteer are all subordinate eidē of “commander.” Janko (1987, 129) describes metaphorical transferences as occurring in “directions.” Lakoff and Turner (1989, 80–1) connect metaphor to biological taxonomy in this respect: In a biological taxonomy, each species must have all the characteristics of the genus. Because a genus is defined by a small number of properties at a very high level, it leaves unspecified a great many properties that define a species.

43 The verb epipherō was used by Plato to articulate the processes of naming and assigning attributes to substantives: “We apply to them all [motions suitable to a particular kind of music] not the name of courage but of decorum” (Pol. 307b11–13); “For we are accustomed, I take it, to posit a single form in the case of multiplicities, to which we assign the same name” (Rep. 596a6–7); “We speak of man, as you know, giving him many attributes, assigning colors, shapes, sizes, vices, and virtues to him…” (Soph. 251a8–10). 44 Ricoeur (1979, 261): “This ordered process [predication] has nothing in common with metaphor, not even with analogical metaphor.” 45 Ricoeur (1979, 261). 46 “For instance, knowledge is in a soul as a subject, and can be asserted of grammar as a subject” (1b2–3). 47 Swiggers (1984, 40–5), Halliwell (1987, 162), Kirby (1997, 547), Newman (2005, 12–16). 48 Swiggers (1984, 44). 49 Wu (2001, 59–60). 50 Gordon (1990, 86) suggests that a metaphor “discovers identity where there is none, and thus paradoxically defies logic by logic itself.” 51 On the connection of metaphor, particularly analogy, with “bringing before the eyes,” see further Rhet. 3. 10–11 (1410b33–1411b27). 52 See Munteanu (2012, 88). 53 See Newman (2005, 110) and Munteanu (2012, 87).

11 Poetry and historia Silvia Carli

This chapter provides an account of Aristotle’s conception of historia in his overall philosophy and, on this basis, interprets his remarks on history in the Poetics.1 Section 1 opens with an explanation of historia as the predemonstrative stage of inquiry in every field of study. It includes an overview of the various kinds of data that Aristotle admits in his investigations, as well as an explanation of his rationale for his rich conception of “the facts” (to hoti). In addition, it shows that Aristotle’s methodology is equally varied with respect to the principles of organization used to sort the data. Section 2 offers an overview of the concrete historiai produced by the philosopher and his school. In addition to works devoted exclusively to preparing the material for the search for causes, such as the Historia Animalium and the Constitution of Athens, this paper analyzes the internal historia contained in two etiological treatises, namely the Metaphysics and the Poetics. Section 3 is devoted specifically to Aristotle’s conception of the historia of human affairs. Besides analyzing the Rhetoric and Politics, the article shows how oratory, on the one hand, and philosophy, on the other, use the same historical data to realize the specific goals of their disciplines. Finally, Section 4 shows that the Poetics corroborates the findings about Aristotle’s notion of the history of the human world outlined in the previous parts of the chapter. Aristotle assigns different functions to poetry and history. The job of the former is to construct chains of causally connected events2, that of the latter to provide faithful accounts of actual pragmata. Because of his notion of the multifarious character of historia as pre-demonstrative inquiry, Aristotle thinks that historiography can organize historical material in a variety of ways, including simple temporal contiguity. Thus, as many interpreters claim,3 history can legitimately be for Aristotle a chronicle of events related solely by temporal succession or simultaneity. At the same time, however, he makes room for works that bring to light patterns of causally connected events – such as Thucydides’ History of the Peloponnesian War – as well as histories that fall in between these two extremes. Even histories that bring to light causal patterns of events do not, as a rule, depict pragmata that are as orderly as those imitated in dramas and epic poems because they aim at factual truth. Yet, to the extent that they

Poetry and historia  203 portray causally related events, they partake of the philosophical character of poetry. In this respect, and for this reason, Aristotle thinks that poiētikē and historia are far more similar than scholars typically acknowledge.

11.1 Historia in Aristotle’s inquiries The goal of philosophical inquiry, according to Aristotle, is to discover the causes (aitiai) and principles (archai) of the objects it studies: We suppose ourselves to possess unqualified knowledge of a thing, as opposed to knowing it in the accidental way in which the sophists know, when we think that we know the cause on which the fact (to pragma) depends, as the cause of that fact and no other, and, further, that the fact could not be other than it is. (APo.1.71b9–12)4 The causes, which are first by nature, are, however, discovered at the end of the process of investigation. Thus, they are not first relative to us and our endeavor to know them. This is the case not only because, due to our sensible nature, we apprehend sensible qualities before intelligible forms, but also because – as the passage indicates – the formulation of explanatory hypotheses depends on the previous identification of “the facts” that are in need of explanation. Indeed, the inquiry into the facts is a logically distinct phase of scientific research: The objects of inquiry are equal in number to those we understand. We inquire into four things--the fact (to hoti), the reason why (to dioti), whether something exists (ei esti), and what it is (ti estin). (APo. 2.89b23–4) Aristotle’s treatises suggest that by historia he means precisely the stage of scientific inquiry concerned with “the that” (to hoti).5 It is devoted to collecting data and organizing them with a view to the discovery of scientifically significant hypotheses.6 Let us start with some general observations about this stage of science, keeping in mind that its specific form admits of variation in different fields, since a method of inquiry, for Aristotle, ought to grow out of the specific subject matter that one is trying to understand (EN 1.1094b11–14; 2.1104a1–9). Determining the relevant facts of a given science is a genuine problem because they are always mixed with accidental properties, which do not admit of scientific explanation (e.g., Met. 6.2). Many, if not most, of our observations are about this kind of properties. Ordinarily, for instance, we focus on a person’s accent, clothing style, or eye-color; these attributes, however, are irrelevant to the determination of what a human being is. If, therefore, researchers included accidental attributes among the

204  Silvia Carli facts to be explained, their investigation would ultimately hit a dead end. For this reason, following the preliminary – and necessarily tentative and imprecise – determination of a particular subject matter, the scientist’s first task is to circumscribe the properties and activities that a (given kind of) thing appears7 to exhibit “always or for the most part”8 and for which, therefore, causes, aitiai, can be found. These are the attributes that the object possesses by virtue of being itself, either because they belong to its essential nature or because they follow necessarily from it.9 Aristotle focuses on this aspect of historia in the following passage from the Prior Analytics: In each science the principles that are peculiar to it are the most numerous. Consequently, it is the business of experience to provide the principles that belong to each subject. I mean, for example, that astronomical experience supplies the principles of astronomical science; for once the phenomena (phainomena) were adequately apprehended, the demonstrations of astronomy were discovered. Similarly with any art or science. Thus, if the [per se] attributes of the thing are apprehended, our business will then be to exhibit readily the demonstration. For if none of the true attributes of things had been omitted in the historia, we should be able to discover the proof and demonstrate everything that admitted of proof, and to make that clear, whose nature does not admit of proof. (APr. 1.46a17–26) The data of science, to which elsewhere the philosopher refers as “the that” (to hoti)10 and facts (pragmata),11 are here called phenomena (phainomena).12 This last term comes closest to capturing his broad and rich conception of the evidentiary basis of science, the understanding of which is indispensable to make sense of his way of doing science. First, Aristotle’s data include empirical observations directly gathered by the inquirers. The Historia Animalium, for instance, contains accurate and detailed observations on the anatomy of a number of marine invertebrates, which are the result of first-hand experience with dissection (HA 4–5). He was also the first to perform the now-classic experiment of starting the incubation of more than 20 chick eggs simultaneously, and to subsequently open them in succession – one every day – to detect the order in which the organs of the growing embryo develop. The results of these targeted observations are also incorporated in the History of Animals in the context of a systematic collection of facts concerning animal generation (see HA 5.561a4ff). Besides direct observation, Aristotle relies on reports made by others, especially concerning places, as well as times, not accessible to him or his fellow-researchers. To continue with the example of zoology, he explicitly refers to Herodotus’ Historiae both in his History of Animals and Generation of Animals.13 In both treatises, he uses the work of the “Father of

Poetry and historia  205 History” precisely as historia understood as the pre-demonstrative stage of inquiry aimed at gathering relevant facts. Specifically, after having recorded and considered Herodotus’ observations about the color of the sperm of Ethiopians (HA 3.523a17; GA 2.736a10) and the behavior of certain species of fish (GA 3.756b6) and lions (HA 6.579b2) in relation to generation, he rejects them because they run counter to his own independently established and extensive tentative correlations.14 Similarly, he writes that the political philosopher studies books of travel and “historiai of those who write about human actions” as the basis of his inquiry into the principles of political institutions (Rhet. 1.1360a37).15 Maps are also included among the data. In the Meteorology, for instance, Aristotle notes that the greatest rivers appear to flow from the greatest mountains. This is clear to those who study the maps of the earth (tas tēs gēs periodous); for these are recorded according to their respective discoverers, in those cases where the authors were not eyewitnesses. (Mete. 1.350a14–18)16 In sum, for Aristotle first-person reports do not seem to have a privileged status; as long as the source is trustworthy, observations provided by others are equally relevant in his research. Aristotle’s “data,” in fact, go well beyond empirical reports gathered from reliable persons. They also include endoxa, which he defines as opinions “which are accepted by everyone or by the majority or by the wise, i.e., by all, or by the majority, or by the most notable and reputable of them” (Top. 1.100b21–2). The opinions of “the many” belong to the facts that science must explain because Aristotle believes that men are naturally equipped to grasp the truth.17 He writes that, on the one hand, the investigation of the truth is very difficult18; nonetheless, the “truth [also] seems to be like the proverbial door, which no one can fail to hit” (Met. 2.993b4). Accordingly, he assumes that if a view on a given subject matter is widely held, it captures at least something true about its objects, and for this reason must be included among the facts that call for an explanation. The reputable opinions of the wise are typically theories elaborated by previous philosophers and natural scientists. They should be collected and taken into account for a number of reasons. First, someone who has devoted time and energy to understanding the nature of a given phenomenon is likely to make aspects of it conspicuous that may escape other researchers, and thus, she may broaden the field of relevant data. Second, the analysis of previous theories enables the researcher to collect the explanatory principles discovered up to that point. They can be precious in the subsequent demonstrative stage of inquiry either as promising models of explanation or as problematic accounts which, for that very reason, may suggest more fruitful lines of inquiry. Third, the study of previous theories makes us aware of the

206  Silvia Carli problems that characterize a given field of study. Familiarity with aporiai is a precondition of the demonstrative stage of science: For those who wish to get clear of the difficulties it is useful to grasp the difficulties well; for the subsequent solution is a release from the previous difficulties, and it is not possible to untie a knot of which one does not know. (Met. 3.995a26–30)19 Indeed “those who inquire without first considering the difficulties are like people who do not know where they have to go” (Met. 3.995a34–6). Aporiai must therefore be part of the facts because they prepare for, and assist in, the formulation of explanatory hypotheses that take into account the multifarious nature of the phenomena by alerting one to the complexities of the issues involved.20 All of the philosopher’s investigations include the discussion of problems arising from the evidentiary basis of science, the most extensive of which is the third book of the Metaphysics. In addition, the extant treatises contain references to a work on problems, which presumably put together puzzles concerning all fields of inquiry to be subsequently used as heuristic tools in the investigation of “the why.”21 Although this original collection is lost, the pseudo-Aristotelian Problems – which contains more than 900 problems on a wide range of topics written in the format of questions and answers – probably mirrors Aristotle’s own work. The first goal of the pre-demonstrative stage of scientific inquiry is, thus, to collect a wide range of phenomena, a task that requires the collaboration of a team of researchers working together and coordinating their efforts.22 Gathering data, however, is not sufficient to discriminate between potentially relevant facts and accidental properties, and thus to prepare the ground for the discovery of proofs. In order to serve as the basis for the formulation of hypotheses, the pragmata must first be carefully studied and organized. Aristotle’s methodological works indicate that, wherever possible, the inquirer should order the material on the basis of coextensive correlations identified between the attributes of the objects under consideration. Specifically, besides finding attributes that appear to be common to a number of (assumed and preliminary) kinds, the researcher should organize the data according to the method of division, whose goal is to discover multiple differentiae and to establish correlations among them (see APo. 2.13–18). As we shall see in the next section, the Historia Animalium provides the most extensive and impressive arrangement of facts concerning various aspects of the life of animals based on the method of multiple divisions. Other works, such as the Constitution of Athens, show that the principle of organization of the material can be chronological. Data so organized make it possible to identify recurrent patterns of events, whose regularity can be taken as an indication of the existence of similar causal factors at work in the world of human affairs.

Poetry and historia  207 Finally, a number of texts in the Aristotelian corpus, as well as titles of lost works, indicate that the material can also be organized by similarity of content.23 The lost Victories at the Dionysia, for instance, was presumably a list of winners of dramatic competitions and thus collected material relating to similar events. Metaphysics 5 (the so-called “philosophical lexicon”) records the way in which “the wise” understand and use key philosophical terms, which are arranged by topic. In the Topics, moreover, we read that “it is … necessary to select from written sources and to create lists for each kind under separate headings such as ‘Life’ or ‘Good’; ‘Good’ should deal with every form of good, beginning with what is” (Top.1.105b12–15; emphasis added). Eudemian Ethics (2.3) shows that such lists were created and used by Aristotle and his collaborators. It contains a diagram of virtues and of related vices that fail to hit the mean either by excess or deficiency, most of which are also discussed in the Nicomachean Ethics.24 This brief overview shows that Aristotle conceives historia as a broad field of research that includes multiple kinds of data collection and organization. Examples of the most basic form of organization are, for example, the list of winners at the Dionysia and chronicles of historical events. These collections do not (yet) bring to the fore patterns or correlations, but prepare the ground for their discovery in a subsequent stage of investigation.25 The Historia Animalium, on the other hand, is an example of historical research whose data are systematically ordered so as to exhibit multiple correlations. To get a better sense of the variety, as well as of common characteristics, of Aristotelian historia, let us turn to concrete examples of this kind of investigation.

