A STUDY OF ARISTOTLE’S POETICS

Scott Meyers

2014
POETICS BY ARISTOTLE
Translated by S. H. Butcher

SECTION 1
Part I

I propose to treat of Poetry in itself and of its various kinds,

noting the essential quality of each, to inquire into the structure
of the plot as requisite to a good poem; into the number and nature
of the parts of which a poem is composed; and similarly into whatever
else falls within the same inquiry. Following, then, the order of
nature, let us begin with the principles which come first.

Epic poetry and Tragedy, Comedy also and Dithyrambic poetry, and the
music of the flute and of the lyre in most of their forms, are all
in their general conception modes of imitation. They differ, however,
from one another in three respects- the medium, the objects, the manner
or mode of imitation, being in each case distinct.

For as there are persons who, by conscious art or mere habit, imitate
and represent various objects through the medium of color and form,
or again by the voice; so in the arts above mentioned, taken as a
whole, the imitation is produced by rhythm, language, or 'harmony,'
either singly or combined.

Thus in the music of the flute and of the lyre, 'harmony' and rhythm
alone are employed; also in other arts, such as that of the shepherd's
pipe, which are essentially similar to these. In dancing, rhythm alone
is used without 'harmony'; for even dancing imitates character, emotion,
and action, by rhythmical movement.

There is another art which imitates by means of language alone, and

that either in prose or verse- which verse, again, may either combine
different meters or consist of but one kind- but this has hitherto
been without a name. For there is no common term we could apply to
the mimes of Sophron and Xenarchus and the Socratic dialogues on the
one hand; and, on the other, to poetic imitations in iambic, elegiac,
or any similar meter. People do, indeed, add the word 'maker' or 'poet'
to the name of the meter, and speak of elegiac poets, or epic (that
is, hexameter) poets, as if it were not the imitation that makes the
poet, but the verse that entitles them all to the name. Even when
a treatise on medicine or natural science is brought out in verse,
the name of poet is by custom given to the author; and yet Homer and
Empedocles have nothing in common but the meter, so that it would
be right to call the one poet, the other physicist rather than poet.
On the same principle, even if a writer in his poetic imitation were
to combine all meters, as Chaeremon did in his Centaur, which is a
medley composed of meters of all kinds, we should bring him too under
the general term poet.

So much then for these distinctions.

There are, again, some arts which employ all the means above mentioned-
namely, rhythm, tune, and meter. Such are Dithyrambic and Nomic poetry,
and also Tragedy and Comedy; but between them originally the difference
is, that in the first two cases these means are all employed in combination,
in the latter, now one means is employed, now another.

Such, then, are the differences of the arts with respect to the medium
of imitation

Part II

Since the objects of imitation are men in action, and these men must
be either of a higher or a lower type (for moral character mainly
answers to these divisions, goodness and badness being the distinguishing
marks of moral differences), it follows that we must represent men
either as better than in real life, or as worse, or as they are. It
is the same in painting. Polygnotus depicted men as nobler than they
are, Pauson as less noble, Dionysius drew them true to life.

Now it is evident that each of the modes of imitation above mentioned

will exhibit these differences, and become a distinct kind in imitating
objects that are thus distinct. Such diversities may be found even
in dancing, flute-playing, and lyre-playing. So again in language,
whether prose or verse unaccompanied by music. Homer, for example,
makes men better than they are; Cleophon as they are; Hegemon the
Thasian, the inventor of parodies, and Nicochares, the author of the
Deiliad, worse than they are. The same thing holds good of Dithyrambs
and Nomes; here too one may portray different types, as Timotheus
and Philoxenus differed in representing their Cyclopes. The same distinction
marks off Tragedy from Comedy; for Comedy aims at representing men
as worse, Tragedy as better than in actual life.

Part III

There is still a third difference- the manner in which each of these

objects may be imitated. For the medium being the same, and the objects
the same, the poet may imitate by narration- in which case he can
either take another personality as Homer does, or speak in his own
person, unchanged- or he may present all his characters as living
and moving before us.
These, then, as we said at the beginning, are the three differences
which distinguish artistic imitation- the medium, the objects, and
the manner. So that from one point of view, Sophocles is an imitator
of the same kind as Homer- for both imitate higher types of character;
from another point of view, of the same kind as Aristophanes- for
both imitate persons acting and doing. Hence, some say, the name of
'drama' is given to such poems, as representing action. For the same
reason the Dorians claim the invention both of Tragedy and Comedy.
The claim to Comedy is put forward by the Megarians- not only by those
of Greece proper, who allege that it originated under their democracy,
but also by the Megarians of Sicily, for the poet Epicharmus, who
is much earlier than Chionides and Magnes, belonged to that country.
Tragedy too is claimed by certain Dorians of the Peloponnese. In each
case they appeal to the evidence of language. The outlying villages,
they say, are by them called komai, by the Athenians demoi: and they
assume that comedians were so named not from komazein, 'to revel,'
but because they wandered from village to village (kata komas), being
excluded contemptuously from the city. They add also that the Dorian
word for 'doing' is dran, and the Athenian, prattein.

This may suffice as to the number and nature of the various modes
of imitation.

Part IV

Poetry in general seems to have sprung from two causes, each of them
lying deep in our nature. First, the instinct of imitation is implanted
in man from childhood, one difference between him and other animals
being that he is the most imitative of living creatures, and through
imitation learns his earliest lessons; and no less universal is the
pleasure felt in things imitated. We have evidence of this in the
facts of experience. Objects which in themselves we view with pain,
we delight to contemplate when reproduced with minute fidelity: such
as the forms of the most ignoble animals and of dead bodies. The cause
of this again is, that to learn gives the liveliest pleasure, not
only to philosophers but to men in general; whose capacity, however,
of learning is more limited. Thus the reason why men enjoy seeing
a likeness is, that in contemplating it they find themselves learning
or inferring, and saying perhaps, 'Ah, that is he.' For if you happen
not to have seen the original, the pleasure will be due not to the
imitation as such, but to the execution, the coloring, or some such
other cause.

Imitation, then, is one instinct of our nature. Next, there is the

instinct for 'harmony' and rhythm, meters being manifestly sections
of rhythm. Persons, therefore, starting with this natural gift developed
by degrees their special aptitudes, till their rude improvisations
gave birth to Poetry.

Poetry now diverged in two directions, according to the individual

character of the writers. The graver spirits imitated noble actions,
and the actions of good men. The more trivial sort imitated the actions
of meaner persons, at first composing satires, as the former did hymns
to the gods and the praises of famous men. A poem of the satirical
kind cannot indeed be put down to any author earlier than Homer; though
many such writers probably there were. But from Homer onward, instances
can be cited- his own Margites, for example, and other similar compositions.
The appropriate meter was also here introduced; hence the measure
is still called the iambic or lampooning measure, being that in which
people lampooned one another. Thus the older poets were distinguished
as writers of heroic or of lampooning verse.

As, in the serious style, Homer is pre-eminent among poets, for he

alone combined dramatic form with excellence of imitation so he too
first laid down the main lines of comedy, by dramatizing the ludicrous
instead of writing personal satire. His Margites bears the same relation
to comedy that the Iliad and Odyssey do to tragedy. But when Tragedy
and Comedy came to light, the two classes of poets still followed
their natural bent: the lampooners became writers of Comedy, and the
Epic poets were succeeded by Tragedians, since the drama was a larger
and higher form of art.

Whether Tragedy has as yet perfected its proper types or not; and
whether it is to be judged in itself, or in relation also to the audience-
this raises another question. Be that as it may, Tragedy- as also
Comedy- was at first mere improvisation. The one originated with the
authors of the Dithyramb, the other with those of the phallic songs,
which are still in use in many of our cities. Tragedy advanced by
slow degrees; each new element that showed itself was in turn developed.
Having passed through many changes, it found its natural form, and
there it stopped.

Aeschylus first introduced a second actor; he diminished the importance

of the Chorus, and assigned the leading part to the dialogue. Sophocles
raised the number of actors to three, and added scene-painting. Moreover,
it was not till late that the short plot was discarded for one of
greater compass, and the grotesque diction of the earlier satyric
form for the stately manner of Tragedy. The iambic measure then replaced
the trochaic tetrameter, which was originally employed when the poetry
was of the satyric order, and had greater with dancing. Once dialogue
had come in, Nature herself discovered the appropriate measure. For
the iambic is, of all measures, the most colloquial we see it in the
fact that conversational speech runs into iambic lines more frequently
than into any other kind of verse; rarely into hexameters, and only
when we drop the colloquial intonation. The additions to the number
of 'episodes' or acts, and the other accessories of which tradition
tells, must be taken as already described; for to discuss them in
detail would, doubtless, be a large undertaking.

Part V

Comedy is, as we have said, an imitation of characters of a lower

type- not, however, in the full sense of the word bad, the ludicrous
being merely a subdivision of the ugly. It consists in some defect
or ugliness which is not painful or destructive. To take an obvious
example, the comic mask is ugly and distorted, but does not imply
pain.

The successive changes through which Tragedy passed, and the authors
of these changes, are well known, whereas Comedy has had no history,
because it was not at first treated seriously. It was late before
the Archon granted a comic chorus to a poet; the performers were till
then voluntary. Comedy had already taken definite shape when comic
poets, distinctively so called, are heard of. Who furnished it with
masks, or prologues, or increased the number of actors- these and
other similar details remain unknown. As for the plot, it came originally
from Sicily; but of Athenian writers Crates was the first who abandoning
the 'iambic' or lampooning form, generalized his themes and plots.

Epic poetry agrees with Tragedy in so far as it is an imitation in

verse of characters of a higher type. They differ in that Epic poetry
admits but one kind of meter and is narrative in form. They differ,
again, in their length: for Tragedy endeavors, as far as possible,
to confine itself to a single revolution of the sun, or but slightly
to exceed this limit, whereas the Epic action has no limits of time.
This, then, is a second point of difference; though at first the same
freedom was admitted in Tragedy as in Epic poetry.

Of their constituent parts some are common to both, some peculiar

to Tragedy: whoever, therefore knows what is good or bad Tragedy,
knows also about Epic poetry. All the elements of an Epic poem are
found in Tragedy, but the elements of a Tragedy are not all found
in the Epic poem.

Part VI

Of the poetry which imitates in hexameter verse, and of Comedy, we

will speak hereafter. Let us now discuss Tragedy, resuming its formal
definition, as resulting from what has been already said.