11.2 Aristotle’s historiai Aristotle wrote a number of works entirely devoted to the theoretically motivated organization of the facts. Only one of them, however, survives in its complete form, namely the Historia Animalium (tōn peri ta zōa historiōn). In the first book, after a brief sketch of the structure of the treatise, the philosopher explains the purpose of the investigation and its intended contribution to the overall study of the animal kingdom: These things, then, have now been said by way of outline, so as to give a foretaste of what things need to be studied, and what about them needs to be studied (later we will discuss these matters with greater accuracy) in order that we may first grasp the existing differences and attributes belonging to all animals. After we do this, we must attempt to discover the causes. For to proceed in this way is the natural method, beginning with the investigation (historia) into each thing; for from these things it becomes clear about which things the demonstration should be and from which things [it should proceed]. (HA 6.491a7–14; emphasis added)

208  Silvia Carli One could hardly find a clearer statement of the nature and goal of historia: following the method that is in accordance with nature, the initial stage of scientific inquiry attempts to gather and organize the facts in a systematic way. The goal is to establish “about which things the demonstration should be” so as to make the subsequent discovery of causes possible. The field of zoology is particularly amenable to this kind of inquiry because the (relative) stability of animal species26 and the cyclical character of animal development enable researchers to repeat observations and experiments. The main criteria used to organize the material are spelled out at the opening of the work. They are the animals’ manner of living (bioi), their actions (praxeis), characters (ēthē), and constitutive parts (moria) (HA 1.1–5). The body of the Historia carries out the inquiry for each of the four headings and illustrates the ingenious and perceptive handling of the data that is required of it. It follows a method of division of animal differences based on multiple differentiae and is aimed at discovering the most general correlations among them.27 As one would expect of an inquiry concerned with the facts, it identifies and reports recurring associations between animal attributes that strongly suggest the existence of an underlying cause, but does not venture to make hypotheses about causal connections. For instance, Aristotle writes: All viviparous quadrupeds have an esophagus and a windpipe, situated just as in human beings; similarly for oviparous quadrupeds and birds, although they differ in the forms of these parts. Generally, all those which take up air, i.e., that breathe in and out, have a lung, a windpipe and an esophagus, and the position of the windpipe and the esophagus is similar, but the organs are not the same, as the lung is neither alike in all nor similar in position. (HA 2.505b32–506a7) The passage correlates three different “kinds” (viviparous quadrupeds, oviparous quadrupeds, and birds) on the basis of three of their parts, and establishes a further correlation between animals that breathe and the possession of these three organs. However, it says nothing of possible causal links, or relations of functional dependence, among these parts and their activities.28 Following the programmatic statement quoted above (HA 1.491a7–14), the research into the causes is carried out in the treatises that logically follow the Historia, namely Parts of Animals, Generation of Animals, Movement of Animals, and On Breath. Indeed, these works refer back to the Historia as their ground and starting point,29 and build upon the data of that preliminary investigation. Of other works in the Aristotelian corpus devoted exclusively to the study of the “the that,” only parts, fragments, or titles remain. The etiological treatises in the field of biology refer to a book of Dissections (or Anatomies) as

Poetry and historia  209 the starting point for the search for principles. In the Generation of Animals, for instance, we read: However, to ascertain the arrangement of the uterus of the Selachians and other kinds as well, the Dissections should be inspected and also the Historia (te tōn anatomōn tetheorekenai kai tōn historiōn). (GA 1.719a10)30 Parts of Animals states that “The details of the dispositions of the blood vessels are to be observed in the Dissections as well as in the History of Animals” (PA 3.668b28–30).31 In short, the evidence suggests that the preliminary investigation carried out in the Historia was complemented by further data derived specifically from dissections of animals. The basis of Aristotle’s inquiry in the Politics was (among other things) a systematic collection of laws and political constitutions (EN 10.1181b7) – 158 of them – of which only the Constitution of Athens is preserved.32 An anthology of manuals (technai) of rhetoric from Tisias onward with a commentary by Aristotle, almost entirely lost,33 formed the starting point of the philosopher’s Rhetoric. He and his collaborators, moreover, produced a number of works on poetry – of which only fragments remain – in preparation for the elaboration of the scientific treatment of poiētikē in the Poetics. They are as follows: Homeric Problems, Dramatic Records, Victories at the Dionysia, Victors at the Pythian Games,34 and Victors at Olympia.35 Finally, there are references to an original work of Problems, whose character and purpose have been outlined above. In addition, it can be argued that virtually all extant treatises that aim at the discovery of what is first in itself open with condensed historiai of the respective fields of inquiry, which allow the reader to understand the starting point of the investigation and to appreciate the theses defended by Aristotle as originating from, and responding to, phenomena, positions, and problems that shaped and defined the various disciplines in Aristotle’s time. Of particular notice are Aristotle’s reviews of reputable opinions on principles and causes in Metaphysics 1.3–7, on the soul in De Anima 1.2–5, on principles of generations in Physics 1.2–4, on the incorruptible nature of the heaven in De Caelo 1.1, on generation and corruption in De Generatione et Corruptione 1.1, and on the forms on political community in Politics 2.1. Let us consider the Metaphysics. It opens with a brief characterization of the nature and the objects of first philosophy. The initial definition of this branch of philosophia is “science of first principles and causes” (Met.1.982b9), four of which, Aristotle reminds us, he has already identified in the Physics. He proceeds, however, to investigate the matter further: We have studied these causes sufficiently in our work on nature; nevertheless let us call to our aid those who have tackled the investigation of Being and have philosophized about reality before us. For obviously

210  Silvia Carli they also speak of certain principles and causes; to go over their views, then, will benefit the present inquiry, for we shall either find another kind of cause, or be more convinced of the correctness of those we now maintain. (Met. 1.983a1–6) Accordingly, the majority of the first book is devoted to the analysis of the use of the notion of aitia in previous thinkers. This “searching review” of earlier doctrines is not, strictly speaking, a preliminary gathering of relevant phenomena; rather, it is more similar to a dialectical analysis of endoxa aimed at testing the correctness of Aristotle’s theory of causes. Nevertheless, since the philosopher leaves open the possibility of discovering new data, it can be qualified as a historia of the notions of cause and principle. Its outcome is the corroboration of Aristotle’s fourfold scheme of causes, as well as the identification of problems and deficiencies of theories that tried to explain the world without appealing to all of them. Next, the third book contains the aporiai. It lists the fundamental “knots” that give pause – or should give pause – to anyone who approaches the highest and most universal science. Its goal is to enable the student to grasp the terms of the difficulties – arising primarily from opposing views of different philosophers – and to appreciate the magnitude and significance of the problems that the study of Being involves.36 No solution is suggested, since the learner must first become familiar with the issues. In this way, she deepens her wonder and becomes passionate about pursuing the difficult investigation ahead. The book of definitions gathers the meanings and uses of philosophical terms specifically connected to first philosophy. They are organized by topic and, although the precise character of the organization is a matter of dispute, it is possible to group them on the basis of some fundamental themes. Chapters 1–5 concern terms related to the notions of cause and principle; Chapters 6–8 focus on terms connected to metaphysics as the science of Being qua Being (one, Being, substance, etc.); Chapter 9 and following are devoted to terms such as “identical, different, opposite,” which, according to book 4, are the proper domain of the most universal science. Finally, the rest of the Metaphysics, in which Aristotle offers his own accounts, proceeds dialectically and refers regularly to the views brought forward by his predecessors. Although it is not possible to identify in what is left of the Poetics an “internal historia” as clearly as in other works, the treatise reveals traces of the pre-demonstrative inquiries that preceded its composition. For instance, before offering his definition of poetry in terms of mimēsis, Aristotle considers – and rejects – the commonly held view according to which poetry is defined by the use of verses (Poet. 1.1447b13–20; 9.1451b1–5).37 His account of the teleological development of poetry, from the natural causes inherent in all human beings (4.1448b4–24) to its perfect manifestation in

Poetry and historia  211 tragedy (4.1449a14–15), shows how he uses the data collected in his “historical” works to formulate explanations about the relation between art and human nature.38 Finally, Poetics 25, devoted to “problems and solutions” (25.1460b6), shows the outcome of the philosopher’s habitual collection and analysis of difficulties related to a given field of inquiry. Relying, most likely, on the lost Homeric Problems, Aristotle selects difficulties that bear directly on, and challenge, his account of poetry – such as the occurrence of sequences of events that violate the law of probability or necessity39 – and offers solutions to them. The analysis of the historia of the world of human affairs deserves special attention for the purposes of this paper, and it is time to turn to it.

11.3 Aristotle on the historia of human affairs In Aristotelian fashion, let us start from the facts. That there can, and should, be a historia of “human things” (ta anthrōpeia) (EN 10.1181b15) is a basic assumption for the philosopher. He and his collaborators conducted extensive research to gather and organize the phenomena in preparation for the discovery of the causes of the political, and thus ethical, world. Aristotle himself refers to the above-mentioned collection of laws and constitutions as conducive to the discovery of the why: First, then, if anything has been said well in detail by earlier thinkers, let us try to review it; then, in light of the constitutions [we have] collected, let us study what sorts of influence preserve and destroy states, and what sorts preserve or destroy particular kinds of constitutions, and to what causes it is due that some are well and others ill administered. When these have been studied, we will perhaps be more likely to see, with a comprehensive view, which constitution is best and how each must be ordered, and what laws and customs it must use, if it is to be at its best. (EN 10.1181b16–23; emphasis added) As observed in the previous section, this was a massive work that gathered 158 constitutions. All of them are lost, with the exception of the Athenian Constitution, which follows the development of the city’s regimes and politeiai. The beginning of the text is missing, but Chapter 41 indicates that it dealt with the history of the time of Athenian monarchy.40 The second part offers a more detailed historia of the democratic constitutional order of Aristotle’s time. Particular attention is given to the transformation of the relation between social classes that attended, or preceded, the modifications of the constitutional order. Among the sources used by the author(s) of this work are Herodotus (Ath.Pol. 14) and Thucydides,41 histories of Attica as well as documents of a more political character produced primarily in the second half of the fifth century, and possibly Xenophon and Ephorus.42

212  Silvia Carli No less important is the fact that in the Rhetoric Aristotle writes that historical works produced by authors outside of his school are equally part of the material to be used in philosophical investigations: It is useful, in framing laws, not only to study the past history of one’s own country, in order to understand which constitution is desirable for it now, but also to have knowledge of the constitutions of other nations, and so to learn for what kinds of nations the various constitutions are suited. From this we can see that books of travels are useful aids to legislation, since from these we may learn the laws and customs of different races. The deliberative speaker will also find the historiai of those who write about human actions (hai tōn peri tas praxeis graphontōn historiai) useful. But all of this is the business of political science and not of rhetoric. (1.1360a31–6; emphasis added) The distinction between the deliberative speaker and the political philosopher is significant, and we will turn to it shortly. First, however, let us notice that, according to this passage, it is primarily the business of political science to examine and use the data provided by books of travel and historiai of human deeds. They provide information about the objects studied by political science – actions, laws, customs – and the political philosopher is the expert who is qualified to formulate explanatory hypotheses starting from them. We know that, in order to be of use to the search of “the why,” the evidence cannot simply be a random collection of data, although, as noted at the end of Section 2, the phenomena gathered in the pre-demonstrative phase of inquiry can display different levels of organization. The field of human affairs poses special challenges in data collection. The historical trajectory of human societies depends to a great extent on the specific and contingent characteristics of their respective cultures, and it does not exhibit the cyclical regularity of biological phenomena, or at least not to the same degree. In this respect, the evidentiary basis available to the political philosopher offers comparatively fewer opportunities to identify correlations and repetitions than the field of biology. Moreover, in the domain of human actions, the researcher is not in the position to “manipulate” the phenomena through experiments in order to test hypotheses about possible correlations. If meaningful correlations are to be found, they have to emerge from the order of the phenomena as manifest themselves to the observer.43 It is thus particularly important – for our understanding of Aristotle’s conception of human history and, correspondingly, of the works that he uses to learn it – to note that he recommends that the deliberative rhetor study the past of his own, as well as others’ countries. The goal of this kind of orator is to exhort or dissuade his audience – typically constituted by the members of the Assembly – to pursue a certain course of action on the basis of its expediency or harmfulness (Rhet. 1.1358b24–5). Why should he study history? Because, the philosopher writes, “for the most part future events

Poetry and historia  213 are similar to past ones” (Rhet. 2.1394a8; see also 1.1368a29–30). This is the case, in turn, because, as we know from his views on the source of regularities (see, e.g., Met. 6.2–3; 5.5; Phys. 2.6), “from similar causes similar results are naturally generated” (Rhet. 1.1360a4). The philosopher, thus, believes that the perceptive observer can detect recurrent patterns of causally connected events in the multifarious and unique settings that make up human history. He offers a particular example of such a pattern, framed in the language used by the rhetor to address the Assembly: It is necessary to make preparations against the Great King and not to allow him to subdue Egypt; for Darius did not cross over to Greece until he had obtained possession of Egypt; but as soon as he had done so, he did. Again, Xerxes did not attack [us] until he had obtained possession of that country, but when he had, he crossed over; consequently, if the present Great King were to conquer Egypt, he would cross over, and for this reason it must not be allowed. (Rhet. 2.1393a30–b2) The Politics offers another example of a pattern of development – concerning the division of the population into classes, as well as the establishment of common meals – that recurs in different political communities: It seems that it is not a new or recent discovery of political philosophers that the state ought to be divided into classes, and that the warriors should be separated from the farmers. The system has continued in Egypt and Crete to this day, and was established, as tradition has it, by a law of Sesostris in Egypt and of Minos in Crete. The institution of common tables also appears to be of ancient date, being as old as the reign of Minos in Crete, and far older in Italy. . . . They say that . . . Italus converted the Oenotrians from shepherds into farmers, and besides other laws that he gave them, was the founder of their common meals; even in our day some who descend from him retain the institution and certain other laws of his. (Pol. 7.1329a40–b18) The observation of regularities of this kind in human history leads the philosopher to make the following claim: We should take it that almost everything else has been discovered many times in the long course of time, or rather an infinite number of times. For it is likely that need teaches the things that are necessary, and once they are present, it is reasonable that the things that contribute to refinement and luxury should develop. And we should hold that in political institutions the same rule holds. (Pol. 7.1329b25–31)44

214  Silvia Carli This passage clarifies the relation between the historical and the demonstrative inquiry of the field of human praxis, as well as the difference between the way in which rhetoric, on the one hand, and philosophy, on the other, use the results of historical investigations. It may be thought that, since historia can identify causal connections and even recurrent causal patterns of human pragmata, it does not belong merely to the pre-demonstrative stage of science, but that it contributes also to the account of “the why.” From the point of view of philosophy, however, the discovery of causal relations of this kind is only the starting point for a further investigation into the nature of things. History detects connections between particular events, and the regularities that it brings to light always appear in and through unique and specific situations.45 As they stand, they can be used – without modifications – by deliberative rhetoric because the telos of this branch of oratory is to argue in favor of particular courses of action in the near future. In order to make a persuasive case for the adoption of a given plan of action, it may well be sufficient for the speaker to show that in the past, under similar circumstances, similar choices produced the kinds of results that the community hopes to attain at present. The philosopher, on the other hand, uses the particular connections discovered by the historian to develop hypotheses about general trends in human history and, on that basis, about human nature. The discovery of the telos of human physis, in turn, enables him to outline the characteristics of the ideal state, that is to say, of the community whose constitution allows its members to flourish as excellent human beings without qualification. In the above quoted passage, Aristotle outlines a trend in the development of the arts and sciences that appears also at the beginning of the Metaphysics: At first he who invented any art whatever that went beyond the common perception of man was naturally admired not only because there was something useful in the inventions, but also because he was thought to be wise and superior to the others. 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 regarded as wiser than the inventors of the former, because their branches of knowledge did not aim at utility. Thus when all such inventions were established, the sciences which do not aim at giving pleasure or at the necessities of life were discovered, and first in the places when 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. (Met. 1.981b13–25)46 The first arts discovered by human beings are those that provide goods that are necessary and useful for survival. When the fundamental needs are satisfied, men turn to the development of the technai that provide recreation and enjoyment. Finally, when both the forms of knowledge that aim

Poetry and historia  215 at giving pleasure and the necessities of life are developed, they discover the purely theoretical sciences, whose goal is knowledge for its own sake. As the example of Egypt shows, the precondition for the discovery of the speculative sciences is the establishment of a class that enjoys leisure. For Aristotle, these trends are the basis for a general claim about human nature. The evidence indicates that the highest telos, and thus the highest good, for the members of our species, is theoretical activity. For, whenever the historical conditions allow it, different societies converge towards the discovery of sciences that makes its exercise possible. It should be clear that Aristotle considers this a general truth about human nature in a normative, rather than descriptive, sense, since by “nature” he means primarily the telos and final cause of a thing. As he reminds us in the Politics, “The nature of a thing is its end. For what each thing is when fully developed, we call its nature” (Pol. 1.1252b32–3). Thus, his claim is not that, as a matter of fact, all human societies discover and study the theoretical sciences. Rather, his point is that human communities would discover them, if they developed in the most favorable circumstances. Since, then, the life of theōria is the highest achievement of our nature, the philosopher argues that the best state should be organized on the basis of the principle that “war … [is] for the sake of peace, business for the sake of leisure, things necessary and useful for the sake of things noble” (Pol. 7.1333a36–7) so as to promote the attainment of our distinctive excellence. From the point of view of science, then, works of historiography function as historia, that is, as collections of pre-demonstrative data that call for further elaboration and explanation. If the phenomena that historical works collect are simply temporally contiguous events, they must undergo a further process of analysis and organization before they can be of use to the political philosopher. If, on the other hand, they already display meaningful patterns and correlation, they can lead directly to the development of hypotheses that illuminate the nature of men and of their world.

11.4 Historia in the Poetics The analysis presented so far by itself suggests that a common interpretation of Aristotle’s remarks on the nature of historical works in the Poetics is one-sided. According to this reading, the philosopher dismisses works of historiography as collections of events that are merely connected by temporal relations of succession or simultaneity. For this reason, this interpretation goes, he sharply separates, e.g., Herodotus’ Historiae from works of poetry, in which the events are, for the most part, organized according to causal connections of probability or necessity.47 One of the reasons that may explain this account of Aristotle’s view of historiography is that in this treatise he stresses the differences, rather than the similarities, between historia and poiētikē. His aim is to define the nature of the poetic art, and one way in which he realizes this goal is to contrast poetry with disciplines, such as

216  Silvia Carli history, which are, and were perceived as, similar to it. The text suggests that, in Aristotle’s view, this task was particularly urgent because of a widespread failure to appreciate the differences between historical accounts and mimetic representations. He writes that many writers of epic poems – with the notable exception of Homer – are confused about their own art. In Poet. 23, for instance, he points out that epic plots should not resemble historical works, whose function is to record the events that take place in given period of time (Poet. 23.1459a21–22). Rather, they should organize the pragmata into a unitary action. Similarly, in Poet. 8 he brings attention to the fact that, contrary to what many epic writers assume, a plot is not one because it centers on an individual (for instance, what Alcibiades did or suffered), but because it imitates a praxis that is one and complete. He also reminds his readers that it is not prose that distinguishes history from poetry: “Herodotus’ work could be put into verse, and it would still be a species of history” (9.1451a3–4).48 In spite of the fact that Aristotle focuses on the differences between history and poetry, a close reading of the text shows that the Poetics is consistent with the conception of historia that Aristotle develops throughout his corpus. The most extensive comments on history are in Chapter 23, which is the primary text used by advocates of the reading outlined above to make their case. It goes as follows: [Epic] plots should not resemble histories (historiai), in which what is necessary is the exposition not of a single action but of a single period of time, that is, of all the events that happened during that time, either concerning one or more people, each of which events relate to the others as the case may be (hōn hekaston hōs etuchen echei pros allēla). For just as the battle of Salamis occurred at the same time as the battle with the Carthaginians in Sicily, although they were not at all directed toward the same end, so over successive periods of time it sometimes (eniote) happens that one event takes place after another without any single result emerging from them. (Poet. 1459a21–30; emphasis added) Two points in this quotation are particularly important: the first is the subordinate clause “each of which events relate to the others as the case may be”; the second is the adverb “sometimes” at the end of the passage. Let us start with the latter. Aristotle writes that in histories sometimes, not always, events succeed one another without being connected by causal relations, and thus result in outcomes that are unrelated. The implication is that other times the events are related to one another as causes and effects, and produce a single outcome. The passage does not provide indications as to which of the two scenarios is more likely to occur, and, therefore, does not imply that one is more frequent than the other.49 This helps determine the translation of the subordinate clause. The majority of commentators translate it along the

Poetry and historia  217 lines of Gerald Else, who writes: “each of which events has a merely accidental relation to the rest.”50 Thus understood, the text does indeed corroborate the thesis that Aristotle sees historiography as a chronicle of disconnected events. The context, however, calls for a more literal translation. I suggested “each of which events relate to the others as the case may be,” which is meant to convey the idea that relations among historical events are fluid: it may happen that they are accidental, but it may also happen that they are causal. Not only is this rendering more faithful to the original; it also reveals the consistency of the philosopher’s thought. He holds that the nature of historical connections reported by historians varies and that, for this reason, only sometimes events follow one another without being causally related. Far from supporting the idea that the philosopher sees historical works simply as chronicles, then, Poetics 23 indicates that, while he clearly acknowledges that they can, and do, represent events whose relation is purely chronological, at times they include pragmata that exhibit orderly and identifiable causal connections. Chapter 9 makes an even stronger claim. It opens with a normative distinction between poiētikē and historia in terms of the content of their representations: the former speaks of, and ought to represent, “things as they might happen and are possible according to probability or necessity”; the latter’s task is to report actual events. “Things as they might happen and are possible according to probability or necessity” is one of the expressions that Aristotle uses to designate the universals of poetry, that is to say, unitary chains of events in which each part is causally connected to the whole (8.1451a30–7).51 It is this difference in function that explains why the philosopher thinks that poiētikē is epistemologically superior to history. It is required of poetry to organize pragmata according to probability or necessity, and thus to represent events that happen “because of one another” rather than “one after the other” (Poet. 10.1452a21). The job of the historian, on the other hand, is to report events as they happen, regardless of whether they exhibit causal or purely temporal relations. It is thus noteworthy that he continues as follows: It is clear, then, from what has been said that the poet should be a maker more of plots than of verses, for he is a poet in virtue of imitation, and what he imitates are actions. And even if he happens to put into poetry events that have actually taken place, he is none the less a poet, since there is no reason why some historical events shouldn’t be such as they might happen in conformity with the probable and the possible, and it is in virtue of this that he is their maker. (Poet. 9.1451b26–33; emphasis added) Not only do human pragmata display causal connections; at times they can be so structured as to form uninterrupted chains of causally connected events that display the orderly arrangement required of well-formed plots.

218  Silvia Carli For this reason, the poet can “put them into poetry” (genomena poiein, Poet. 9.1451b30–1) and still be regarded as their maker, since he exercises his ability to recognize actions that form a unitary whole and are thus the proper object of mimetic representations. The implication for Aristotle’s conception of historiography is that not only does it include works in which at least some of the pragmata are causally connected, while others bear an accidental relation to one another. In addition, works of historiography can – in principle – contain sections that, from the point of view of their organization of the material, read like Homeric plots. In sum, Aristotle’s pronouncements on historia in the Poetics are precisely what one would expect them to be, given his conception of the first stage of philosophical inquiry. Just as he acknowledges that data in other fields of inquiry display varying degrees, and kinds, of organization, he regards historiography as legitimately including a broad variety of works. They can certainly be chronicles in which some, or even most, of the events simply succeed one another or take place simultaneously. These, however, represent only one way of collecting and organizing historical material, and there is no reason to think that they have a privileged status in Aristotle’s view of the discipline. Works – such as Thucydides’ – that go beyond collecting temporally contiguous events and discover causal patterns of pragmata are equally recognized as part of the field. They simply represent a more advanced manner of sorting “the facts.” If this is the case, then, and if artistic plots are quasi-philosophical because of the principles of organization that underlie their construction, it is not the case that the Poetics simply opens a divide between historia and poiētikē, as some scholars suggest. Rather, granted that the two disciplines are defined by distinct functions, it establishes a continuity between them. For it acknowledges that to the extent that history, too, represents causally connected events, it partakes of the philosophical nature of poetry, although to a lesser degree. Thus, the famous passage in Chapter 9 reads: Poetry is more philosophical and more serious than history: poetry speaks (legei) more (mallon) of universals, whereas history [more] of particulars. (1451b5–8) The statement that poetry is more philosophical than history does not by itself imply that history has no relation to philosophia. It may entail that history does have some connection with philosophy, although weaker than that between poetry and philosophy, because the construction of unitary chains of events does not define its function. Not only considerations of consistency with the philosophers’ other remarks on history in the treatise, but also syntactical considerations of symmetry suggest that this is how we should read the passage.