Tragedy, then, is an imitation of an action that is serious, complete,

and of a certain magnitude; in language embellished with each kind
of artistic ornament, the several kinds being found in separate parts
of the play; in the form of action, not of narrative; through pity
and fear effecting the proper purgation of these emotions. By 'language
embellished,' I mean language into which rhythm, 'harmony' and song
enter. By 'the several kinds in separate parts,' I mean, that some
parts are rendered through the medium of verse alone, others again
with the aid of song.

Now as tragic imitation implies persons acting, it necessarily follows

in the first place, that Spectacular equipment will be a part of Tragedy.
Next, Song and Diction, for these are the media of imitation. By 'Diction'
I mean the mere metrical arrangement of the words: as for 'Song,'
it is a term whose sense every one understands.

Again, Tragedy is the imitation of an action; and an action implies

personal agents, who necessarily possess certain distinctive qualities
both of character and thought; for it is by these that we qualify
actions themselves, and these- thought and character- are the two
natural causes from which actions spring, and on actions again all
success or failure depends. Hence, the Plot is the imitation of the
action- for by plot I here mean the arrangement of the incidents.
By Character I mean that in virtue of which we ascribe certain qualities
to the agents. Thought is required wherever a statement is proved,
or, it may be, a general truth enunciated. Every Tragedy, therefore,
must have six parts, which parts determine its quality- namely, Plot,
Character, Diction, Thought, Spectacle, Song. Two of the parts constitute
the medium of imitation, one the manner, and three the objects of
imitation. And these complete the fist. These elements have been employed,
we may say, by the poets to a man; in fact, every play contains Spectacular
elements as well as Character, Plot, Diction, Song, and Thought.

But most important of all is the structure of the incidents. For Tragedy
is an imitation, not of men, but of an action and of life, and life
consists in action, and its end is a mode of action, not a quality.
Now character determines men's qualities, but it is by their actions
that they are happy or the reverse. Dramatic action, therefore, is
not with a view to the representation of character: character comes
in as subsidiary to the actions. Hence the incidents and the plot
are the end of a tragedy; and the end is the chief thing of all. Again,
without action there cannot be a tragedy; there may be without character.
The tragedies of most of our modern poets fail in the rendering of
character; and of poets in general this is often true. It is the same
in painting; and here lies the difference between Zeuxis and Polygnotus.
Polygnotus delineates character well; the style of Zeuxis is devoid
of ethical quality. Again, if you string together a set of speeches
expressive of character, and well finished in point of diction and
thought, you will not produce the essential tragic effect nearly so
well as with a play which, however deficient in these respects, yet
has a plot and artistically constructed incidents. Besides which,
the most powerful elements of emotional interest in Tragedy- Peripeteia
or Reversal of the Situation, and Recognition scenes- are parts of
the plot. A further proof is, that novices in the art attain to finish
of diction and precision of portraiture before they can construct
the plot. It is the same with almost all the early poets.

The plot, then, is the first principle, and, as it were, the soul
of a tragedy; Character holds the second place. A similar fact is
seen in painting. The most beautiful colors, laid on confusedly, will
not give as much pleasure as the chalk outline of a portrait. Thus
Tragedy is the imitation of an action, and of the agents mainly with
a view to the action.

Third in order is Thought- that is, the faculty of saying what is

possible and pertinent in given circumstances. In the case of oratory,
this is the function of the political art and of the art of rhetoric:
and so indeed the older poets make their characters speak the language
of civic life; the poets of our time, the language of the rhetoricians.
Character is that which reveals moral purpose, showing what kind of
things a man chooses or avoids. Speeches, therefore, which do not
make this manifest, or in which the speaker does not choose or avoid
anything whatever, are not expressive of character. Thought, on the
other hand, is found where something is proved to be or not to be,
or a general maxim is enunciated.

Fourth among the elements enumerated comes Diction; by which I mean,

as has been already said, the expression of the meaning in words;
and its essence is the same both in verse and prose.

Of the remaining elements Song holds the chief place among the embellishments

The Spectacle has, indeed, an emotional attraction of its own, but,

of all the parts, it is the least artistic, and connected least with
the art of poetry. For the power of Tragedy, we may be sure, is felt
even apart from representation and actors. Besides, the production
of spectacular effects depends more on the art of the stage machinist
than on that of the poet.

Part VII
These principles being established, let us now discuss the proper
structure of the Plot, since this is the first and most important
thing in Tragedy.

Now, according to our definition Tragedy is an imitation of an action

that is complete, and whole, and of a certain magnitude; for there
may be a whole that is wanting in magnitude. A whole is that which
has a beginning, a middle, and an end. A beginning is that which does
not itself follow anything by causal necessity, but after which something
naturally is or comes to be. An end, on the contrary, is that which
itself naturally follows some other thing, either by necessity, or
as a rule, but has nothing following it. A middle is that which follows
something as some other thing follows it. A well constructed plot,
therefore, must neither begin nor end at haphazard, but conform to
these principles.

Again, a beautiful object, whether it be a living organism or any

whole composed of parts, must not only have an orderly arrangement
of parts, but must also be of a certain magnitude; for beauty depends
on magnitude and order. Hence a very small animal organism cannot
be beautiful; for the view of it is confused, the object being seen
in an almost imperceptible moment of time. Nor, again, can one of
vast size be beautiful; for as the eye cannot take it all in at once,
the unity and sense of the whole is lost for the spectator; as for
instance if there were one a thousand miles long. As, therefore, in
the case of animate bodies and organisms a certain magnitude is necessary,
and a magnitude which may be easily embraced in one view; so in the
plot, a certain length is necessary, and a length which can be easily
embraced by the memory. The limit of length in relation to dramatic
competition and sensuous presentment is no part of artistic theory.
For had it been the rule for a hundred tragedies to compete together,
the performance would have been regulated by the water-clock- as indeed
we are told was formerly done. But the limit as fixed by the nature
of the drama itself is this: the greater the length, the more beautiful
will the piece be by reason of its size, provided that the whole be
perspicuous. And to define the matter roughly, we may say that the
proper magnitude is comprised within such limits, that the sequence
of events, according to the law of probability or necessity, will
admit of a change from bad fortune to good, or from good fortune to
bad.

Part VIII

Unity of plot does not, as some persons think, consist in the unity
of the hero. For infinitely various are the incidents in one man's
life which cannot be reduced to unity; and so, too, there are many
actions of one man out of which we cannot make one action. Hence the
error, as it appears, of all poets who have composed a Heracleid,
a Theseid, or other poems of the kind. They imagine that as Heracles
was one man, the story of Heracles must also be a unity. But Homer,
as in all else he is of surpassing merit, here too- whether from art
or natural genius- seems to have happily discerned the truth. In composing
the Odyssey he did not include all the adventures of Odysseus- such
as his wound on Parnassus, or his feigned madness at the mustering
of the host- incidents between which there was no necessary or probable
connection: but he made the Odyssey, and likewise the Iliad, to center
round an action that in our sense of the word is one. As therefore,
in the other imitative arts, the imitation is one when the object
imitated is one, so the plot, being an imitation of an action, must
imitate one action and that a whole, the structural union of the parts
being such that, if any one of them is displaced or removed, the whole
will be disjointed and disturbed. For a thing whose presence or absence
makes no visible difference, is not an organic part of the whole.

Part IX

It is, moreover, evident from what has been said, that it is not the
function of the poet to relate what has happened, but what may happen-
what is possible according to the law of probability or necessity.
The poet and the historian differ not by writing in verse or in prose.
The work of Herodotus might be put into verse, and it would still
be a species of history, with meter no less than without it. The true
difference is that one relates what has happened, the other what may
happen. Poetry, therefore, is a more philosophical and a higher thing
than history: for poetry tends to express the universal, history the
particular. By the universal I mean how a person of a certain type
on occasion speak or act, according to the law of probability or necessity;
and it is this universality at which poetry aims in the names she
attaches to the personages. The particular is- for example- what Alcibiades
did or suffered. In Comedy this is already apparent: for here the
poet first constructs the plot on the lines of probability, and then
inserts characteristic names- unlike the lampooners who write about
particular individuals. But tragedians still keep to real names, the
reason being that what is possible is credible: what has not happened
we do not at once feel sure to be possible; but what has happened
is manifestly possible: otherwise it would not have happened. Still
there are even some tragedies in which there are only one or two well-known
names, the rest being fictitious. In others, none are well known-
as in Agathon's Antheus, where incidents and names alike are fictitious,
and yet they give none the less pleasure. We must not, therefore,
at all costs keep to the received legends, which are the usual subjects
of Tragedy. Indeed, it would be absurd to attempt it; for even subjects
that are known are known only to a few, and yet give pleasure to all.
It clearly follows that the poet or 'maker' should be the maker of
plots rather than of verses; since he is a poet because he imitates,
and what he imitates are actions. And even if he chances to take a
historical subject, he is none the less a poet; for there is no reason
why some events that have actually happened should not conform to
the law of the probable and possible, and in virtue of that quality
in them he is their poet or maker.

Of all plots and actions the episodic are the worst. I call a plot
'episodic' in which the episodes or acts succeed one another without
probable or necessary sequence. Bad poets compose such pieces by their
own fault, good poets, to please the players; for, as they write show
pieces for competition, they stretch the plot beyond its capacity,
and are often forced to break the natural continuity.

But again, Tragedy is an imitation not only of a complete action,

but of events inspiring fear or pity. Such an effect is best produced
when the events come on us by surprise; and the effect is heightened
when, at the same time, they follow as cause and effect. The tragic
wonder will then be greater than if they happened of themselves or
by accident; for even coincidences are most striking when they have
an air of design. We may instance the statue of Mitys at Argos, which
fell upon his murderer while he was a spectator at a festival, and
killed him. Such events seem not to be due to mere chance. Plots,
therefore, constructed on these principles are necessarily the best.

Part X

Plots are either Simple or Complex, for the actions in real life,
of which the plots are an imitation, obviously show a similar distinction.
An action which is one and continuous in the sense above defined,
I call Simple, when the change of fortune takes place without Reversal
of the Situation and without Recognition

A Complex action is one in which the change is accompanied by such

Reversal, or by Recognition, or by both. These last should arise from
the internal structure of the plot, so that what follows should be
the necessary or probable result of the preceding action. It makes
all the difference whether any given event is a case of propter hoc
or post hoc.