Poetry and historia  219 In the above passage mallon could be understood in two different ways. It might refer exclusively to poetry, and if so, the sentence asserts that history speaks only of particulars, and poiētikē is far more universal than – indeed, it is essentially different from – history. Or it might refer to poetry and history: in this case the passage signifies that both speak of universals, although the former to a greater extent than the latter. The syntactical structure of the compound sentence seems to support the second reading. The verb legei(n), which is understood in the first clause and stated in the second, establishes a parallelism between the two parts. This parallelism is preserved only if mallon, which qualifies the implicit verb of the first clause, also qualifies the explicit verb of the second. This suggests that the adverb is operative in the second sentence as well. On this reading, the syntactical construction appears coherent and organic. If, on the other hand, mallon were related only to the implicit occurrence of legei, the symmetry of the compound would be broken and we would have the peculiar situation in which the meaning of the verb is first qualified by the adverb, but then reverts to its “absolute” meaning in the second clause. If this analysis is correct, then the much-quoted passage from Chapter 9 of the Poetics says that while philosophy speaks more of universals than of particulars, history speaks more of particulars than of universals, and is therefore not unrelated to philosophy, but simply less philosophical than poiētikē.52

Notes 1 This chapter broadens and refines the initial results I published elsewhere (Carli 2011) to offer a comprehensive analysis of the philosopher’s view on these topics. 2 In Aristotle’s terminology, “things as they might happen and are possible according to probability or necessity” (Poet. 9.1451a37–8). 3 See Section 4 for references to scholars who hold this view. 4 In the Metaphysics, however, Aristotle clarifies that “not all things either are or come to be of necessity and always, but the majority of things are for the most part” (Met. 6.1027a8–10) because matter is that which “is capable of being otherwise than as it usually is” and is thus “the cause of the accidental” (Met. 6.1027a13–15). The exceptions are theology, whose objects are pure form and actuality; mathematics, which considers its objects in abstraction from their matter (Met. 6.1026a13–16); and astronomy, the matter of whose objects admit only of one kind of change, namely locomotion (Cael. 1.2–3). 5 For this meaning of historia, see APr. 1.46a24; HA 1.491a12. These two passages are discussed in what follows. Similar distinctions between a stage of inquiry devoted to “the facts” and one devoted to “the why” can be found at IA 704b9; PA 2.646a8–12. In the De Anima and De Caelo, historia has the more generic meaning of “study, inquiry or cognition” of a given subject matter as a whole. See de An. 1.402a4; Cael. 3.298b2. Thus, these occurrences of the term indirectly corroborate, or at least do not contradict, the sense of history as preliminary investigation. The above-mentioned occurrences of historia are the most relevant to determine the (primary) sense in which Aristotle used it, because the vast majority of the other occurrences are in explanatory biological works and are internal references to the History of Animals. Thus, they cannot shed

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6

7 8 9 10 11 12

13 14

15 16 17

18 19 20 21 22 23

light on the meaning of the word (although the fact that explanatory works refer to the Historia Animalium as their starting point or ground is significant). See note 29 below for a list of internal references. Finally, in the Rhetoric Aristotle mentions the “historiai of those who write about human actions” and “Herodotus’ history” without elaborating further on the meaning of the word. See Rhet. 1.1360a37; 3.1409a28. On Aristotle’s notion of historia see also Lennox (2001, 7–71, esp. 40–6). If this interpretation is correct, then historia, like many other key Aristotelian terms, both preserves a close connection to its ordinary meaning as “inquiry or investigation” in general, and acquires a technical connotation as a specific stage of inquiry in the context of the philosopher’s theoretical framework. It is only at the end of the process, when “the why” of the facts has been discovered, that we can be confident about which facts are scientifically relevant. Until then, our inclusion is necessarily hypothetical and, thus, revisable. “All science is either of that which is always or for the most part” (Met. 6.1027a21). See, e.g., APo. 1.9; de An. 1.402a7; Met. 7.1029b15–16. See, e.g., APo. 2.89b23–4; Met. 1.981a29. See, e.g., APo.1.71b11. See, e.g., APr. 1.24b10–12; Cael. 3.303a22–3; 3.306a16–17; EN 7.1145b1–8. For Aristotle’s rich view of the nature of ta phainomena, which include observable facts and endoxa, see Owen (1975); Nussbaum (2001, esp. 240–63); Cleary (1994); Long (2006). HA 3.523a17 (Hdt. 3.101); 6.579b2 (here Herodotus is not explicitly mentioned but the text clearly refers to Hdt. 3.108); GA 2.736a10 (Hdt. 3.101); 3.5.756b6 (Hdt. 2.93). Other references to Herodotus are as follows: EE 7.2.123b9 (Hdt. 2.68); Po. 9.1451b2; Ath. Pol. 14, where he is cited as the source of one of the hypotheses concerning the identity of Phya, the woman accompanying Pisistratus in his dramatic entrance to Athens; Rhet. 3.1409a27 where Herodotus’ writing is presented as an example of the “free-running” style of prose; Rhet. 3.1417a7 (Hdt. 2.30) where Aristotle refers to the historian’s style as an example of the form of narration that discredits one’s adversaries. Aristotle is probably relying on Herodotus (8.73) also in Pol. 3.1276a28 where he claims that the fact that men live in the same place is not sufficient to make a city and that, if the Peloponnesus, which was inhabited by several different peoples, had been surrounded with a wall, it would not have counted as a unified political unit. For an analysis of this passage from the Rhetoric, see Section 3 below. Gēs periodos can mean both “description of the earth” and “map of the earth” (LSJ s.v. periodos III). See, e.g., Met. 2.1.; EN 1.1098b25–9; Rhet. 1.1355a14–16. The other assumption that justifies his belief is that, although the nature of things is not immediately evident to us, it manifests itself already in the phenomena. It is worth mentioning that in his writings Aristotle also often refers to proverbs and popular sayings (see Bonitz, s.v. paroimiai) and uses them to corroborate his views. Moreover, he does not confine this practice to moral-political treatises but extends it to the sciences of nature. See, e.g., Cael. 1.270b13ff; Mete. 1.339b16–30. I.e., the investigation of the whole or complete truth. See Met. 2.993a30–993b1. See also EN 7.145b3–7. Endoxa are subsequently used in the actual formulation of hypothesis concerning first principles. See Top. 1.101a34–101b4. See Forster (1928, 163–5), Guthrie (1981, 52–3). On this point see Von Fritz (1958). On this point see Natali (2013, 107, 113–14).

Poetry and historia  221 24 EE 2.1220b36–1221a15. See also, e.g., Int. 13.22122–31; EN 2.1107a32–3. On this point see Natali (2013, 113–14). 25 Heath (2009a, 68–9) offers a clear example of how victory lists can be used in this way. 26 For Aristotle the stability is complete, since he has no notion of evolution and considers species eternal. 27 On this point see Lennox (2001, 7–71). 28 Lennox (2001, 58) offers a detailed analysis of this passage. 29 See GA 1.716b31; 1.717a33; 1.719a10; 1.728b14; 2.740a23; 2.746a15; 3.750b31; 3.753b17; 3.761a10; 3.763b16; PA 2.646a8–12; 2.650a31 (where Aristotle refers to the Historia Animalium simply as “natural history”); 2.660b3; 4.680a2; 4.684b5; 4.696b15; Spir. 12.477a7; 16.478a28; 16.478b1. At IA 1.704b10 the Historia Animalium is referred to as “natural history.” See also GA 1.719a10; 2.740a23; 2.746a14. 30 31 See also PA 2.650a28–32; 3.674b16–17; 4.679b37–680a3; 4.696b15–16. 32 See Fr. 381–603; von Fritz and Kapp (1950). On the question of the authorship of the collection, see Von Fritz (1950, 3–7); Von Fritz (1954, 73–93); Guthrie (1981, 52 n. 1). 33 Fr. 136 (Cicero, De Inventione 2.2.; De Oratore 2.38.160). According to Cicero, this collection, combined with the commentary, did such an excellent job of explaining the precepts of previous manuals and, in addition, of presenting them succinctly in an easy and attractive style, that afterward students no longer referred to the originals but used Aristotle’s historia instead. See Cicero, De Inventione 2.2.6. 34 An inscription at Delphi informs us that the Amphyctions (the magistrates who presided over the games in honor of Apollo) officially sponsored Aristotle’s and Callisthenes’ historical search of the winners and organizers of the Pythian games. The text of the inscription can be found in Düring (1957, 339) (testimonium 43). 35 In addition, he wrote the dialogue On the Poets – destined to publication – which also probably served as background for the Poetics. See Fr. 70–7, 142–79; Rostagni (1926, esp. 434–6); Düring (1966, 126). 36 The first four aporiai deal with the nature and subject matter of the science of first principles; the others with the nature of the principles themselves. All of them consist of a thesis – which typically represents the views of natural philosophers (physiologoi) – and an antithesis, for the most part originating in, or inspired by, Platonic views. Aristotle develops both to the extreme so as to make apparent their untenability and to “force” the reader to experience a “double impasse.” 37 For the view that poetry is identified by the use of verses, see, for instance, Gorgias, Hel. 9; Plato, Grg. 502c5–7; Smp. 205c–d. 38 On this point see Heath (2009). 39 See Poet. 24.1460a26–b1; 24.1460a35–b5; 25.1460b6–11; 25.1460b23–8; 25.1460b32–1461a3; 25.1461b11–15. 40 On this point, see von Fritz and Kapp (1950, 7). 41 Thucydides is actually never explicitly mentioned; however, it is generally agreed that Chapter 33 refers to Th. 8.97.2. 42 See Rhodes (1981, 20–30). The author argues that Aristotle drew from a variety of sources – including writers with different political orientations – and that at times he tried to reconcile different accounts and assessments. As mentioned above, the Politics also contains an internal historia. Given that the treatise aims to discover the best political community and “that all the constitutions with which we are acquainted are faulty” (Pol. 2.1260b35), in the second book,

222  Silvia Carli

43

44 45 46 47

48

49

50

Aristotle examines both theoretical models of constitutions that were held in esteem and politeiai of existing states generally regarded as well-governed. Accordingly, the first eight chapters consider – and criticize – ideal constitutions elaborated by Plato in the Republic and the Laws and by Phaleas of Chalcedon and Hippodamus; Chapters 9–12 analyze the constitutions of Sparta, Crete, and Carthage. This is not to suggest that the data will “speak” equally to everyone. Aristotle clearly thinks that only trained minds who have the capacity to discriminate what might and what might not be relevant can use the data fruitfully, unless one has an inborn capacity for this kind of work. See, e.g., EN 10.1181a12–1181b12, esp. 1181b8–12. See also Met. 12.1074b11–12. In addition, as it will become clear in the next section, works of historia do not record only causally connected pragmata but also events whose relations are purely temporal. See also Met. 1.982b11–18. Aristotle makes a similar claim about the natural development of human communities from the family to the polis in Pol. 1.2. See Poet. 7.1450b26–34; 7.1451a13; 11.1452a23ff; 8.1451a27; 9.1451a37–8; 9.1451b33– 1452a1; 10.1452a18–21; 15.1454a35–b2; 23.1459a17–30. As mentioned in Section 2, however, there are exceptions to this rule of (causal) probability and necessity. See, e.g., Poet. 24.1460a26–b1; 24.1460a35–b5; 25.1460b6–11; 25.1460b23–8; 25.1460b32–1461a3; 25.1461b11–15. On this reading of historia see, for example, De Ste. Croix (1992); Ostwald (2002); Sicking (1998, esp. 149); Powell (1987, 354); Butcher (1951, 164–5); Nussbaum (2001, 386); Armstrong (1998, 447 n. 4); Dupont-Roc et Lallot (1980, 222); Lucas (1968, 216); Donini (2004, 21); Gavallotti (1974, 144). Some scholars do not criticize Aristotle’s take on history, but share the analysis of his critics. See, for instance, MacPhail (2001, esp. 1); Goldschmidt (1982, 58–61). I have analyzed the problems connected with this interpretation and offered a more detailed reading of the Poetics in Carli (2011). This section borrows from the analysis developed in that article. Finally, although he does not mention his teacher in relation to this issue, it seems that Plato’s views on art are never far from Aristotle’s mind. When, in the Republic, Plato criticizes poetry because, among other things, the stories and myths that it produces are false, he uses a criterion of truth – namely, factual truth – which, according to Aristotle, should be used for history rather than poetry. On this point see Halliwell (2002, 167). Drawing his conclusion from Aristotle’s remarks on history in Poet. 9 and 23, Gerald Else writes that “logical sequence can exist in history, though usually it does not” (Else 1963, 574 n. 14; original emphasis). Accordingly, he translates eniote as “often” (ibid., 569). Both the conclusion and the proposed translation, however, are not supported by the Greek text. On this point see Salanitro (1999, 16). Else (1963, 569); emphasis added. See also Stephen Halliwell (1987, 58): “all the contingently connected events”; Dupont-Roc et Lallot (1980, 119): “entretenant les uns avec les autres des relations contingentes”; Donini (2008, 157): “ciascuna delle quali cose è con le altre in un rapporto casuale”; Fyfe (1953, 91): “events that have a merely casual relation to each other”; Butcher (1951, 89): “little connected together as the events may be”; Bywater (transl.) in Barnes (1984, vol. 2, 2335): “however disconnected the several events may be.” Powell translates “regardless of how each thing happened to be in other respects,” and explains the clause as expressing a “linking of events and persons by mere coincidence” (Powell 1987, 345–6). Lucas’s commentary to the sentence is “they [historical events] have a purely random association” (Lucas 1968, 215). The notable exception is Salanitro, to whom I am indebted for the analysis of this passage (Salanitro 1999, 17).

Poetry and historia  223

12 Reading the Poetics in context Malcolm Heath

12.1 Introduction Why are mules sterile? Why do mole-rats have eyes that are covered by skin and useless for seeing? Why do elephants have toes? And why are lobsters not reliably right-handed? These are not the most obvious questions to pose at the start of a chapter on Aristotle’s Poetics. But they are all questions tackled by the author of the Poetics in other contexts1 and illustrate the range of his interests. When we read the Poetics, we are reading something written by perhaps the most ambitious and widest-ranging interdisciplinary enquirer in history. Aristotle’s interdisciplinarity challenges us to read the Poetics in a global Aristotelian context.