Part XI

Reversal of the Situation is a change by which the action veers round

to its opposite, subject always to our rule of probability or necessity.
Thus in the Oedipus, the messenger comes to cheer Oedipus and free
him from his alarms about his mother, but by revealing who he is,
he produces the opposite effect. Again in the Lynceus, Lynceus is
being led away to his death, and Danaus goes with him, meaning to
slay him; but the outcome of the preceding incidents is that Danaus
is killed and Lynceus saved.

Recognition, as the name indicates, is a change from ignorance to

knowledge, producing love or hate between the persons destined by
the poet for good or bad fortune. The best form of recognition is
coincident with a Reversal of the Situation, as in the Oedipus. There
are indeed other forms. Even inanimate things of the most trivial
kind may in a sense be objects of recognition. Again, we may recognize
or discover whether a person has done a thing or not. But the recognition
which is most intimately connected with the plot and action is, as
we have said, the recognition of persons. This recognition, combined
with Reversal, will produce either pity or fear; and actions producing
these effects are those which, by our definition, Tragedy represents.
Moreover, it is upon such situations that the issues of good or bad
fortune will depend. Recognition, then, being between persons, it
may happen that one person only is recognized by the other- when the
latter is already known- or it may be necessary that the recognition
should be on both sides. Thus Iphigenia is revealed to Orestes by
the sending of the letter; but another act of recognition is required
to make Orestes known to Iphigenia.

Two parts, then, of the Plot- Reversal of the Situation and Recognition-
turn upon surprises. A third part is the Scene of Suffering. The Scene
of Suffering is a destructive or painful action, such as death on
the stage, bodily agony, wounds, and the like.

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SECTION 2

Part XII

The parts of Tragedy which must be treated as elements of the whole

have been already mentioned. We now come to the quantitative parts-
the separate parts into which Tragedy is divided- namely, Prologue,
Episode, Exode, Choric song; this last being divided into Parode and
Stasimon. These are common to all plays: peculiar to some are the
songs of actors from the stage and the Commoi.

The Prologue is that entire part of a tragedy which precedes the Parode
of the Chorus. The Episode is that entire part of a tragedy which
is between complete choric songs. The Exode is that entire part of
a tragedy which has no choric song after it. Of the Choric part the
Parode is the first undivided utterance of the Chorus: the Stasimon
is a Choric ode without anapaests or trochaic tetrameters: the Commos
is a joint lamentation of Chorus and actors. The parts of Tragedy
which must be treated as elements of the whole have been already mentioned.
The quantitative parts- the separate parts into which it is divided-
are here enumerated.

Part XIII

As the sequel to what has already been said, we must proceed to consider
what the poet should aim at, and what he should avoid, in constructing
his plots; and by what means the specific effect of Tragedy will be
produced.

A perfect tragedy should, as we have seen, be arranged not on the

simple but on the complex plan. It should, moreover, imitate actions
which excite pity and fear, this being the distinctive mark of tragic
imitation. It follows plainly, in the first place, that the change
of fortune presented must not be the spectacle of a virtuous man brought
from prosperity to adversity: for this moves neither pity nor fear;
it merely shocks us. Nor, again, that of a bad man passing from adversity
to prosperity: for nothing can be more alien to the spirit of Tragedy;
it possesses no single tragic quality; it neither satisfies the moral
sense nor calls forth pity or fear. Nor, again, should the downfall
of the utter villain be exhibited. A plot of this kind would, doubtless,
satisfy the moral sense, but it would inspire neither pity nor fear;
for pity is aroused by unmerited misfortune, fear by the misfortune
of a man like ourselves. Such an event, therefore, will be neither
pitiful nor terrible. There remains, then, the character between these
two extremes- that of a man who is not eminently good and just, yet
whose misfortune is brought about not by vice or depravity, but by
some error or frailty. He must be one who is highly renowned and prosperous-
a personage like Oedipus, Thyestes, or other illustrious men of such
families.

A well-constructed plot should, therefore, be single in its issue,

rather than double as some maintain. The change of fortune should
be not from bad to good, but, reversely, from good to bad. It should
come about as the result not of vice, but of some great error or frailty,
in a character either such as we have described, or better rather
than worse. The practice of the stage bears out our view. At first
the poets recounted any legend that came in their way. Now, the best
tragedies are founded on the story of a few houses- on the fortunes
of Alcmaeon, Oedipus, Orestes, Meleager, Thyestes, Telephus, and those
others who have done or suffered something terrible. A tragedy, then,
to be perfect according to the rules of art should be of this construction.
Hence they are in error who censure Euripides just because he follows
this principle in his plays, many of which end unhappily. It is, as
we have said, the right ending. The best proof is that on the stage
and in dramatic competition, such plays, if well worked out, are the
most tragic in effect; and Euripides, faulty though he may be in the
general management of his subject, yet is felt to be the most tragic
of the poets.

In the second rank comes the kind of tragedy which some place first.
Like the Odyssey, it has a double thread of plot, and also an opposite
catastrophe for the good and for the bad. It is accounted the best
because of the weakness of the spectators; for the poet is guided
in what he writes by the wishes of his audience. The pleasure, however,
thence derived is not the true tragic pleasure. It is proper rather
to Comedy, where those who, in the piece, are the deadliest enemies-
like Orestes and Aegisthus- quit the stage as friends at the close,
and no one slays or is slain.

Part XIV

Fear and pity may be aroused by spectacular means; but they may also
result from the inner structure of the piece, which is the better
way, and indicates a superior poet. For the plot ought to be so constructed
that, even without the aid of the eye, he who hears the tale told
will thrill with horror and melt to pity at what takes Place. This
is the impression we should receive from hearing the story of the
Oedipus. But to produce this effect by the mere spectacle is a less
artistic method, and dependent on extraneous aids. Those who employ
spectacular means to create a sense not of the terrible but only of
the monstrous, are strangers to the purpose of Tragedy; for we must
not demand of Tragedy any and every kind of pleasure, but only that
which is proper to it. And since the pleasure which the poet should
afford is that which comes from pity and fear through imitation, it
is evident that this quality must be impressed upon the incidents.

Let us then determine what are the circumstances which strike us as

terrible or pitiful.

Actions capable of this effect must happen between persons who are
either friends or enemies or indifferent to one another. If an enemy
kills an enemy, there is nothing to excite pity either in the act
or the intention- except so far as the suffering in itself is pitiful.
So again with indifferent persons. But when the tragic incident occurs
between those who are near or dear to one another- if, for example,
a brother kills, or intends to kill, a brother, a son his father,
a mother her son, a son his mother, or any other deed of the kind
is done- these are the situations to be looked for by the poet. He
may not indeed destroy the framework of the received legends- the
fact, for instance, that Clytemnestra was slain by Orestes and Eriphyle
by Alcmaeon- but he ought to show of his own, and skilfully handle
the traditional. material. Let us explain more clearly what is meant
by skilful handling.

The action may be done consciously and with knowledge of the persons,
in the manner of the older poets. It is thus too that Euripides makes
Medea slay her children. Or, again, the deed of horror may be done,
but done in ignorance, and the tie of kinship or friendship be discovered
afterwards. The Oedipus of Sophocles is an example. Here, indeed,
the incident is outside the drama proper; but cases occur where it
falls within the action of the play: one may cite the Alcmaeon of
Astydamas, or Telegonus in the Wounded Odysseus. Again, there is a
third case- [to be about to act with knowledge of the persons and
then not to act. The fourth case] is when some one is about to do
an irreparable deed through ignorance, and makes the discovery before
it is done. These are the only possible ways. For the deed must either
be done or not done- and that wittingly or unwittingly. But of all
these ways, to be about to act knowing the persons, and then not to
act, is the worst. It is shocking without being tragic, for no disaster
follows It is, therefore, never, or very rarely, found in poetry.
One instance, however, is in the Antigone, where Haemon threatens
to kill Creon. The next and better way is that the deed should be
perpetrated. Still better, that it should be perpetrated in ignorance,
and the discovery made afterwards. There is then nothing to shock
us, while the discovery produces a startling effect. The last case
is the best, as when in the Cresphontes Merope is about to slay her
son, but, recognizing who he is, spares his life. So in the Iphigenia,
the sister recognizes the brother just in time. Again in the Helle,
the son recognizes the mother when on the point of giving her up.
This, then, is why a few families only, as has been already observed,
furnish the subjects of tragedy. It was not art, but happy chance,
that led the poets in search of subjects to impress the tragic quality
upon their plots. They are compelled, therefore, to have recourse
to those houses whose history contains moving incidents like these.

Enough has now been said concerning the structure of the incidents,
and the right kind of plot.

Part XV
In respect of Character there are four things to be aimed at. First,
and most important, it must be good. Now any speech or action that
manifests moral purpose of any kind will be expressive of character:
the character will be good if the purpose is good. This rule is relative
to each class. Even a woman may be good, and also a slave; though
the woman may be said to be an inferior being, and the slave quite
worthless. The second thing to aim at is propriety. There is a type
of manly valor; but valor in a woman, or unscrupulous cleverness is
inappropriate. Thirdly, character must be true to life: for this is
a distinct thing from goodness and propriety, as here described. The
fourth point is consistency: for though the subject of the imitation,
who suggested the type, be inconsistent, still he must be consistently
inconsistent. As an example of motiveless degradation of character,
we have Menelaus in the Orestes; of character indecorous and inappropriate,
the lament of Odysseus in the Scylla, and the speech of Melanippe;
of inconsistency, the Iphigenia at Aulis- for Iphigenia the suppliant
in no way resembles her later self.

As in the structure of the plot, so too in the portraiture of character,

the poet should always aim either at the necessary or the probable.
Thus a person of a given character should speak or act in a given
way, by the rule either of necessity or of probability; just as this
event should follow that by necessary or probable sequence. It is
therefore evident that the unraveling of the plot, no less than the
complication, must arise out of the plot itself, it must not be brought
about by the Deus ex Machina- as in the Medea, or in the return of
the Greeks in the Iliad. The Deus ex Machina should be employed only
for events external to the drama- for antecedent or subsequent events,
which lie beyond the range of human knowledge, and which require to
be reported or foretold; for to the gods we ascribe the power of seeing
all things. Within the action there must be nothing irrational. If
the irrational cannot be excluded, it should be outside the scope
of the tragedy. Such is the irrational element the Oedipus of Sophocles.

Again, since Tragedy is an imitation of persons who are above the

common level, the example of good portrait painters should be followed.
They, while reproducing the distinctive form of the original, make
a likeness which is true to life and yet more beautiful. So too the
poet, in representing men who are irascible or indolent, or have other
defects of character, should preserve the type and yet ennoble it.
In this way Achilles is portrayed by Agathon and Homer.