12.2 Against isolation Is that true? My questions about mules, mole-rats, elephants, and lobsters might be thought to demonstrate the irrelevance of the global context. There are some points of contact, where reference to other parts of the corpus can throw light on the Poetics; but most of the corpus can be disregarded. That, at least, is the premise on which most interpreters of the Poetics seem to proceed. They recognize that other parts of the corpus can be used to illuminate their target, but the range of reference is limited, drawing primarily on the works on ethics, politics, and rhetoric. There is an obvious logic to that narrow range. The Politics (8.7.1341b38–40) cross-refers to the Poetics; the Poetics (19.1456a34–6) cross-refers to the Rhetoric; and reference to the ethical works is obviously necessary, since ethically qualified agents and their actions are the object of poetic imitation (Poet. 2.1448a1–5, 16–18; 4.1448b25–7; 6.1450a5–6, b7–8; 13.1452a34–3a12).2 Specialists in other areas of Aristotelian thought replicate this pattern of limited cross-reference in reverse. Consider, for example, one hugely impressive attempt to present a global view of Aristotle: a reader who comes to C.D.C. Reeve’s Action, Contemplation, and Happiness3 with no prior knowledge of Aristotle would come away from it without having encountered the slightest indication that Aristotle had any interest in poetry or music, or that

Reading the Poetics in context  225 he thought that poetry or music had any significant place in a good human life. Contextual readings that use the Poetics to illuminate other parts of the corpus are rare – and the exceptions are revealing. Richard McKirahan has used the Poetics to illustrate “the place of the Posterior Analytics in Aristotle’s thought”; but the Poetics appears to have been chosen as a case-study precisely because it is “an outlier.”4 Susan Sauvé Meyer, in her Aristotle on Moral Responsibility, says that she “will also appeal to Aristotle’s nonphilosophical [sic] discussions of these ethical issues in the Rhetoric and the Poetics”5; but it turns out that, unlike the Rhetoric, the Poetics does not have sufficient appeal to earn a place in the book’s index locorum. An impromptu census of the indices locorum in 48 books on Aristotle which I undertook in 2013 revealed only 98 references to the Poetics. These were very unevenly distributed: 7 books accounted for 80 references. Paolo Crivelli’s Aristotle on Truth,6 for example, has 15 – which may seem surprising, until one recalls that the Poetics contains a section on language. Tellingly, 13 of Crivelli’s 15 references are to passages which Gerard Else left out of his commentary on the Poetics on the grounds that they “contribute little or nothing to understanding the main core of the work.”7 Reference to the Poetics from work on other parts of the corpus seems, therefore, to be sporadic, narrowly targeted, and not to be engaged with the central concerns of the Poetics.8 Admittedly, other areas of Aristotelian studies are not immune to compartmentalization. A recent collection has found it necessary to challenge the view that there is “an unbridgeable gap between science and ethics,” and aims “to consolidate emerging research on Aristotle’s science and ethics in an attempt to explore the relationship between the two areas of his thought.”9 But the gap’s proponents infer its existence from methodological principles which they attribute to Aristotle: “the subject matter of ethics exhibits several features that Aristotle thinks disqualify it as a candidate for scientific understanding.” That, if true, is philosophically interesting; so, conversely, is the possibility that the gap can be bridged. In the case of the Poetics, however, the problem is an apparent lack of philosophical interest. This leaves the Poetics more than usually isolated. Why should interpreters of the Poetics resist that isolationist tendency? First, because we cannot know a priori that extending our range of reference, and deepening our understanding of what we find in seemingly remote parts of the corpus, will contribute nothing to our existing enquiries. We cannot find if we do not look; since reading Aristotle is never easy, we may have to look hard before we understand what he is saying and discern its possible relevance to the Poetics. Second, because that exercise might open new questions and extend the existing range of our enquiries in interesting ways. Third, even if exploring the rest of the corpus yields no substantive Aristotelian conclusions relevant to the Poetics, it is likely to yield other transferable benefits. We will become more familiar with Aristotle’s concepts and technical vocabulary, and the ways in which he uses them; we will gain a fuller appreciation of the diverse ways in which Aristotle argues and

226  Malcolm Heath communicates – sometimes aporetic, sometimes exploratory, ­sometimes modifying interim conclusions as he works gradually towards a conclusion over a long span of text, sometimes shaping his exposition to serve a ­pedagogical purpose, and sometimes provocatively polemical. Equipping ourselves in this way to become better readers of the Poetics may open the way to solutions to long-standing problems.10

12.3  Nature (phusis) Let us, then, return to the questions posed at the beginning of this ­chapter. One thing, at least, connects them to the Poetics: the concept of nature (­phusis). To explain a puzzling feature of some living organism is to achieve a better understanding of its nature. But poetry, too, is in some sense a natural phenomenon. Its two causes are natural (Poet. 4.1448b4–5); imitation is connatural (sumphutos) to humans to a degree not found in any other animal (5–7); imitation and the affinity for melody and rhythm are in accordance with our human nature (20–1), though human individuals vary in their natural inclination to poetry (22–3) and in their natural propensity for different kinds of poetry (49a3–5); tragedy ceased to change when it had achieved its own nature (1449a14–15); nature itself discovered the metrical forms appropriate to tragedy (23–4) and epic (24, 1460a2–5); and the optimal scale of a poetic plot is determined by nature (7, 1451a9–11). Poetry, forms of poetry, and individual poems are not living organisms; so they cannot be natural in precisely the same way as mules, moles, elephants, lobsters, and other living organisms.11 But it does not follow that we can understand what Aristotle means when he applies the vocabulary of nature to poetry without an understanding his use of phusis in connection with living organisms or indeed with inanimate natural phenomena. For simplicity, let us begin with an inanimate example: a stone’s tendency to fall towards the center of the earth (EN 2.1.1103a20–1). This illustrates two basic and generalizable features of Aristotle’s concept of phusis. First, the stone is natural because there is an internal cause of its tendency to move towards a certain end-point: “those things are ‘by nature’ which, from some internal origin [arkhē], by a continuous process of change [kinēsis] arrive at some completion [telos]” (Phys. 2.8.199b15–17). Second, the first statement is subject to a crucial proviso: “each origin does not produce the same completion in every case, nor a random one: but it always tends towards the same one, provided there is no impediment” (199b17–18; cf. 2.8.199a8–11; PA 1.1.641b23–6). The stone’s natural trajectory might be impeded by an obstacle, or temporarily reversed if someone throws it upward. The possibility of an impediment preventing a natural entity from attaining its natural completion is an integral part of Aristotle’s conception of nature. Plants and animals are living organisms and must sustain themselves by processing nutrients. Nutrition is the one capacity that is common to all living things (de An. 2.4.415a24–6; 3.12.434a22–6). Since they are perishable,

Reading the Poetics in context  227 this process cannot be sustained indefinitely: “by life we mean nutrition through itself, and growth and decay” (2.1.412a13–15). But the terminal state of decay is not the completion to which living organisms naturally tend: their nature is what they are in their prime – or would be if their development is not impeded by (for example) adverse environmental factors. Nature, for Aristotle, is therefore an evaluative or normative concept. It designates an optimal condition. An animal’s way of living (bios) depends on its nature. Some animals are solitary, some gregarious (HA 1.1.488a2). Some gregarious animals simply herd together; but in some gregarious species, which Aristotle designates as “political,” the members of a social group collaborate in a shared activity (ergon, 488a7–8). Political species include social insects, such as bees, wasps, and ants (1.1.488a9–10), but also cranes (HA 8(9).10.614b18).12 Humans are by nature political animals (488a9; Pol. 1.2.1253a3), who live optimally in collaborative social groups. They are also unique among animals in possessing a capacity for deliberation and choice (e.g. HA 1.1.488b24–5; EE 2.10.1226b17–21). That capacity enables them to construct social groups in different ways. It follows that human societies are products both of nature and of human contrivance. They are products of nature, since humans are naturally political. They are products of human contrivance, since a good city does not come about by chance alone, but requires understanding and deliberate choice (Pol. 7.13.1332a29–32). Humans are good at finding better ways of doing things (Pol. 2.5.1264a1– 4; 7.10.1329b25–30). So they will tend to discover progressively better ways of constructing society. Cultural transmission of cumulative enhancements means that natural patterns of human sociality can be optimized over time. But optimality is not inevitable: as we have seen, a natural completion will only be reached if there is no impediment. So, for example, communities facing sub-ideal conditions need to organize themselves in ways that will produce the best life possible under those conditions. Political theory, if it is to have any practical use, must not focus exclusively on the constitution that is best by nature, but must also consider what is best in given circumstances, and “what is possible and what is easily attainable by all” (Pol. 4.1.1288b10–39; 4.2.1289b12–17). Poetry, as we have seen, is natural to humans. In the same way that it is possible to specify that what will optimally satisfy the motivations that drive human sociality, it is in principle possible to specify what will optimally satisfy the human motivations that drive the production and consumption of poetry. But here, too, the “no impediment” proviso applies. It is possible for poetry to be absent, deficient, or defective; where that is the case, human life falls short of its natural completion, as it does more comprehensively where patterns of sociality are absent, deficient, or defective.13 Yet when commentators annotate Poetics 4. 1449a14–15 by quoting Aristotle’s definition of “nature” in Physics 2.8.199b15–17, the proviso is routinely omitted.14 Without the proviso, poetry’s development comes to be seen as a

228  Malcolm Heath deterministic process in which the contingencies of human contrivance are inconsequential: For Aristotle, tragedy is a natural species of poetry … Although in its invention and at various moments in the course of its development, tragedy was helped along by individuals of genius, it expresses in its mimetic and formal structure the basic capacities innate in human beings, and it could not have ended up otherwise than it had.15 Here, then, is one instance in which more systematic contextualization would make us better readers of the Poetics.

12.4 Art (tekhnē) Humans are naturally social, but achieve the optimal fulfillment of their sociality through deliberation and choice. So, too, poetry is natural to humans, but the production of poetry, and the discovery of how each kind of poetry is best done, depends on deliberation and choice. That is to say, politics and poetics are both arts (tekhnai: cf. Poet. 25.1460b13–15). Aristotle defines tekhnē as a “productive disposition involving reason” (EN 6.4.1140a9–10), and tells us that someone builds a house because he is a builder; that he is a builder by virtue of the tekhnē of building (Phys. 2.3.195b21–5); and that the tekhnē of building is the form of the building without the matter (Met. 7.7.1032b11–14). Tekhnē in general is the rationale (logos) of the product without matter (PA 1.1.640a31–2).16 The Poetics, therefore, is a text about the tekhnē of poetry: it aims to articulate the rationale of the poetic product. Since the rationale in written form is formally identical to the rationale present in the soul of skilled poets, tekhnē can also be used of the written text (as with other arts: e.g. Rhet. 1.1.1354a12; 3.1.1404a22). The Poetics is a tekhnē in this sense: it is a written articulation of the tekhnē present in the soul of skilled poets. Like phusis, tekhnē is a normative concept: what one looks for in a builder is not simply a knowledge of how people build houses, but an understanding of how houses should be built. The focus of the Poetics is therefore on the product: what is it for a poem to be a good poem? Or, since there are different kinds of poetry which have different criteria of excellence: what is it for a tragedy (for example) to be a good tragedy? Yet, as Aristotle points out in the first chapter of the Metaphysics (Met. 1.1.981a12–b10), while those who have tekhnē can teach (that is, they can give a reasoned explanation of what constitutes a good product within their tekhnē), they may not be as adept at producing such products as someone who cannot give an explanation but knows what to do from experience,17 or by virtue of natural talent, as Aristotle suggests may have been the case with Homer (Poet. 8.1451a19–24). The form of the product is present in both kinds of producer, though in different ways, articulate or inarticulate as the case

Reading the Poetics in context  229 may be; but success in getting that form into matter is also partly dependent on other aptitudes of the producer and on how they are applied. We might therefore expect someone writing about a tekhnē to give some secondary attention to these factors, too. That is, as it happens, a reasonable sketch of what the Poetics actually gives us: it is primarily concerned with analyzing what makes a good tragedy, but also makes some comment on traits of a good poet and on compositional procedures (17.1455a22–b2; 22.1459a6–8).18 Although the person who has tekhnē can give a reasoned explanation of what constitutes a good product within the relevant tekhnē, there are limits to the explanatory depth necessary and appropriate in a technical treatise. This reflects a standard feature of Aristotle’s thinking about tekhnē. For example, the facts of human physiology determine the correct answers to questions about what good health is and how it is produced; but a medical treatise is not an enquiry into physiology. There is a frontier zone in which the scientist’s conclusions become the doctor’s starting points, but physiology and medicine remain distinct enquiries (de Se. 1.436a17–b1; Resp. 27.480b22–30). Similarly, although students of politics need some understanding of the soul, Aristotle is clear that they do not need a deep scientific understanding: pursuing excessive precision would be a hindrance to the enquiry in hand (EN 1.13.1102a18–26). In the same way, when Aristotle discusses musical education in Politics 8, it emerges that a political theorist needs to know something about musical theory: but the details can be left to experts in the subject, with an outline account being sufficient for the purposes of political theory (Pol. 8.7.1341b23–32).19 That last case has important implications for the way in which distinct enquiries relate to each other. Politics is an architectonic discourse: it legislates for what practices are to be permitted in the city, subject to what constraints (EN1.1.1094a26–b2). But the political theorist’s architectonic expertise, which gives direction to the use of a given tekhnē, is also itself informed by expertise within that tekhnē: it does not dictate the contents of that tekhnē. Though politics is architectonic and legislates for subordinate activities, it depends on those subordinate activities for the data on which to base its determination of what is legislatively appropriate. Since the relevant data can only be obtained from experience of the activity in question, political theory has no other way to achieve empirical grounding. Moreover, while political theory is architectonic, political theorists are fallible: so a conflict between the architectonic and a subordinate discipline might be evidence that something has gone astray in the political theory.20 Aristotelian enquiries are connected in a network that is hierarchical, but does not work only top-down: for the network to function properly, traffic must flow in both directions. Different Aristotelian enquiries therefore display both interconnectedness and partial autonomy. Assessing the right balance between these two features will obviously be important for the contextualization of the Poetics, and the right balance between these two factors is likely to be difficult to

230  Malcolm Heath achieve. I now want to illustrate briefly from two examples how it is possible to err in opposite directions – by conflating distinct enquiries or by isolating them. The consequences of failing to appreciate the relative autonomy of different enquiries can be observed in Arbogast Schmitt’s erudite and imposing commentary on the Poetics.21 Recognizing the centrality of praxis to poetics, Schmitt proceeds on the assumption that what is central to poetics is the very same concept of praxis as is found in Aristotle’s ethics – an assumption that leads to overwhelming emphasis being placed on character as the basis of action. So, for example, Schmitt holds that the necessity or probability to which Aristotle refers in his theory of plot-construction depends on the relationship between character and action, rather than on a nexus of connections between events.22 Yet Aristotle’s analysis of unity of plot consistently emphasizes the necessary or probable connection between successive events – which, crucially, must be successive not merely in the sense of one after another, but of one because of another (7.1450b27–31, 1451a12–14; 8.1451a27–8; 10.1452a18–21). This is just one example of how Schmitt’s focus on character creates tensions with the dominant emphasis of Aristotle’s argument. For another, consider his comments on Aristotle’s assertion of the priority of praxis over character in Poetics 6 (1450a15–23): his explanation – that actions are represented because character cannot be presented without actions – seems dangerously close to reversing Aristotle’s point.23 The likelihood that some adjustment will be needed when we move from ethical praxis to praxis in poetics should in any case be evident from Aristotle’s observation that correctness is not the same in ethics and poetics (25.1460b13–15). There is an obvious reason why this should be so. In poetics we are concerned with imitations of action, as distinct from action itself; since an imitation of a kangaroo is not a real kangaroo, it is bound to have different properties. One difference emerges from what Aristotle goes on to say when he argues for the priority of praxis: there can be tragedies without character (6.1450a24–6). Fictive agents may be indeterminate in character, but that is not possible in reality: any real agent is a person of a certain character.24 This difference is, in fact, one instance of something which Aristotle asserts on other grounds elsewhere: impossibilities (which are, by definition, impossible in reality) are possible in poetry, and sometimes conducive to its ends (24.1460a26–7; 25.1460b23–6, 1461b9–13). A further difference is that the praxis of which the poetic plot is an imitation has multiple agents (6.1449b36–7) and comprises a plurality of actions (6.1450a22).25 The poetic action is an interaction that cannot be equated with the kind of single-agent action that is analyzed in the ethical works.26 Where Schmitt errs in conflating ethical and poetical praxis, Martha Husain’s Ontology and the Art of Tragedy falls into the opposite error, and isolates them: “on every point of comparison, ethical and tragic action are not only different but incompatible.”27 This, too, is implausible. Even though a painting of a kangaroo is not a kangaroo, the criteria by which we

Reading the Poetics in context  231 judge the painting must have some intelligible relation to real kangaroos. Similarly, poetic praxis does not equate to praxis in ethics, but must have an intelligible relationship to it. Husain’s project is a contextualizing one: her “guiding heuristic principle” is to interpret Aristotle from Aristotle,28 and that is precisely the right principle to follow. But something has gone wrong in the execution of her project. One problem arises from Husain’s contention that a treatise with the title ‘about poetic (tekhnē)’ is distinguished from the tekhnē itself as metalevel is to object level: its goals are theoretical and epistemic, not “subservient to the … productive ends that are part of its subject matter.”29 But for Aristotle, theorizing lies within the remit of tekhnē itself (EN 6.4.1140a10–14; cf. Rhet. 3.2.1404b27–8, referring to the Poetics itself). That is not surprising, since the person who has tekhnē can, as we have already observed, give a reasoned explanation of what constitutes a good product within the relevant tekhnē.30 This element of reflexivity in tekhnē, its attempt to articulate what is implicit in good productive practice, means that tekhnē itself is also about tekhnē. It is therefore impossible to make a clean separation of object level from metalevel.31 A second problem is Husain’s focus on ontology – or, more precisely, the way she focuses on ontology. It would be unreasonable to deny that the Poetics must be consistent with Aristotle’s ontology, and may prompt us to ask ontological questions. Not all the questions which arise from the Poetics are questions in poetics, however; when she gives her book Ontology and the Art of Tragedy the subtitle An Approach to Aristotle’s Poetics, Husain is clearly taking these ontological questions to be questions in poetics. The implication that an understanding of the technicalities of Aristotelian ontology is needed to grasp the point of the Poetics is at odds with Aristotle’s sensitivity to the relative autonomy of different enquiries, and with the limits he places on the need to import technical detail from elsewhere. To put that another way: Husain’s starting point stands at too great a distance from the subject matter of the Poetics to give us an insight into that subject matter. Aristotle insists again and again in his scientific works, not only that enquiry must start from observed facts, but also that it must work with first principles that are capable of explaining those observations. He is severely critical of ‘empty’ theorizing based on abstract assumptions and arguments.32 When he addresses the first of the questions I mentioned at the start, the sterility of mules, he critiques the theories of Empedocles and Democritus (GA 2.8.747a23–b27), and then modestly proposes a theory of his own, “which may seem plausible” (747b30–8a7). But after he has explained the theory, he denounces it (748a7–14): it is empty, abstract, not grounded in empirical facts, and indeed is contradicted by the facts; the level of generality at which it operates makes it too remote from explanatory principles specific to the animal in question (748b28–30; cf. A.Pr. 1.30.46a17–27). This carefully staged self-refutation is a powerful way of getting across a methodological lesson which Aristotle clearly regards as crucial.33 Husain’s

232  Malcolm Heath project goes astray, therefore, because she has made the wrong choice of starting point within the corpus: the principles that are fundamental to her argument are too abstract and too distant from the concerns of the text she is interpreting.

12.5 Contextualization The technical remit of the Poetics means that it is not designed to give a comprehensive account of poetry in all its dimensions. There are questions about poetry that are not questions in poetics, and if we want to find answers to those (as we should), trying to extract answers directly from the Poetics can only lead to confusion. Answers must be sought indirectly, by reading the Poetics in a global Aristotelian context. The Poetics will, of course, be an important source of evidence in helping us to draw conclusions about Aristotle’s views on questions about poetry that the Poetics itself does not address. But if the Poetics is not integrated into the corpus as a whole, that evidence is likely to mislead us. Let us return to the questions that I posed at the beginning of this chapter. We would classify them as biological; but “biology” is not an Aristotelian term, and its modern connotations may mislead us. Aristotle’s enquiries into animals embrace an animal’s physical form, psychology, habitat, and its bios – its characteristic way of life (HA 1.1.487a11–12). He is alert to the necessity of the various traits of a living organism constituting an integrated functional system, in which the function is the organism’s survival and reproductive success. Because the various factors are interrelated, explanatory connections run in multiple directions: an animal lives the life its traits enable, and has the traits that are necessary for its way of life. The bios of any species of nonhuman animal is intimately linked to its typical feeding pattern and (therefore) to the resources available in its typical habitat (HA 1.1.487a16–17; 7(8).1.588a17–18; 9(7).1, 610a33–5; PA 4.6.682b7–8). Human bioi also correspond to the food resources available in the different environments which they inhabit and the various ways in which those resources can be exploited (Pol. 1.8.1256a19–b7). The plural bioi is significant: it signals the exceptional plasticity of humans, who are capable of accommodating themselves to many diverse habitats and of developing correspondingly diverse ways of life. The human way(s) of life are distinctive in another way. The simplest human communities are formed to ensure survival; over time, these small communities tend to combine to achieve a greater degree of self-sufficiency; when a growing community achieves or approaches full self-sufficiency, a city (polis) has come into existence (Pol. 1.2.1252b27–30). Thus, the answer to the question about the nature of human society is: the city. The original communities from which the city arises exist by nature, and the natural completion of whatever exists by nature is that thing’s nature (1252b30–4). But once a city has achieved self-sufficiency, its goal ceases to be mere

Reading the Poetics in context  233 survival: the city “comes into existence for the sake of living (tou zēn heneka), but exists for the sake of living well (tou eu zēn)” (1252b29–30).34 The question that human beings then confront is as follows: what constitutes living well? That question is addressed at length in Aristotle’s ethical and political works. Here I shall consider, in very broad outline, one aspect of the question: what contribution does poetry make to living well? If poetical tekhnē is concerned with the product, an obvious context is provided by the human practices in which that product has a function and value.35 That is, in fact, a direction in which Aristotle points at the beginning of Poetics 4 (1448b4–22), where he considers the production and consumption of poetry as a species-typical human behavior, of which he gives a brief explanation – brief, and obviously incomplete. It is incomplete precisely because, though it mentions some of the traits that enable and motivate this behavior, it says nothing about its function or value: nothing, that is, about what this behavior contributes to a distinctively human way of life. That is like explaining nest-building among birds without mentioning the protection that nests provide for eggs and chicks. That questions of function and value are not explored in Poetics 4 is not an oversight: Aristotle is simply respecting the limits to the depth of scientific background that is necessary and appropriate in a technical treatise.36 The question of tragedy’s function and value arises from the Poetics; the Poetics provides information about the nature of tragedy and about the audience’s experience of tragedy. But questions of function and value are not fundamentally a question in poetics: if we wish to pursue such questions, contextual reading is essential. That could provide the starting point for a project focused on the (in our terms) anthropological questions that arise from the Poetics, but which can only be answered in a wider Aristotelian context.37 The traits that, in Aristotle’s brief account, explain why producing and consuming poetry is a natural human behavior are not entirely discontinuous with those found in (some) other animals. The implication in Poetics 4 that (some) nonhuman animals engage in imitation is confirmed elsewhere.38 Aristotle also says explicitly that some nonhuman animals are responsive to the natural pleasure of music (Pol. 8.6.1341a13–17). Nevertheless, poetry is uniquely human. To understand why humans have this unique behavior, we need to understand how humans differ from other animals; therefore, we need to understand how Aristotle goes about understanding animals in general.39 One crucial distinction lies in the structure of human motivations. The behavior of nonhuman animals is driven by the pleasure and distress evoked by perception. But humans, as noted earlier, are by nature capable of deliberated choice: they can choose to do A because of, or for the sake of, B.40 That is uniquely human, because deliberation involves grasping one thing as the goal or final cause of another, and nonhuman animals lack causal understanding: they have no grasp of the “why” (EE 2.10.1226b21–9). Admittedly, the goal for the sake of which a human being chooses to act might be pleasure of a kind that nonhuman animals also experience. But

234  Malcolm Heath humans are not limited to such choices: they can be motivated by a wider range of values – for example, by the fact that something is beneficial or just (Pol. 1.2.1253a10–18). When humans of good character do something because it is the right thing to do, the action does give them pleasure (a kind of pleasure inaccessible to nonhuman animals); but the pleasure is not that for the sake of which they act. Aristotle insists that chains of deliberative reasoning must terminate somewhere. I can choose to do A for the sake of B, and B for the sake of C; but if there is not to be a futile regress, there must at some point be something that is not chosen for the sake of something else: it is chosen for its own sake, or because of itself.41 In Aristotle’s ethics, an act’s being chosen because of, or for the sake of, itself is one of the conditions of its being virtuous (EN 2.4.1105a32; cf. 6.12.1144a13–20). Aristotle often speaks equivalently of virtuous action being chosen because of, or for the sake of, “the fine” (to kalon).42 This motivational structure is not unique to ethics. In his discussion of musical education Aristotle recommends that children should learn to play an instrument “until they are able to take pleasure in fine melodies and rhythms, and not merely in the common element of music, as even some nonhuman animals do, and also the mass of servile people and children” (Pol. 8.6.1341a13–17). People whose education has carried them beyond that point of transition will take pleasure in fine melodies and rhythms because they are fine. As with virtuous action, the pleasure is not the source of the value that the music has for them: rather, the intrinsic value which (by virtue of their cultivated musical taste) they recognize in the music is the source of their pleasure.43 What is worth choosing because of itself is of more value than what is worth choosing only because of something else (EN 1.7.1097a25–b6). Where something is worth choosing because of something else, a counterfactual test can be applied to determine whether it is also worth choosing because of itself44: would the thing be worth choosing even in the absence of that something else? If, for example, we would not think it worth acting courageously in the absence of extrinsic goods such as honor, payment, or the avoidance of punishment, then we do not regard the courageous action as worth choosing because of itself, and our action is not an exercise of virtue. It follows that an account of the value of music that focuses exclusively on its consequential benefits and ignores its intrinsic value will miss what is of most value in music. In the discussion of musical education in Politics 8 Aristotle stresses not only its contribution to the ethical formation of young people, but also its importance as a preparation for the proper use of adult leisure (8.3.1337b22–8b4).45 Is it also true of poetry that it has (or can have) value because of itself, and not only for its consequential benefits? In the Protrepticus, arguing against those who dismiss philosophy because it is (allegedly) useless, Aristotle points out the regress problem: not everything can be valued because of something else.46 But he also reminds his opponents that they themselves do in fact value certain things even though they produce nothing beyond themselves: his examples are watching athletics at the Olympic Games and

Reading the Poetics in context  235 47

watching drama in the theater. It seems, then, that he regards drama and athletics as well as music as objects of appreciative attention (theōria) that can be worth choosing because of themselves, independently of whether they are also worth choosing because of something else, and therefore as things that can be appropriate objects of appreciative attention in cultivated leisure. It does not follow from this that poetry has no beneficial consequences. In the Protrepticus Aristotle argues not only that philosophy has intrinsic value, but also that is not, in fact, useless.48 The point is that, for Aristotle, it would be a vulgar error to suppose that usefulness is fundamental to tragedy’s value: “to be asking all the time what use something is, is most inappropriate for great-souled and free people” (Pol. 8.3.1338b2–4). This conclusion does not provide us with a fully elaborated answer to the question about the value of tragedy: on the contrary, it makes the question much more difficult to answer. Proving that something does in fact produce the beneficial consequences that have been claimed on its behalf may be hard: but it is at least easy to see what structure an argument for consequential value (A is good because of B) must have. The structure of an argument in support of a claim that something has intrinsic value (A is good because of A) is much harder to conceive. But if the anthropological starting point can help us to reach a clearer grasp of what the problem is, that is a good start. Further progress towards a solution to the problem will depend on a deeper understanding of Aristotle’s anthropology. That, in turn, will require reading the Poetics more systematically in its global Aristotelian context.