These then are rules the poet should observe. Nor should he neglect
those appeals to the senses, which, though not among the essentials,
are the concomitants of poetry; for here too there is much room for
error. But of this enough has been said in our published treatises.
Part XVI

What Recognition is has been already explained. We will now enumerate

its kinds.

First, the least artistic form, which, from poverty of wit, is most
commonly employed- recognition by signs. Of these some are congenital-
such as 'the spear which the earth-born race bear on their bodies,'
or the stars introduced by Carcinus in his Thyestes. Others are acquired
after birth; and of these some are bodily marks, as scars; some external
tokens, as necklaces, or the little ark in the Tyro by which the discovery
is effected. Even these admit of more or less skilful treatment. Thus
in the recognition of Odysseus by his scar, the discovery is made
in one way by the nurse, in another by the swineherds. The use of
tokens for the express purpose of proof- and, indeed, any formal proof
with or without tokens- is a less artistic mode of recognition. A
better kind is that which comes about by a turn of incident, as in
the Bath Scene in the Odyssey.

Next come the recognitions invented at will by the poet, and on that
account wanting in art. For example, Orestes in the Iphigenia reveals
the fact that he is Orestes. She, indeed, makes herself known by the
letter; but he, by speaking himself, and saying what the poet, not
what the plot requires. This, therefore, is nearly allied to the fault
above mentioned- for Orestes might as well have brought tokens with
him. Another similar instance is the 'voice of the shuttle' in the
Tereus of Sophocles.

The third kind depends on memory when the sight of some object awakens
a feeling: as in the Cyprians of Dicaeogenes, where the hero breaks
into tears on seeing the picture; or again in the Lay of Alcinous,
where Odysseus, hearing the minstrel play the lyre, recalls the past
and weeps; and hence the recognition.

The fourth kind is by process of reasoning. Thus in the Choephori:

'Some one resembling me has come: no one resembles me but Orestes:
therefore Orestes has come.' Such too is the discovery made by Iphigenia
in the play of Polyidus the Sophist. It was a natural reflection for
Orestes to make, 'So I too must die at the altar like my sister.'
So, again, in the Tydeus of Theodectes, the father says, 'I came to
find my son, and I lose my own life.' So too in the Phineidae: the
women, on seeing the place, inferred their fate- 'Here we are doomed
to die, for here we were cast forth.' Again, there is a composite
kind of recognition involving false inference on the part of one of
the characters, as in the Odysseus Disguised as a Messenger. A said
[that no one else was able to bend the bow; ... hence B (the disguised
Odysseus) imagined that A would] recognize the bow which, in fact,
he had not seen; and to bring about a recognition by this means- the
expectation that A would recognize the bow- is false inference.

But, of all recognitions, the best is that which arises from the incidents
themselves, where the startling discovery is made by natural means.
Such is that in the Oedipus of Sophocles, and in the Iphigenia; for
it was natural that Iphigenia should wish to dispatch a letter. These
recognitions alone dispense with the artificial aid of tokens or amulets.
Next come the recognitions by process of reasoning.

Part XVII

In constructing the plot and working it out with the proper diction,
the poet should place the scene, as far as possible, before his eyes.
In this way, seeing everything with the utmost vividness, as if he
were a spectator of the action, he will discover what is in keeping
with it, and be most unlikely to overlook inconsistencies. The need
of such a rule is shown by the fault found in Carcinus. Amphiaraus
was on his way from the temple. This fact escaped the observation
of one who did not see the situation. On the stage, however, the Piece
failed, the audience being offended at the oversight.

Again, the poet should work out his play, to the best of his power,
with appropriate gestures; for those who feel emotion are most convincing
through natural sympathy with the characters they represent; and one
who is agitated storms, one who is angry rages, with the most lifelike
reality. Hence poetry implies either a happy gift of nature or a strain
of madness. In the one case a man can take the mould of any character;
in the other, he is lifted out of his proper self.

As for the story, whether the poet takes it ready made or constructs
it for himself, he should first sketch its general outline, and then
fill in the episodes and amplify in detail. The general plan may be
illustrated by the Iphigenia. A young girl is sacrificed; she disappears
mysteriously from the eyes of those who sacrificed her; she is transported
to another country, where the custom is to offer up an strangers to
the goddess. To this ministry she is appointed. Some time later her
own brother chances to arrive. The fact that the oracle for some reason
ordered him to go there, is outside the general plan of the play.
The purpose, again, of his coming is outside the action proper. However,
he comes, he is seized, and, when on the point of being sacrificed,
reveals who he is. The mode of recognition may be either that of Euripides
or of Polyidus, in whose play he exclaims very naturally: 'So it was
not my sister only, but I too, who was doomed to be sacrificed'; and
by that remark he is saved.

After this, the names being once given, it remains to fill in the
episodes. We must see that they are relevant to the action. In the
case of Orestes, for example, there is the madness which led to his
capture, and his deliverance by means of the purificatory rite. In
the drama, the episodes are short, but it is these that give extension
to Epic poetry. Thus the story of the Odyssey can be stated briefly.
A certain man is absent from home for many years; he is jealously
watched by Poseidon, and left desolate. Meanwhile his home is in a
wretched plight- suitors are wasting his substance and plotting against
his son. At length, tempest-tost, he himself arrives; he makes certain
persons acquainted with him; he attacks the suitors with his own hand,
and is himself preserved while he destroys them. This is the essence
of the plot; the rest is episode.

Part XVIII

Every tragedy falls into two parts- Complication and Unraveling or

Denouement. Incidents extraneous to the action are frequently combined
with a portion of the action proper, to form the Complication; the
rest is the Unraveling. By the Complication I mean all that extends
from the beginning of the action to the part which marks the turning-point
to good or bad fortune. The Unraveling is that which extends from
the beginning of the change to the end. Thus, in the Lynceus of Theodectes,
the Complication consists of the incidents presupposed in the drama,
the seizure of the child, and then again ... [the Unraveling] extends
from the accusation of murder to

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

Reversal of the Situation and Recognition; the Pathetic (where the
motive is passion)- such as the tragedies on Ajax and Ixion; the Ethical
(where the motives are ethical)- such as the Phthiotides and the Peleus.
The fourth kind is the Simple. [We here exclude the purely spectacular
element], exemplified by the Phorcides, the Prometheus, and scenes
laid in Hades. The poet should endeavor, if possible, to combine all
poetic elements; or failing that, the greatest number and those the
most important; the more so, in face of the caviling criticism of
the day. For whereas there have hitherto been good poets, each in
his own branch, the critics now expect one man to surpass all others
in their several lines of excellence.

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

take is the plot. Identity exists where the Complication and Unraveling
are the same. Many poets tie the knot well, but unravel it Both arts,
however, should always be mastered.
Again, the poet should remember what has been often said, and not
make an Epic structure into a tragedy- by an Epic structure I mean
one with a multiplicity of plots- as if, for instance, you were to
make a tragedy out of the entire story of the Iliad. In the Epic poem,
owing to its length, each part assumes its proper magnitude. In the
drama the result is far from answering to the poet's expectation.
The proof is that the poets who have dramatized the whole story of
the Fall of Troy, instead of selecting portions, like Euripides; or
who have taken the whole tale of Niobe, and not a part of her story,
like Aeschylus, either fail utterly or meet with poor success on the
stage. Even Agathon has been known to fail from this one defect. In
his Reversals of the Situation, however, he shows a marvelous skill
in the effort to hit the popular taste- to produce a tragic effect
that satisfies the moral sense. This effect is produced when the clever
rogue, like Sisyphus, is outwitted, or the brave villain defeated.
Such an event is probable in Agathon's sense of the word: 'is probable,'
he says, 'that many things should happen contrary to probability.'

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

be an integral part of the whole, and share in the action, in the
manner not of Euripides but of Sophocles. As for the later poets,
their choral songs pertain as little to the subject of the piece as
to that of any other tragedy. They are, therefore, sung as mere interludes-
a practice first begun by Agathon. Yet what difference is there between
introducing such choral interludes, and transferring a speech, or
even a whole act, from one play to another.

Part XIX

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

having been already discussed. concerning Thought, we may assume what
is said in the Rhetoric, to which inquiry the subject more strictly
belongs. Under Thought is included every effect which has to be produced
by speech, the subdivisions being: proof and refutation; the excitation
of the feelings, such as pity, fear, anger, and the like; the suggestion
of importance or its opposite. Now, it is evident that the dramatic
incidents must be treated from the same points of view as the dramatic
speeches, when the object is to evoke the sense of pity, fear, importance,
or probability. The only difference is that the incidents should speak
for themselves without verbal exposition; while effects aimed at in
should be produced by the speaker, and as a result of the speech.
For what were the business of a speaker, if the Thought were revealed
quite apart from what he says?

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

Modes of Utterance. But this province of knowledge belongs to the
art of Delivery and to the masters of that science. It includes, for
instance- what is a command, a prayer, a statement, a threat, a question,
an answer, and so forth. To know or not to know these things involves
no serious censure upon the poet's art. For who can admit the fault
imputed to Homer by Protagoras- that in the words, 'Sing, goddess,
of the wrath, he gives a command under the idea that he utters a prayer?
For to tell some one to do a thing or not to do it is, he says, a
command. We may, therefore, pass this over as an inquiry that belongs
to another art, not to poetry.

Part XX

Language in general includes the following parts: Letter, Syllable,

Connecting Word, Noun, Verb, Inflection or Case, Sentence or Phrase.

A Letter is an indivisible sound, yet not every such sound, but only
one which can form part of a group of sounds. For even brutes utter
indivisible sounds, none of which I call a letter. The sound I mean
may be either a vowel, a semivowel, or a mute. A vowel is that which
without impact of tongue or lip has an audible sound. A semivowel
that which with such impact has an audible sound, as S and R. A mute,
that which with such impact has by itself no sound, but joined to
a vowel sound becomes audible, as G and D. These are distinguished
according to the form assumed by the mouth and the place where they
are produced; according as they are aspirated or smooth, long or short;
as they are acute, grave, or of an intermediate tone; which inquiry
belongs in detail to the writers on meter.

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

for GR without A is a syllable, as also with A- GRA. But the investigation
of these differences belongs also to metrical science.

A Connecting Word is a nonsignificant sound, which neither causes

nor hinders the union of many sounds into one significant sound; it
may be placed at either end or in the middle of a sentence. Or, a
nonsignificant sound, which out of several sounds, each of them significant,
is capable of forming one significant sound- as amphi, peri, and the
like. Or, a nonsignificant sound, which marks the beginning, end,
or division of a sentence; such, however, that it cannot correctly
stand by itself at the beginning of a sentence- as men, etoi, de.

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

no part is in itself significant: for in double or compound words
we do not employ the separate parts as if each were in itself significant.
Thus in Theodorus, 'god-given,' the doron or 'gift' is not in itself
significant.

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

in the noun, no part is in itself significant. For 'man' or 'white'
does not express the idea of 'when'; but 'he walks' or 'he has walked'
does connote time, present or past.

Inflection belongs both to the noun and verb, and expresses either
the relation 'of,' 'to,' or the like; or that of number, whether one
or many, as 'man' or 'men'; or the modes or tones in actual delivery,
e.g., a question or a command. 'Did he go?' and 'go' are verbal inflections
of this kind.

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

of whose parts are in themselves significant; for not every such group
of words consists of verbs and nouns- 'the definition of man,' for
example- but it may dispense even with the verb. Still it will always
have some significant part, as 'in walking,' or 'Cleon son of Cleon.'
A sentence or phrase may form a unity in two ways- either as signifying
one thing, or as consisting of several parts linked together. Thus
the Iliad is one by the linking together of parts, the definition
of man by the unity of the thing signified.

----------------------------------------------------------------------

SECTION 3

Part XXI

Words are of two kinds, simple and double. By simple I mean those
composed of nonsignificant elements, such as ge, 'earth.' By double
or compound, those composed either of a significant and nonsignificant
element (though within the whole word no element is significant),
or of elements that are both significant. A word may likewise be triple,
quadruple, or multiple in form, like so many Massilian expressions,
e.g., 'Hermo-caico-xanthus [who prayed to Father Zeus].'

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

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

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

a people; by a strange word, one which is in use in another country.
Plainly, therefore, the same word may be at once strange and current,
but not in relation to the same people. The word sigynon, 'lance,'
is to the Cyprians a current term but to us a strange one.
Metaphor is the application of an alien name by transference either
from genus to species, or from species to genus, or from species to
species, or by analogy, that is, proportion. Thus from genus to species,
as: 'There lies my ship'; for lying at anchor is a species of lying.
From species to genus, as: 'Verily ten thousand noble deeds hath Odysseus
wrought'; for ten thousand is a species of large number, and is here
used for a large number generally. From species to species, as: 'With
blade of bronze drew away the life,' and 'Cleft the water with the
vessel of unyielding bronze.' Here arusai, 'to draw away' is used
for tamein, 'to cleave,' and tamein, again for arusai- each being
a species of taking away. Analogy or proportion is when the second
term is to the first as the fourth to the third. We may then use the
fourth for the second, or the second for the fourth. Sometimes too
we qualify the metaphor by adding the term to which the proper word
is relative. Thus the cup is to Dionysus as the shield to Ares. The
cup may, therefore, be called 'the shield of Dionysus,' and the shield
'the cup of Ares.' Or, again, as old age is to life, so is evening
to day. Evening may therefore be called, 'the old age of the day,'
and old age, 'the evening of life,' or, in the phrase of Empedocles,
'life's setting sun.' For some of the terms of the proportion there
is at times no word in existence; still the metaphor may be used.
For instance, to scatter seed is called sowing: but the action of
the sun in scattering his rays is nameless. Still this process bears
to the sun the same relation as sowing to the seed. Hence the expression
of the poet 'sowing the god-created light.' There is another way in
which this kind of metaphor may be employed. We may apply an alien
term, and then deny of that term one of its proper attributes; as
if we were to call the shield, not 'the cup of Ares,' but 'the wineless
cup'.

A newly-coined word is one which has never been even in local use,
but is adopted by the poet himself. Some such words there appear to
be: as ernyges, 'sprouters,' for kerata, 'horns'; and areter, 'supplicator',
for hiereus, 'priest.'

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

one, or when a syllable is inserted. A word is contracted when some
part of it is removed. Instances of lengthening are: poleos for poleos,
Peleiadeo for Peleidou; of contraction: kri, do, and ops, as in mia
ginetai amphoteron ops, 'the appearance of both is one.'

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

unchanged, and part is recast: as in dexiteron kata mazon, 'on the
right breast,' dexiteron is for dexion.

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

are such as end in N, R, S, or in some letter compounded with S- these
being two, PS and X. Feminine, such as end in vowels that are always
long, namely E and O, and- of vowels that admit of lengthening- those
in A. Thus the number of letters in which nouns masculine and feminine
end is the same; for PS and X are equivalent to endings in S. No noun
ends in a mute or a vowel short by nature. Three only end in I- meli,
'honey'; kommi, 'gum'; peperi, 'pepper'; five end in U. Neuter nouns
end in these two latter vowels; also in N and S.

Part XXII

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

style is that which uses only current or proper words; at the same
time it is mean- witness the poetry of Cleophon and of Sthenelus.
That diction, on the other hand, is lofty and raised above the commonplace
which employs unusual words. By unusual, I mean strange (or rare)
words, metaphorical, lengthened- anything, in short, that differs
from the normal idiom. Yet a style wholly composed of such words is
either a riddle or a jargon; a riddle, if it consists of metaphors;
a jargon, if it consists of strange (or rare) words. For the essence
of a riddle is to express true facts under impossible combinations.
Now this cannot be done by any arrangement of ordinary words, but
by the use of metaphor it can. Such is the riddle: 'A man I saw who
on another man had glued the bronze by aid of fire,' and others of
the same kind. A diction that is made up of strange (or rare) terms
is a jargon. A certain infusion, therefore, of these elements is necessary
to style; for the strange (or rare) word, the metaphorical, the ornamental,
and the other kinds above mentioned, will raise it above the commonplace
and mean, while the use of proper words will make it perspicuous.
But nothing contributes more to produce a cleanness of diction that
is remote from commonness than the lengthening, contraction, and alteration
of words. For by deviating in exceptional cases from the normal idiom,
the language will gain distinction; while, at the same time, the partial
conformity with usage will give perspicuity. The critics, therefore,
are in error who censure these licenses of speech, and hold the author
up to ridicule. Thus Eucleides, the elder, declared that it would
be an easy matter to be a poet if you might lengthen syllables at
will. He caricatured the practice in the very form of his diction,
as in the verse:

"Epicharen eidon Marathonade badizonta,

"I saw Epichares walking to Marathon, "

or,
"ouk an g'eramenos ton ekeinou elleboron.

"Not if you desire his hellebore. "

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

but in any mode of poetic diction there must be moderation. Even metaphors,
strange (or rare) words, or any similar forms of speech, would produce
the like effect if used without propriety and with the express purpose
of being ludicrous. How great a difference is made by the appropriate
use of lengthening, may be seen in Epic poetry by the insertion of
ordinary forms in the verse. So, again, if we take a strange (or rare)
word, a metaphor, or any similar mode of expression, and replace it
by the current or proper term, the truth of our observation will be
manifest. For example, Aeschylus and Euripides each composed the same
iambic line. But the alteration of a single word by Euripides, who
employed the rarer term instead of the ordinary one, makes one verse
appear beautiful and the other trivial. Aeschylus in his Philoctetes
says:

"phagedaina d'he mou sarkas esthiei podos.

"The tumor which is eating the flesh of my foot. "

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

on.' Again, in the line,

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

"Yet a small man, worthless and unseemly, "

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

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

"Yet a little fellow, weak and ugly. "

Or, if for the line,

"diphron aeikelion katatheis oligen te trapezan,

"Setting an unseemly couch and a meager table, "

we read,

"diphron mochtheron katatheis mikran te trapezan.

"Setting a wretched couch and a puny table. "

Or, for eiones booosin, 'the sea shores roar,' eiones krazousin,
'the sea shores screech.'

Again, Ariphrades ridiculed the tragedians for using phrases which

no one would employ in ordinary speech: for example, domaton apo,
'from the house away,' instead of apo domaton, 'away from the house;'
sethen, ego de nin, 'to thee, and I to him;' Achilleos peri, 'Achilles
about,' instead of peri Achilleos, 'about Achilles;' and the like.
It is precisely because such phrases are not part of the current idiom
that they give distinction to the style. This, however, he failed
to see.

It is a great matter to observe propriety in these several modes of

expression, as also in compound words, strange (or rare) words, and
so forth. But the greatest thing by far is to have a command of metaphor.
This alone cannot be imparted by another; it is the mark of genius,
for to make good metaphors implies an eye for resemblances.

Of the various kinds of words, the compound are best adapted to dithyrambs,
rare words to heroic poetry, metaphors to iambic. In heroic poetry,
indeed, all these varieties are serviceable. But in iambic verse,
which reproduces, as far as may be, familiar speech, the most appropriate
words are those which are found even in prose. These are the current
or proper, the metaphorical, the ornamental.

Concerning Tragedy and imitation by means of action this may suffice.

Part XXIII

As to that poetic imitation which is narrative in form and employs

a single meter, the plot manifestly ought, as in a tragedy, to be
constructed on dramatic principles. It should have for its subject
a single action, whole and complete, with a beginning, a middle, and
an end. It will thus resemble a living organism in all its unity,
and produce the pleasure proper to it. It will differ in structure
from historical compositions, which of necessity present not a single
action, but a single period, and all that happened within that period
to one person or to many, little connected together as the events
may be. For as the sea-fight at Salamis and the battle with the Carthaginians
in Sicily took place at the same time, but did not tend to any one
result, so in the sequence of events, one thing sometimes follows
another, and yet no single result is thereby produced. Such is the
practice, we may say, of most poets. Here again, then, as has been
already observed, the transcendent excellence of Homer is manifest.
He never attempts to make the whole war of Troy the subject of his
poem, though that war had a beginning and an end. It would have been
too vast a theme, and not easily embraced in a single view. If, again,
he had kept it within moderate limits, it must have been over-complicated
by the variety of the incidents. As it is, he detaches a single portion,
and admits as episodes many events from the general story of the war-
such as the Catalogue of the ships and others- thus diversifying the
poem. All other poets take a single hero, a single period, or an action
single indeed, but with a multiplicity of parts. Thus did the author
of the Cypria and of the Little Iliad. For this reason the Iliad and
the Odyssey each furnish the subject of one tragedy, or, at most,
of two; while the Cypria supplies materials for many, and the Little
Iliad for eight- the Award of the Arms, the Philoctetes, the Neoptolemus,
the Eurypylus, the Mendicant Odysseus, the Laconian Women, the Fall
of Ilium, the Departure of the Fleet.