Notes 1 Mules: GA 2.8.747a23–8a14. Mole-rats: HA 1.9.491b26–34, 4.8.533a3–15; cf. de An 3.1.425a9–11. Elephants: PA 2.16.659a20–9. 2 Husain (2002, 121, n.17) notes the dominance of ethics, politics, and rhetoric in contextualizations of the Poetics. The Nicomachean Ethics gets more attention than the Eudemian Ethics: but that has until relatively recently been true even of studies of Aristotelian ethics. 3 Reeve (2012). 4 McKirahan (2010, 84). 5 Meyer (1993, 9). 6 Crivelli (2004). 7 Else (1957, ix), explaining the omission of Chapters 19b–22 and 25 (on Chapter 25, cf. 632: “not likely to have a major effect upon the interpretation of the rest of Aristotle’s work”). These chapters will certainly contribute little or nothing if one leaves them out. 8 Halliwell (1986, 2–3) comments on the division within modern scholarship between specialised study of Aristotelian scholarship, which regards the Poetics as marginal to the system (when it regards it at all), and study of the Poetics by literary scholars who often show little interest in the work’s relation to its author’s wider thought. Halliwell’s book is unusual for the number and range of references to the larger Aristotelian corpus; but see n.15 for some reservations. 9 Henry and Nielsen (2015, 1–2). The volume contains a single citation of the Poetics (Johnson 2015, 268 n.16).

236  Malcolm Heath







Reading the Poetics in context  237 22 Schmitt (2008, 310): “Die Wahrscheinlichkeit, die Aristoteles meint, betrifft, wie die Interpretation des 9. Kapitels zeigen wird, nicht die Ereignisfolge als solche, die in einer Dichtung dargestellt wird, sondern das Verhältnis zwischen Charakter und Handlung.” 23 Schmitt (2008, 328): Einen Charakter als solchen kann man daher nicht darstellen, wohl aber die Handlungen, für die ein Mensch sich auf Grund seiner allgemeinen Haltungen entscheidet … Deshalb stellt man auf der Bühne keine Charaktere dar, wohl aber Handlungen, die charakterlich motiviert sind und dadurch Charakter mit zum Ausdruck bringen. Die Kenntnis des Charakters ist nötig für die Darstellung einer richtig motivierten Handlung, sie dient daher der Handlungsdarstellung, ist ihr untergeordnet. 24 Tragedies without character would presumably show what someone would do, rather than what someone of a certain kind would do, and thus operate at something approximating to the human qua human level of generality. Aristotle clearly does not regard that as a good way to write tragedy, but he acknowledges that it is a possible way to write tragedy. 25 It is precisely because the action of which the plot is an imitation comprises many actions that successful plot-construction depends on recognizing what unifies those many actions: not, for example, their being performed by a single agent (8.1451a18–19). 26 Deslauriers (1990) sees the importance of this point. 27 Husain (2002, 87). I am largely in agreement with Halliwell’s review (2002a). 28 Husain (2002, 2). 29 Husain (2002, 18). 30 Note the conclusion which Husain draws from her argument: “It follows that the Poetics is not a how-to book for aspiring playwrights or critics, for while some advice to these aspirants is included, it is marginal. Aristotle is not a consultant to professional associations” (2002, 18). But, as we have seen, the treatise’s primary concern with the form of (different kinds of) poetry is directed to what is fundamental to the poet’s know-how. That is not sufficient for successful production, but the insufficiencies are addressed in the material which Husain calls “marginal” (a formulation which begs the question). It is also worth noting that a grasp of what makes a tragedy a good tragedy also contributes to the appreciative consumption of tragedy by audiences. 31 Aristotle would certainly resist the separation of a purely epistemic metalevel from the practical object level in the case of ethics, since political theory is about actions and also has action (not cognition) as its goal (EN1.1.1095a2–6; cf. 2.2.1103b26-32). 32 Starting from observed facts: e.g. HA 1.6.491a7–14; GA3.10.760b27–33. Empty theorizing: EE 1.8.1217b16–25 (logikōs kai kenōs); cf. Cael. 3.7.306a5–17; GC 1.2.316a5–14. 33 So the first of my initial questions illustrates the importance of understanding Aristotle’s expository practices (see n.10 above): GA 2.8 is one of the passages that contributes to the interpretation of Poet. 13–14 in Heath (2017). The other three initial questions are discussed in Heath (in preparation) §2.2. 34 For this contrast see also Pol. 1.4.1253b24–5; 1.9.1257b40–8a1; 3.9.1280a31–2, 1281a1–4; 7.4.1326b7–9; 7.8.1328a36–7. Cf. EN 1.8.1098b20–2. 35 Husain (2002, 48): “tragedy’s effect on a recipient must be subsequent to its having achieved its own tragic representational content, to its being a tragike mimesis in its own right. It cannot be definitory for it.” That is right, if the effect in question is the effect the tragedy actually has on a particular audience on a particular occasion: even if it is never performed, a tragedy is what it is. But a poem is not a (good) tragedy unless it is such as to have a certain effect

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36

37

38

39 40 41 42

43 44 45 46 47 48

on audiences – the effect that Aristotle specifies at the end of his definition of tragedy’s ousia (6.1449b22–3, 27–8: Husain 2002, 42–5 attempts to evade this objection, but at the cost of an interpretation of catharsis which, as Halliwell 2002a shows, is untenable); nor would a construction be a (good) house if it is not such as to provide shelter (cf. de An. 1.1.403b305; Met. 8.3.1043a31–3). In this sense, it is wrong to maintain that “an ousia is in its own intrinsic being prior to any efficient causality it may exert extrinsically on other things, and hence no extrinsic effect can enter either into its essential definitional or functional account” (Husain 2002, 49). Nor is it true to say that “a playwright who gears his techne to the preferences or weaknesses of an audience will produce a bad tragedy” (Husain 2002, 99): not all preferences are weaknesses. Playwrights who conform to the preference of an audience of good character, intelligence, and discrimination will produce good tragedies. If there were no humans, there would be no tragedies: in this sense, a normative human audience is prior to tragedy. The task of a tekhnē is not to explain the existence of the productive practices it deals with, but to achieve an explicit understanding of how best to achieve the goals of that practice – goals which are, like the practice itself, a datum that serves as a starting point. There is therefore a sense in which Husain is right: the Poetics is concerned primarily with what a tragedy is (ontological), not with why tragedies exist and are what they are (anthropological). But her approach, as well as exaggerating the level of ontological technicality relevant to the enquiry in the Poetics, also excludes the anthropological background so rigorously that an empirical datum (that tragedies are what they are) which can (within the remit of the Poetics) be left unexplained becomes in principle inexplicable. I attempt this project in Heath (in preparation). Schmitt has a different conception of an anthropological approach: poetry (and/or poetics) itself is “anthropological enquiry” (2008, 203), the anthropology here relating to human praxis as the content of poetry (230–1), rather than to the production and consumption of poetry as a species-typical human behavior. HA 7.12.597b21–9; 8.1.609b14–18. In addition, HA 4.9. 536b14–19 implies imitative learning, and the partridge’s decoy behavior (HA 8.8.613b17–21) is also an implied instance of imitation. Taking pleasure in imitations qua imitations is a different matter: the inferential component restricts it to rational animals (Heath 2013, 66–72, updating 2009a, 62–8). The following sketch is based on Heath (2014), which also outlines an account of poetic catharsis. Heath (in preparation) places these lines of argument in a much larger Aristotelian context and develops many of their implications in greater detail. EN 3.2.1111b8–9; 7.6.1149b34–5; EE 2.10.1226b21–3; Phys. 2.6.197b5–8. EN 1.2.1094a18–22; cf. Met. 2.2. 994b9–16; Protr. F42 Düring = Iamblichus Protr. 52.23–8. EN 3.7.1115b12–13, 20–4, 1116a11–15; 3.8.1116b2–3, 1117a8–9, 17; 3.9. 1117b9, 13–15; 3.12.1119b16; 4.1.1120a23–9, 1121b3–5; 4.2.1122b6–7; 4.3.1123a24–5; 9.8.1168a33–4; 10.8.1178b12–13; EE 3.1.1229a1–9, 1230a26–32; 8.3.1248b18–22, 34–7, 49a5–6, 13–14; Met. 12.7.1072a34–5. Thus, fine music has an objective claim on me. If a piece of ear-candy ceases to give me pleasure, I can simply throw it away: it has no more value for me. If Bruckner’s symphonies cease to give me pleasure, the defect is in me. EN 1.7.1097b2–4; 6.12.1144a1–3; 10.3.1174a4–8; Rhet. 1.6.1362b25–7, with b2–4; Top. 3.1.116a29–39, 117a2–4. See Lockwood in this volume. Protr. B42 Düring = Iamblichus Protr. 52.23–8. Protr. B44 Düring = Iamblichus Protr. 53.19–25. On this aspect of the Protrepticus see Walker (2010).

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Index locorum

Note: Page numbers followed by “n” denote endnotes. Aelian Varied History 4.3: 147–8 Aristophanes Birds 862–1057: 79 Frogs 52–4: 30 860–2: 29 Aristotle Categories 1b9–15: 193 1b16–19: 196 1b20–24: 193 2a13–19: 186 2a19–27: 193–4 2b16–21: 195 Eudemian Ethics 2.3: 207 3. 1233b18–26: 75 7.1234b32–235a2: 125 7.1242b21–7: 122 Generations of Animals 1.719a10: 209 2.736a10: 205 2.743b20–5: 94 2.747a23–b30: 231, 235 3.756b5–8, b6: 22, 205 History of Animals 1.486b19–22: 191 2.505b32–506a7: 208

3.515a34–b6: 27 3.523a17: 205 5.561a4: 204 6.491a7–14: 207 6.579b2: 205 7.583b9–11: 27 8.588b4: 24 Metaphysics 1.983a1–6: 209–10 1.981b13–25: 214 2.982b11–21: 22 1.982b9: 209 2.993b4: 205 3.995a26–30: 206 3.995a34–6: 206 5.986a22–6: 188 Meteorologica 1.350a14–18: 205 Nicomachean Ethics 1.1094a27: 115 1.1094b11–14: 203 1.1097a2–b6: 234 1.1097a25–b6: 105 1.1097b8–11: 124 2.1104a1–9: 203 2.1104b30–4: 36 2.1107a8–11: 75 2.1108a35–1108b16: 75 2.1108b4–5: 75 3.1110b24–7: 155 3.1110b28–33: 155 3.1.1111a3–5: 24 3.1111a10–11: 155 3.1119a11–15: 171

256  Index locorum 4.1127a13–b32: 80 5.1135a24–30: 155 5.1136a5–9: 154 6.1140a9–14: 228, 231 7.1145a15–17: 171 7.1147a10–b19; a10–24: 168, 171, 173 7.1147a24–33: 175 7.1148a16–20: 171 7.1149a25–35: 169 7.1150b19–25: 173 7.1150b29–34: 173 7.1151a20–6: 171 8.1160a4–7: 118 9.1167a22–3: 120 9.1170b8–14: 124 9.1171a11–12: 122 10.1181b7: 209 10.1181b16–23: 211 On the Poets 3.7: 156 On Sense Perception 437a: 151, 161 On the Soul 3.427b23–4: 25 Parts of Animals 1.641a27–32: 28 1.645a4–15: 25 1.645a23–36: 27–8 3.670b20–2: 188 4.681a12: 24 Physics 2.199b14–18: 226 Poetics 1.1447a6–9: 43 1.1447a18–23: 89, 90 2.1448a1–9: 90, 91, 92, 103, 110n71, 145, 151–2, 158, 166 2.1448a11–14, 11–18: 91, 146–8, 153 3.1448a19–24: 91 4.1448b5–12; 4–19; 4–22: 25, 54; 100, 101, 175, 233 4.1448b13–19: 61 4.1448b25–6; 23–7: 42, 153 4.1449b24–8: 59 5.1449a32–7: 70–1, 153–4, 165 5.1449b10: 153 5.1449a32–3; a31–5: 166; 171

6.1449b24–8; b27: 51, 67–8, 153, 176 6.1449b32–3: 131 6.1450a4; a4–5: 22, 28 6.1450a9–11, 10, 13; a16–19: 20; 131; 154, 167 6.1450a22–3; 27–9: 156 6.1450a23–8; a24–9: 93, 103, 156 6.1450a30: 133 6.1450a37–b2: 28, 93, 94, 95 6.1450b5–7: 21 6.1450b16–18: 30, 131 6.1450b18–20: 132 7.1450b25–1451a6; b36 –1451a6: 44–5, 98, 99 7.1450b34–1451a6: 26 7.1451a9–11; 6–15: 43–4, 99 7.1451a22–4: 20, 43 8.1451a30 – 4; a30–7: 97, 98; 217 9. 1451b5–8: 218 9.1451b26–33: 217 9.1451b37: 132 9.1452a1–6: 59 10.1452a21: 217 11.1452a29–32: 117 11.1452a31–2: 44 11.1452a36–b1: 59–60 11.1452b9–13: 57 13.1452b30–1: 44 13.1452b32–1453a: 149 13.1453a8–12: 165, 167 13.1453a22–3: 44 13.1453a33–6: 173 13.1452b29: 133 13.1453a2–6: 56–57, 149 13.1453a19–23: 118 14.1453b1–14; 53b1–10: 30, 58; 131, 132 14.1453b7–11: 131, 168 14.1453b10–13; b12: 55, 118 14.1453b14–23; 24–6: 43, 116–17; 153 14.1454a5–6: 155 15.1454a14–28: 157 15.1454b6–16: 157 15.1454b15–18: 18 15.1454b8–13: 92 16.1454b37–55a3: 101–2 17.1454 a 33 – 6: 172 17.1455a22–3; a23–4: 197; 20 17.1455b17–23: 94, 95 19.1456a33–b2: 18 19.1456b10: 132 20.1456b31–4: 18 20.1457b6–9: 185 21.1457b10–16: 187–8