Part XXIV

Again, Epic poetry must have as many kinds as Tragedy: it must be

simple, or complex, or 'ethical,'or 'pathetic.' The parts also, with
the exception of song and spectacle, are the same; for it requires
Reversals of the Situation, Recognitions, and Scenes of Suffering.
Moreover, the thoughts and the diction must be artistic. In all these
respects Homer is our earliest and sufficient model. Indeed each of
his poems has a twofold character. The Iliad is at once simple and
'pathetic,' and the Odyssey complex (for Recognition scenes run through
it), and at the same time 'ethical.' Moreover, in diction and thought
they are supreme.

Epic poetry differs from Tragedy in the scale on which it is constructed,

and in its meter. As regards scale or length, we have already laid
down an adequate limit: the beginning and the end must be capable
of being brought within a single view. This condition will be satisfied
by poems on a smaller scale than the old epics, and answering in length
to the group of tragedies presented at a single sitting.

Epic poetry has, however, a great- a special- capacity for enlarging

its dimensions, and we can see the reason. In Tragedy we cannot imitate
several lines of actions carried on at one and the same time; we must
confine ourselves to the action on the stage and the part taken by
the players. But in Epic poetry, owing to the narrative form, many
events simultaneously transacted can be presented; and these, if relevant
to the subject, add mass and dignity to the poem. The Epic has here
an advantage, and one that conduces to grandeur of effect, to diverting
the mind of the hearer, and relieving the story with varying episodes.
For sameness of incident soon produces satiety, and makes tragedies
fail on the stage.

As for the meter, the heroic measure has proved its fitness by hexameter
test of experience. If a narrative poem in any other meter or in many
meters were now composed, it would be found incongruous. For of all
measures the heroic is the stateliest and the most massive; and hence
it most readily admits rare words and metaphors, which is another
point in which the narrative form of imitation stands alone. On the
other hand, the iambic and the trochaic tetrameter are stirring measures,
the latter being akin to dancing, the former expressive of action.
Still more absurd would it be to mix together different meters, as
was done by Chaeremon. Hence no one has ever composed a poem on a
great scale in any other than heroic verse. Nature herself, as we
have said, teaches the choice of the proper measure.

Homer, admirable in all respects, has the special merit of being the
only poet who rightly appreciates the part he should take himself.
The poet should speak as little as possible in his own person, for
it is not this that makes him an imitator. Other poets appear themselves
upon the scene throughout, and imitate but little and rarely. Homer,
after a few prefatory words, at once brings in a man, or woman, or
other personage; none of them wanting in characteristic qualities,
but each with a character of his own.

The element of the wonderful is required in Tragedy. The irrational,

on which the wonderful depends for its chief effects, has wider scope
in Epic poetry, because there the person acting is not seen. Thus,
the pursuit of Hector would be ludicrous if placed upon the stage-
the Greeks standing still and not joining in the pursuit, and Achilles
waving them back. But in the Epic poem the absurdity passes unnoticed.
Now the wonderful is pleasing, as may be inferred from the fact that
every one tells a story with some addition of his knowing that his
hearers like it. It is Homer who has chiefly taught other poets the
art of telling lies skilfully. The secret of it lies in a fallacy
For, assuming that if one thing is or becomes, a second is or becomes,
men imagine that, if the second is, the first likewise is or becomes.
But this is a false inference. Hence, where the first thing is untrue,
it is quite unnecessary, provided the second be true, to add that
the first is or has become. For the mind, knowing the second to be
true, falsely infers the truth of the first. There is an example of
this in the Bath Scene of the Odyssey.

Accordingly, the poet should prefer probable impossibilities to improbable

possibilities. The tragic plot must not be composed of irrational
parts. Everything irrational should, if possible, be excluded; or,
at all events, it should lie outside the action of the play (as, in
the Oedipus, the hero's ignorance as to the manner of Laius' death);
not within the drama- as in the Electra, the messenger's account of
the Pythian games; or, as in the Mysians, the man who has come from
Tegea to Mysia and is still speechless. The plea that otherwise the
plot would have been ruined, is ridiculous; such a plot should not
in the first instance be constructed. But once the irrational has
been introduced and an air of likelihood imparted to it, we must accept
it in spite of the absurdity. Take even the irrational incidents in
the Odyssey, where Odysseus is left upon the shore of Ithaca. How
intolerable even these might have been would be apparent if an inferior
poet were to treat the subject. As it is, the absurdity is veiled
by the poetic charm with which the poet invests it.

The diction should be elaborated in the pauses of the action, where

there is no expression of character or thought. For, conversely, character
and thought are merely obscured by a diction that is over-brilliant

Part XXV

With respect to critical difficulties and their solutions, the number

and nature of the sources from which they may be drawn may be thus
exhibited.

The poet being an imitator, like a painter or any other artist, must
of necessity imitate one of three objects- things as they were or
are, things as they are said or thought to be, or things as they ought
to be. The vehicle of expression is language- either current terms
or, it may be, rare words or metaphors. There are also many modifications
of language, which we concede to the poets. Add to this, that the
standard of correctness is not the same in poetry and politics, any
more than in poetry and any other art. Within the art of poetry itself
there are two kinds of faults- those which touch its essence, and
those which are accidental. If a poet has chosen to imitate something,
[but has imitated it incorrectly] through want of capacity, the error
is inherent in the poetry. But if the failure is due to a wrong choice-
if he has represented a horse as throwing out both his off legs at
once, or introduced technical inaccuracies in medicine, for example,
or in any other art- the error is not essential to the poetry. These
are the points of view from which we should consider and answer the
objections raised by the critics.

First as to matters which concern the poet's own art. If he describes

the impossible, he is guilty of an error; but the error may be justified,
if the end of the art be thereby attained (the end being that already
mentioned)- if, that is, the effect of this or any other part of the
poem is thus rendered more striking. A case in point is the pursuit
of Hector. if, however, the end might have been as well, or better,
attained without violating the special rules of the poetic art, the
error is not justified: for every kind of error should, if possible,
be avoided.

Again, does the error touch the essentials of the poetic art, or some
accident of it? For example, not to know that a hind has no horns
is a less serious matter than to paint it inartistically.

Further, if it be objected that the description is not true to fact,

the poet may perhaps reply, 'But the objects are as they ought to
be'; just as Sophocles said that he drew men as they ought to be;
Euripides, as they are. In this way the objection may be met. If,
however, the representation be of neither kind, the poet may answer,
'This is how men say the thing is.' applies to tales about the gods.
It may well be that these stories are not higher than fact nor yet
true to fact: they are, very possibly, what Xenophanes says of them.
But anyhow, 'this is what is said.' Again, a description may be no
better than the fact: 'Still, it was the fact'; as in the passage
about the arms: 'Upright upon their butt-ends stood the spears.' This
was the custom then, as it now is among the Illyrians.

Again, in examining whether what has been said or done by some one
is poetically right or not, we must not look merely to the particular
act or saying, and ask whether it is poetically good or bad. We must
also consider by whom it is said or done, to whom, when, by what means,
or for what end; whether, for instance, it be to secure a greater
good, or avert a greater evil.

Other difficulties may be resolved by due regard to the usage of language.

We may note a rare word, as in oureas men proton, 'the mules first
[he killed],' where the poet perhaps employs oureas not in the sense
of mules, but of sentinels. So, again, of Dolon: 'ill-favored indeed
he was to look upon.' It is not meant that his body was ill-shaped
but that his face was ugly; for the Cretans use the word eueides,
'well-flavored' to denote a fair face. Again, zoroteron de keraie,
'mix the drink livelier' does not mean 'mix it stronger' as for hard
drinkers, but 'mix it quicker.'

Sometimes an expression is metaphorical, as 'Now all gods and men

were sleeping through the night,' while at the same time the poet
says: 'Often indeed as he turned his gaze to the Trojan plain, he
marveled at the sound of flutes and pipes.' 'All' is here used metaphorically
for 'many,' all being a species of many. So in the verse, 'alone she
hath no part... , oie, 'alone' is metaphorical; for the best known
may be called the only one.
Again, the solution may depend upon accent or breathing. Thus Hippias
of Thasos solved the difficulties in the lines, didomen (didomen)
de hoi, and to men hou (ou) kataputhetai ombro.

Or again, the question may be solved by punctuation, as in Empedocles:

'Of a sudden things became mortal that before had learnt to be immortal,
and things unmixed before mixed.'

Or again, by ambiguity of meaning, as parocheken de pleo nux, where

the word pleo is ambiguous.

Or by the usage of language. Thus any mixed drink is called oinos,

'wine'. Hence Ganymede is said 'to pour the wine to Zeus,' though
the gods do not drink wine. So too workers in iron are called chalkeas,
or 'workers in bronze.' This, however, may also be taken as a metaphor.

Again, when a word seems to involve some inconsistency of meaning,

we should consider how many senses it may bear in the particular passage.
For example: 'there was stayed the spear of bronze'- we should ask
in how many ways we may take 'being checked there.' The true mode
of interpretation is the precise opposite of what Glaucon mentions.
Critics, he says, jump at certain groundless conclusions; they pass
adverse judgement and then proceed to reason on it; and, assuming
that the poet has said whatever they happen to think, find fault if
a thing is inconsistent with their own fancy.

The question about Icarius has been treated in this fashion. The critics
imagine he was a Lacedaemonian. They think it strange, therefore,
that Telemachus should not have met him when he went to Lacedaemon.
But the Cephallenian story may perhaps be the true one. They allege
that Odysseus took a wife from among themselves, and that her father
was Icadius, not Icarius. It is merely a mistake, then, that gives
plausibility to the objection.

In general, the impossible must be justified by reference to artistic

requirements, or to the higher reality, or to received opinion. With
respect to the requirements of art, a probable impossibility is to
be preferred to a thing improbable and yet possible. Again, it may
be impossible that there should be men such as Zeuxis painted. 'Yes,'
we say, 'but the impossible is the higher thing; for the ideal type
must surpass the realty.' To justify the irrational, we appeal to
what is commonly said to be. In addition to which, we urge that the
irrational sometimes does not violate reason; just as 'it is probable
that a thing may happen contrary to probability.'
Things that sound contradictory should be examined by the same rules
as in dialectical refutation- whether the same thing is meant, in
the same relation, and in the same sense. We should therefore solve
the question by reference to what the poet says himself, or to what
is tacitly assumed by a person of intelligence.

The element of the irrational, and, similarly, depravity of character,

are justly censured when there is no inner necessity for introducing
them. Such is the irrational element in the introduction of Aegeus
by Euripides and the badness of Menelaus in the Orestes.

Thus, there are five sources from which critical objections are drawn.
Things are censured either as impossible, or irrational, or morally
hurtful, or contradictory, or contrary to artistic correctness. The
answers should be sought under the twelve heads above mentioned.

Part XXVI

The question may be raised whether the Epic or Tragic mode of imitation
is the higher. If the more refined art is the higher, and the more
refined in every case is that which appeals to the better sort of
audience, the art which imitates anything and everything is manifestly
most unrefined. The audience is supposed to be too dull to comprehend
unless something of their own is thrown by the performers, who therefore
indulge in restless movements. Bad flute-players twist and twirl,
if they have to represent 'the quoit-throw,' or hustle the coryphaeus
when they perform the Scylla. Tragedy, it is said, has this same defect.
We may compare the opinion that the older actors entertained of their
successors. Mynniscus used to call Callippides 'ape' on account of
the extravagance of his action, and the same view was held of Pindarus.
Tragic art, then, as a whole, stands to Epic in the same relation
as the younger to the elder actors. So we are told that Epic poetry
is addressed to a cultivated audience, who do not need gesture; Tragedy,
to an inferior public. Being then unrefined, it is evidently the lower
of the two.

Now, in the first place, this censure attaches not to the poetic but
to the histrionic art; for gesticulation may be equally overdone in
epic recitation, as by Sosistratus, or in lyrical competition, as
by Mnasitheus the Opuntian. Next, all action is not to be condemned-
any more than all dancing- but only that of bad performers. Such was
the fault found in Callippides, as also in others of our own day,
who are censured for representing degraded women. Again, Tragedy like
Epic poetry produces its effect even without action; it reveals its
power by mere reading. If, then, in all other respects it is superior,
this fault, we say, is not inherent in it.
And superior it is, because it has an the epic elements- it may even
use the epic meter- with the music and spectacular effects as important
accessories; and these produce the most vivid of pleasures. Further,
it has vividness of impression in reading as well as in representation.
Moreover, the art attains its end within narrower limits for the concentrated
effect is more pleasurable than one which is spread over a long time
and so diluted. What, for example, would be the effect of the Oedipus
of Sophocles, if it were cast into a form as long as the Iliad? Once
more, the Epic imitation has less unity; as is shown by this, that
any Epic poem will furnish subjects for several tragedies. Thus if
the story adopted by the poet has a strict unity, it must either be
concisely told and appear truncated; or, if it conforms to the Epic
canon of length, it must seem weak and watery. [Such length implies
some loss of unity,] if, I mean, the poem is constructed out of several
actions, like the Iliad and the Odyssey, which have many such parts,
each with a certain magnitude of its own. Yet these poems are as perfect
as possible in structure; each is, in the highest degree attainable,
an imitation of a single action.

If, then, tragedy is superior to epic poetry in all these respects,

and, moreover, fulfills its specific function better as an art- for
each art ought to produce, not any chance pleasure, but the pleasure
proper to it, as already stated- it plainly follows that tragedy is
the higher art, as attaining its end more perfectly.

Thus much may suffice concerning Tragic and Epic poetry in general;
their several kinds and parts, with the number of each and their differences;
the causes that make a poem good or bad; the objections of the critics
and the answers to these objections....

THE END
Part 1: Structure and Imitation

I propose to treat of Poetry in itself and of its various kinds,

noting the essential quality of each, to inquire into the structure
of the plot as requisite to a good poem; into the number and nature
of the parts of which a poem is composed; and similarly into whatever
else falls within the same inquiry. Following, then, the order of
nature, let us begin with the principles which come first.

Epic poetry and Tragedy, Comedy also and Dithyrambic poetry, and the
music of the flute and of the lyre in most of their forms, are all
in their general conception modes of imitation. They differ, however,
from one another in three respects: the medium, the objects, the manner
or mode of imitation, being in each case distinct.

For as there are persons who, by conscious art or mere habit, imitate
and represent various objects through the medium of color and form,
or again by the voice; so in the arts above mentioned, taken as a
whole, the imitation is produced by rhythm, language, or ‘harmony,’
either singly or combined.

Thus in the music of the flute and of the lyre, ‘harmony’ and rhythm
alone are employed; also in other arts, such as that of the shepherd’s
pipe, which are essentially similar to these. In dancing, rhythm alone
is used without ‘harmony’; for even dancing imitates character, emotion,
and action, by rhythmical movement.

There is another art which imitates by means of language alone, and

that either in prose or verse- which verse, again, may either combine
different meters or consist of but one kind- but this has hitherto
been without a name. For there is no common term we could apply to
the mimes of Sophron and Xenarchus and the Socratic dialogues on the
one hand; and, on the other, to poetic imitations in iambic, elegiac,
or any similar meter. People do, indeed, add the word ‘maker’ or ‘poet’
to the name of the meter, and speak of elegiac poets, or epic (that
is, hexameter) poets, as if it were not the imitation that makes the
poet, but the verse that entitles them all to the name. Even when
a treatise on medicine or natural science is brought out in verse,
the name of poet is by custom given to the author; and yet Homer and
Empedocles have nothing in common but the meter, so that it would
be right to call the one poet, the other physicist rather than poet.
On the same principle, even if a writer in his poetic imitation were
to combine all meters, as Chaeremon did in his Centaur, which is a
medley composed of meters of all kinds, we should bring him too under
the general term poet.
So much then for these distinctions.

There are, again, some arts which employ all the means above mentioned-
namely, rhythm, tune, and meter. Such are Dithyrambic and Nomic poetry,
and also Tragedy and Comedy; but between them originally the difference
is, that in the first two cases these means are all employed in combination,
in the latter, now one means is employed, now another.

Such, then, are the differences of the arts with respect to the medium
of imitation.

Two big takeaways:

* Aristotle asserted that poems, and by extension stories in general, have structures: “to inquire
into the structure of the plot as requisite to a good poem.” No matter the type of poem — epic,
tragedy, comedy — or even song, there is a universality at work in terms of narrative structure.

So right here, we can see the foundation of structural analysis. Indeed were it not for Aristotle,
Joseph Campbell may never have wound his way toward the Hero’s Journey, a sense that all
stories tell one story.

We see echoes of this in relation to screenwriting. William Goldman famously said:

“Screenplays are structure,” fitting in that a script is a blueprint to make a movie.

As we go through “Poetics,” it will be interesting to see how much flexibility Aristotle allows in
terms of the variability of narrative structure. A basic question to consider: Does structure dictate
the story or does story dictate its structure?

* The concept of imitation. At first, the instinct of screenwriters might be to interpret this in light
of how Hollywood thrives on imitative products, movies that are similar enough to predecessors
to benefit from that audience pre-awareness, but different enough to stand on their own.

But I believe what Aristotle describes here is about the writer or artist capturing something of
real life in the stories we create. Stories imitate aspects of human existence.

In this section of “Poetics,” Aristotle doesn’t delve into the value of imitation, rather he identifies
some of the ways in which stories can imitate real life: rhythm, language, ‘harmony,’ character,
emotion, action.

The ramifications of this basic concept are huge. The very fact stories are imitations links them
to reality. In other words, they are not born out of nothing, but from something.

Moreover we have from the very beginning of this thought process the idea of a relationship.
Story. Reality. A connection between the two. And since we, as humans, interface with reality
every day, we can draw upon that relationship of story to our experience to enable us to enter
into the story universe, not just an exercise in concept, but one of emotional and psychological
meaning.

Part 2: Moral Character, Types, Tragedy and Comedy

Since the objects of imitation are men in action, and these men must
be either of a higher or a lower type (for moral character mainly
answers to these divisions, goodness and badness being the distinguishing
marks of moral differences), it follows that we must represent men
either as better than in real life, or as worse, or as they are. It
is the same in painting. Polygnotus depicted men as nobler than they
are, Pauson as less noble, Dionysius drew them true to life.

Now it is evident that each of the modes of imitation above mentioned

will exhibit these differences, and become a distinct kind in imitating
objects that are thus distinct. Such diversities may be found even
in dancing, flute-playing, and lyre-playing. So again in language,
whether prose or verse unaccompanied by music. Homer, for example,
makes men better than they are; Cleophon as they are; Hegemon the
Thasian, the inventor of parodies, and Nicochares, the author of the
Deiliad, worse than they are. The same thing holds good of Dithyrambs
and Nomes; here too one may portray different types, as Timotheus
and Philoxenus differed in representing their Cyclopes. The same distinction
marks off Tragedy from Comedy; for Comedy aims at representing men
as worse, Tragedy as better than in actual life.

There is a lot going on here. Looking at these observations from the perspective of a
screenwriter, let me take a whack at parsing some of the key concepts:

* Moral Character: “…for moral character mainly answers to these divisions, goodness and
badness being the distinguishing
marks of moral differences.” What this appears to acknowledge is what screenwriters know as
Good Guys and Bad Guys, and there are massive implications as a result, most notably an
interface of “goodness” and “badness” as represented by characters that results in conflict.

* Types: “Since the objects of imitation are men in action, and these men must be either of a
higher or a lower type… it follows that we must represent men either as better than in real life,
or as worse, or as they are.” Another key assertion because this opens the door to character
types. Goodness as represented by Mentors and Attractors. Badness as represented by Nemeses.
As they are represented by Protagonists starting a journey which pulls at them to go one way or
the other.

* Tragedy and Comedy: “The same distinction marks off Tragedy from Comedy; for Comedy
aims at representing men as worse, Tragedy as better than in actual life.” This seems
counterintuitive. Wouldn’t Tragedy be about a character ending up in a worse state and Comedy
about a character ending up in a better state? But my guess what Aristotle is referring to here is
the Tragic Hero who suffers in part as a result of his/her moral rectitude, while the Comic
Character is one crafted for purposes of ridicule, their ‘bad’ behavior to be derided and laughed
at.

From a screenwriting perspective [or writing in general], the subtext here is that characters have
an arc: They ascend or descend on a scale of ‘goodness’ or ‘badness’. This suggests the dynamic
of metamorphosis as essential to story.

Also stories have a ‘mood,’ two key pillars being tragic or comedic. Here we see the very roots
of what we know as genre.

Finally I take this construct as a major validation of working with character archetypes. It’s great
that Joseph Campbell used them, inspired in large part by his studies of Carl Jung who
emphatically embraced them. But some 2,000 years previous, Aristotle was already laying the
groundwork of writers working with types as a way of understanding and crafting stories.