Index locorum  257 21.1457b16–22: 189–90 22.1458a18–20: 147, 185 23.1459a17–34: 26 23. 1459a21–30: 216 24.1460a11–17: 115 25.1460b8–9: 104 25.1460b16–21: 114–15 25.1460b31–2: 104 25.1460b33–5: 96, 156 25.1461b12–13; 9–13: 104, 156 26.1461b24–5: 20 26. 1461b27–1462a4: 133 26.1462a5–6: 133 26.1462a11–14, a17–18: 30, 133 26.1462a15–17: 58–9 Politics 1.1252b32–3; b27–34: 215; 232–3 1.1253a2–7: 125 1.1253a7–18: 176 1.1253a15–18: 124 2.1261a22–5: 120 2.1262b7–9: 121 2.1263b32–5: 120 2.1263b37–64a1: 120 3.1279a–1280a: 7 3.1280b36–40: 123 3.1281b10–15: 156 4.1295b21–5: 77, 119, 121 5.1303a25–7: 121 5.1306a9–12: 121 5.1314a17–19: 122 7.1329a40–b18: 213 7.1329b25–31: 213 7.1332b15–16: 134 7.1332b41–1333a3: 134 7.1333a6–10: 135 7.1333a36–7: 215 7.1334a8–9: 136 7.1336a30–4: 176 7.1336b3–8: 37 7.1336b13–21; b20–3: 103; 115, 134 7.1336b28–30, 40–1, 1336b: 139, 152 8.1337a21–6: 134 8.1337b9–13: 136 8.1337b16–20: 136 8.1337b23–5: 104, 105 8.1337b31–2: 135 8.1338a15–19; 13–23: 105, 135 8.1338a37–b4: 105 8.1339a41–b4: 137 8.1340a: 37–8, 97, 103, 149–52, 160, 137

8.1340b22–5; 1340b: 138, 152 8.1340b42–41a3: 138 8.1341a10–21; a13–17: 138, 234 8.1341a19–21: 138, 140, 152 8.1341a21–4: 20 8.1341b8–18: 136 8.1341b38–40; b39–40: 70; 129 8.1342a4–7: 72 8.1342a11–12: 70 8.1342a18–26: 81–2 8.1342a23: 70 8.1342b23: 70 Posterior Analytics 1.71b9–12: 203 2.89b23–4: 203 Prior Analytics 1.46a17–26: 204 Protrepticus B42 Düring: 234–5 B44 Düring: 8, 234–5 Rhetoric 1.1354a6–12: 228, 236 1.1358b24–5: 212 1.1360a4: 213 1.1360a31–6: 212 1.1371b4–10: 101 1.1372a1–3: 19 2.1382a21–25: 56 2.1383a32–b3: 62 2.1386b34–1387a3: 74 2.1387a13: 74 2.1387b31: 74 2.1387b22–1388a30; b23: 73, 74 2.1388a24–7: 74 2.1388a35–6: 75 2.1389a3–1390a: 159–60 2.1393a30–b2: 213 2.1394a8: 212–13 2.8: 56, 81 3.1404a37–9: 19 3.1404b5–8: 19 3.1405a3–6: 19 3.1405a8–9: 185 3.1405a14–19: 189 3.1405a33–5: 188 3.1405b10–11: 197 3.1407a15–18: 190 3.1408a10–36: 147 3.1410b13–15: 189

258  Index locorum Topics 1.100b21–2: 205 1.105b12–15: 207 Demetrius On Style 76: 97 78: 192

Philebus 47e1–48a2: 74 48b8–9b: 74 48b11–12; 75 48b-50b: 71, 77 49d6–7: 75

Euripides Iphigenia among the Taurians 218–20: 125

Republic 386a–388e: 70 401e-402a: 39 607d6–9: 69 605c–606b: 70

Homer Od. 8.487–91: 102

Symposium 194a-b: 46

Iamblichus De Mysteriis 1.11: 69

Plutarch How a Youth Should Listen to Poems 18B-D: 55

Philodemus On Poetry PHerc. 1581, Fragment1, 2: 68–9, 76

Seneca On Anger 2.1.3–4: 54 2.2.6: 53–54

Plato Gorgias 502c: 21 503e–504a: 98 Ion 535b–e: 70 Laws 2.658d: 73 Phaedrus 265a: 27 268c: 70

Sophocles Oedipus at Colonos 1357: 125 Oedipus the King 1340: 125 1449–54: 125 Tractatus Coislinianus Fr. VI 8–9 (Janko): 174 Xenophon Memorabilia 3.9.8: 75 3.10.1–8: 93, 95, 96

Index

Note: Page numbers followed by “n” denote endnotes. aesthetic 8–9, 40, 51–3, 58, 63, 89, 92, 96, 99, 100, 102, 103 analogy 24, 88, 89, 91, 94, 95, 96, 97, 99, 100, 102, 104, 106, 110n71, 148, 185, 189–92, 196–7 anatomy 17, 30 art (tekhnē), as Aristotelian notion 7, 52, 89, 114–15, 132, 228–9, 231, 233, 238 arts (visual, literary and musical) 8, 9, 41, 46; and emotions 57–61, 88–106, 129–31, 134–5, 145–8, 149–53, 156–8, 175 Athenocentrism 113 biology 2, 8, 17, 23–32, 232 catharsis 5, 18, 19–20, 51, 67, 68, 69, 70, 72–3, 76–7, 80, 81, 82, 101, 129 character (ēthos) 21, 41–2, 53, 90, 91, 92, 93, 94, 95, 96, 97, 102, 103, 105, 107n22, 107n24, 108n39, 108n40, 110n71, 145–64, 166–7, 172, 177, 208; agent and moral trait 134, 150–1, 155, 230; in-between characters 145–8, 157–8; comic (phauloi) 42, 70–1, 90–1, 92, 103–4, 149–52, 157–8; similar to us (homoioi) 56, 146–8; tragic (spoudaioi) 42, 90–1, 92, 103–4, 148–9, 153–5, 157–8 city-state (polis) 2–4, 113–14, 124, 125, 127, 129–30, 133, 176, 232–3; civic art 129–31, 134, 139; civic concord; 120–1; civic dissent (stasis) 121–2; civic harmony 82; civic virtue 37; without a city-state (apolis) 125 comedy 42, 57, 66–82, 83n5, 83n6, 83n7, 83n9, 84n16, 84n22, 84n23, 86n46,

86n47, 86n51, 86n61, 86n62, 87n64, 115, 134–5, 148, 152, 155, 165, 167–8, 169–70, 172, 173, 174, 175, 176, 177; Old, Middle, New Comedy 82, 148 (passim, Middle), 169–70, 176 community (koinōnia) 126–7 contemplation (theōria) 25, 150, 215, 235 democracy 7, 130, 132, 134 education 37, 39, 104, 123, 134–40, 152–3, 176; liberal 130–1, 135–7; musical 70, 130–1, 133–8, 140, 149–51; Spartan education 137–8 emotion 6, 9, 51–3, 58, 53–5, 57–9, 61–2, 68–70, 72–3, 80–1, 83n6, 86n60, 137; aesthetic 51–3, 58; comedic 66–82, 82n2, 83n5, 83n9, 84n16, 84n20, 84n26, 84n29, 85n31, 86n61; proper for tragedy 6, 117, 131, 148–50; protoemotion 53–4 epic 4–5 (passim), 91, 94–5, 101–3, 131, 133, 135 error 77, 104, 153–5, 165–77; comic (hamartēma) 10–11, 71, 153–4, 165–8, 170–1, 174–5, 176, 177; ethical mistake 168–9, 170, 173, 174, 172, 177; tragic (hamartia) 10, 126, 153–5, 165, 166–7 ethics 2–3, 9–11, 24, 103–4, 203 fear 9, 51, 53, 55–9, 68, 72, 73, 74, 80, 117, 126–7, 132, 148–9, 167 fine (kalon) 8–9, 34–46, 52–3 genus 187, 195–6 goal/completion (telos) 215, 226

260 Index happiness (eudaimonia) 105, 123–4, 126–7, 134, 154 history 11, 202, 211–14, 216–19 humanities 17, 21–22, 30 imitation see mimesis kinship/friendship (philia) 116–24; familial 116–19; lack of/ lacking kinship/friendship (aphilia, aphilos) 125; political 119–22 lack of self-restraint (akrasia) 168, 169, 170–3, 174, 175, 176 laughable/ridiculous (geloion) 66, 70–1, 73, 76–8, 84n28, 85n33, 153, 167–8 leisure 134, 135–6, 140 malice-envy (phthonos) 9, 66–7, 69, 73–82, 82n1, 83n6, 85n31, 85n32, 85n33, 85n34, 85n35, 86n45, 86n47, 86n51, 167 metaphor 11, 185–98 mimesis 1, 4–6, 18, 25, 34, 37, 39, 41–3, 45, 53–5, 60–3, 88, 89, 90, 91, 92, 93, 97, 100, 104, 106n5, 106n10, 107n19, 108n40, 109n66, 109n68, 127, 131, 133, 137, 139, 148, 153–4, 157, 160, 175–6, 210, 226 moral psychology 66–7, 72–3, 82 music 130, 136–9, 149–51, 152, 160–1, 233 nature (phusis) 24, 226–8, 232–3, 236 painting 25–6, 88–110 (passim) 145–8, 150–3, 156–8, 230–1 particulars 155, 218, 219, 226 philosophical investigation 212 pity 9, 51, 55–60, 68, 70, 72, 73, 80, 116–17, 126–7, 132, 148–9, 154, 167; and violence among the kin (philoi) 116–19

pleasure 10, 21, 26–7, 35–7, 46, 55, 61–2, 66, 69, 72, 73, 74–6, 78–9, 80–1, 84n16, 85n32, 85n33, 85n39, 93–4, 100, 124, 137–8, 175 plot (muthos) 8, 17, 20–26, 28–29, 31, 44–5, 93–7, 60–3, 132, 156, 168, 172, 218 poetry 7, 21 (passim), 26–7, 69, 88–110 (passim), 115, 132, 157, 202, 203, 209, 210, 211, 215, 216, 217, 218, 219, 224–8, 232–5, 236–8; poetic autonomy 7, 114–6, 126 politics 2, 4, 8–11, 24, 113–14, 119–27, 129–30, 134, 225, 227–9, 233, 235–7 predication 186, 193–6 preliminary investigation (historia) 11, 202–5, 207–12, 214–18 recognition 57, 100–3, 117 shameful/ugly (aischron) 34–9, 40, 42, 70–1, 153, 165–6 species 186–92, 195–6 spectacle (opsis) (in performance) 7, 21, 131–3, 139–40, 141n15, 141n19, 142n23 spirit (thumos) 35–41 style/diction (lexis) 11, 19, 21, 92, 146–8, 151, 157, 185–6, 196–8 suffering (pathos) 57, 116–19, 126 taxonomy 192–5 thought (dianoia) 19, 21 tragedy 17–23, 25–6, 28–30, 33, 42, 43–7, 55, 67, 68, 70, 91, 114, 116–19, 130–3, 138–40, 148–9, 153–7, 232 tyranny 122 universals 100, 155, 217, 218, 219 value 176, 120, 123, 233–5, 238 way of life (bios) 208, 227, 232–3

Proper names

Note: Page numbers followed by “n” denote endnotes. Aeschylus 23, 29, 60 Aesop 29 Alcidamas 108n38 Aristophanes 29–30, 79, 82, 170 Cleophon 91, 146–8 Dionysius (painter) 91, 145–8 Dissoi logoi 110n74 Empedocles 187, 190, 231 Euripides 29–30, 60, 93, 94, 96, 156, 187 Herodotus 22, 204, 205, 211, 215, 216 Homer 26–7, 32, 82, 91, 94, 95, 102, 103, 107n18, 107n21, 107n22, 108n41, 108n42, 146, 148, 187, 189 Iamblichus 12n5, 68–9 Isocrates 108n38 Menander 159, 169–70, 174 Pausanias 147 Pauson 90, 91, 103, 107n13, 145–6, 150–2, 155, 158 Philodemus 12n5, 68–9, 76 Phrynichus 23 Pindar 31 Plato 4–6, 17, 24, 27, 29–33, 34–6, 38–41, 46–7, 55, 64n13, 69–70, 74, 82, 89,

96, 98, 103, 106n4, 106n12, 107n18, 107n25, 108n27, 108n38, 109n67, 109n68, 110n72, 114, 119–20, 123, 133, 142n22, 152, 162, 236 Pliny the Elder 107n13, 107n24, 108n34, 108n47, 110n71, 159 Plutarch 23, 55, 161, 96, 108n36 Polygnotus 90, 91, 93, 103, 107n13, 107n18, 107n24, 147–8, 150–3, 156 Proclus 69 ps.-Demetrius (= the author of On Style) 97, 192 ps.-Plato 74–5 Seneca 53–4 Simonides 96 Socrates 29, 38, 46–7, 69–70, 74–5, 95–7 Sophocles 58, 82, 91, 93, 96, 148, 155–6 Sparta 136–8 Theodectes 117 Theodorus (4th century actor) 141n20 Theophrastus 80, 192 Thucydides 11, 202, 211, 218 Tractatus Coislinianus 12n5, 69, 79–80, 166, 174–5 Xenophon 75, 93, 95, 96–7, 106n6, 106n12, 109n67 Zeuxis 93, 104, 155–6