Part 3: Medium, Objects, Manner

There is still a third difference- the manner in which each of these

objects may be imitated. For the medium being the same, and the objects
the same, the poet may imitate by narration- in which case he can
either take another personality as Homer does, or speak in his own
person, unchanged- or he may present all his characters as living
and moving before us.

These, then, as we said at the beginning, are the three differences

which distinguish artistic imitation- the medium, the objects, and
the manner. So that from one point of view, Sophocles is an imitator
of the same kind as Homer- for both imitate higher types of character;
from another point of view, of the same kind as Aristophanes- for
both imitate persons acting and doing. Hence, some say, the name of
‘drama’ is given to such poems, as representing action. For the same
reason the Dorians claim the invention both of Tragedy and Comedy.
The claim to Comedy is put forward by the Megarians- not only by those
of Greece proper, who allege that it originated under their democracy,
but also by the Megarians of Sicily, for the poet Epicharmus, who
is much earlier than Chionides and Magnes, belonged to that country.
Tragedy too is claimed by certain Dorians of the Peloponnese. In each
case they appeal to the evidence of language. The outlying villages,
they say, are by them called komai, by the Athenians demoi: and they
assume that comedians were so named not from komazein, ‘to revel,’
but because they wandered from village to village (kata komas), being
excluded contemptuously from the city. They add also that the Dorian
word for ‘doing’ is dran, and the Athenian, prattein.
This may suffice as to the number and nature of the various modes
of imitation.

These, then, as we said at the beginning, are the three differences which distinguish artistic
imitation- the medium, the objects, and the manner.

Medium of imitation: Poetry through language or song through rhythm, language, melody,
harmony.

Object of imitation: Men in action.

Manner of imitation: …the poet may imitate by narration- in which case he can either take
another personality as Homer does, or speak in his own person, unchanged- or he may present
all his characters as living and moving before us.

This last point raises the concept of Narrative Voice in relation to screenwriting. What is our
point-of-view in relation to the subject matter as we ‘narrate’ events?

Genre + Style = Narrative Voice.

So as screenwriters, we not only have to be aware of our medium [screenplay] and our object
[characters], we also have to be cognizant of our manner of imitation, the specific voice we use
to narrate the story.

Do we use voiceover narration?

Do we tell the story through the perspective of one or more characters?

How do we use style to underscore the genre of our story?

All of this would seem to fall under the category of “manner of imitation.”

Part 4: Poetry and the Development of Tragedy

Poetry in general seems to have sprung from two causes, each of them
lying deep in our nature. First, the instinct of imitation is implanted
in man from childhood, one difference between him and other animals
being that he is the most imitative of living creatures, and through
imitation learns his earliest lessons; and no less universal is the
pleasure felt in things imitated. We have evidence of this in the
facts of experience. Objects which in themselves we view with pain,
we delight to contemplate when reproduced with minute fidelity: such
as the forms of the most ignoble animals and of dead bodies. The cause
of this again is, that to learn gives the liveliest pleasure, not
only to philosophers but to men in general; whose capacity, however,
of learning is more limited. Thus the reason why men enjoy seeing
a likeness is, that in contemplating it they find themselves learning
or inferring, and saying perhaps, ‘Ah, that is he.’ For if you happen
not to have seen the original, the pleasure will be due not to the
imitation as such, but to the execution, the coloring, or some such
other cause.

Imitation, then, is one instinct of our nature. Next, there is the

instinct for ‘harmony’ and rhythm, meters being manifestly sections
of rhythm. Persons, therefore, starting with this natural gift developed
by degrees their special aptitudes, till their rude improvisations
gave birth to Poetry.

Poetry now diverged in two directions, according to the individual

character of the writers. The graver spirits imitated noble actions,
and the actions of good men. The more trivial sort imitated the actions
of meaner persons, at first composing satires, as the former did hymns
to the gods and the praises of famous men. A poem of the satirical
kind cannot indeed be put down to any author earlier than Homer; though
many such writers probably there were. But from Homer onward, instances
can be cited- his own Margites, for example, and other similar compositions.
The appropriate meter was also here introduced; hence the measure
is still called the iambic or lampooning measure, being that in which
people lampooned one another. Thus the older poets were distinguished
as writers of heroic or of lampooning verse.

As, in the serious style, Homer is pre-eminent among poets, for he

alone combined dramatic form with excellence of imitation so he too
first laid down the main lines of comedy, by dramatizing the ludicrous
instead of writing personal satire. His Margites bears the same relation
to comedy that the Iliad and Odyssey do to tragedy. But when Tragedy
and Comedy came to light, the two classes of poets still followed
their natural bent: the lampooners became writers of Comedy, and the
Epic poets were succeeded by Tragedians, since the drama was a larger
and higher form of art.

Whether Tragedy has as yet perfected its proper types or not; and
whether it is to be judged in itself, or in relation also to the audience-
this raises another question. Be that as it may, Tragedy- as also
Comedy- was at first mere improvisation. The one originated with the
authors of the Dithyramb, the other with those of the phallic songs,
which are still in use in many of our cities. Tragedy advanced by
slow degrees; each new element that showed itself was in turn developed.
Having passed through many changes, it found its natural form, and
there it stopped.
Aeschylus first introduced a second actor; he diminished the importance
of the Chorus, and assigned the leading part to the dialogue. Sophocles
raised the number of actors to three, and added scene-painting. Moreover,
it was not till late that the short plot was discarded for one of
greater compass, and the grotesque diction of the earlier satyric
form for the stately manner of Tragedy. The iambic measure then replaced
the trochaic tetrameter, which was originally employed when the poetry
was of the satyric order, and had greater with dancing. Once dialogue
had come in, Nature herself discovered the appropriate measure. For
the iambic is, of all measures, the most colloquial we see it in the
fact that conversational speech runs into iambic lines more frequently
than into any other kind of verse; rarely into hexameters, and only
when we drop the colloquial intonation. The additions to the number
of ‘episodes’ or acts, and the other accessories of which tradition
tells, must be taken as already described; for to discuss them in
detail would, doubtless, be a large undertaking.

As I’ve noted previously, the lens through which I am reading “Poetics” is screenwriting, so
while leaving some of the more esoteric history and ideas in this chapter to those in our
community steeped in Aristolelianism, let me make these two observations:

* Last week, we explored the idea that Aristotle’s notion of imitation is applicable to
screenwriting as a reference to narrative voice, the unique perspective a writer takes toward
telling a story reflected in this nifty little formula: Genre + Style = Narrative Voice. Per
Aristotle, imitation is just one “cause” from which poetry sprung. The other is “harmony,” or a
term I prefer rhythm.

Anybody who has immersed him/herself in the world of cinema and in particular read a lot of
scripts should resonate with the idea of rhythm. As we absorb all these scripts, stories, structures
and styles, we turn around in our own writing and “improvise,” testing out what we’ve picked up
until we can make it our own. In terms of screenwriting, I would take rhythm to be that Gestalt
understanding we derive from our reading and analysis, feeding an intuitive sense of how a story
should go.

In that sense, rhythm is hugely important as a corrective to formulaic writing, perhaps the single
most common critique of screenplays submitted by outsiders into the Hollywood system.

It is one thing to grab a screenwriting guru’s book on screenplay structure and adopt that
approach to writing a script.

It is quite another thing to take that knowledge, along with a lot of other content, pull all that
left-brain knowledge into our right-brain, and in combination find the rhythm of each story, to be
in harmony with its beating heart and throbbing soul, and create a vibrant living screenplay.

* Since I teach a university level course called History of American Screenwriting, I am

especially attuned to the organic and evolving nature of screenplay form. So when I read this:
Aeschylus first introduced a second actor; he diminished the importance
of the Chorus, and assigned the leading part to the dialogue. Sophocles
raised the number of actors to three, and added scene-painting. Moreover,
it was not till late that the short plot was discarded for one of
greater compass, and the grotesque diction of the earlier satyric
form for the stately manner of Tragedy…

I was reminded of the history of movies. How it all started with this, then this, then to short films
like this, then actual short films with plots like this. Then one-reel films. And multiple reel films.
Editorial techniques such as cross-cuts and dissolves. Intertitles to convey ‘dialogue’. Then
sound in 1927 and the subsequent introduction of actual dialogue, and so on.

Thus when Aristotle reviews the development of the theatrical form of tragedy — one actor,
second actor, third actor, dialogue, scene-painting, short plot to stories with “greater compass”
— I see a parallel to the evolution of storytelling in cinema.

Here is a takeaway: Screenplays are not a static narrative form, rather an unfolding one,
continually pushed and pressed by writers in conjunction with technological advances and
audience tastes.

And always there is the individual writer’s unique creativity. Yes, there are patterns and
structures and conventional wisdom and all that, and it is critical we know as much as we can
about them.

But they ought not restrict us, rather we, as writers, should feel free to stretch the boundaries.
First to express our creativity. Second to push this wonderful narrative form of screenwriting to
the next level. And the next level. And the next…

Part 5: Comedy and Epic Poetry

Comedy is, as we have said, an imitation of characters of a lower

type- not, however, in the full sense of the word bad, the ludicrous
being merely a subdivision of the ugly. It consists in some defect
or ugliness which is not painful or destructive. To take an obvious
example, the comic mask is ugly and distorted, but does not imply
pain.

The successive changes through which Tragedy passed, and the authors
of these changes, are well known, whereas Comedy has had no history,
because it was not at first treated seriously. It was late before
the Archon granted a comic chorus to a poet; the performers were till
then voluntary. Comedy had already taken definite shape when comic
poets, distinctively so called, are heard of. Who furnished it with
masks, or prologues, or increased the number of actors- these and
other similar details remain unknown. As for the plot, it came originally
from Sicily; but of Athenian writers Crates was the first who abandoning
the ‘iambic’ or lampooning form, generalized his themes and plots.

Epic poetry agrees with Tragedy in so far as it is an imitation in

verse of characters of a higher type. They differ in that Epic poetry
admits but one kind of meter and is narrative in form. They differ,
again, in their length: for Tragedy endeavors, as far as possible,
to confine itself to a single revolution of the sun, or but slightly
to exceed this limit, whereas the Epic action has no limits of time.
This, then, is a second point of difference; though at first the same
freedom was admitted in Tragedy as in Epic poetry.

Of their constituent parts some are common to both, some peculiar

to Tragedy: whoever, therefore knows what is good or bad Tragedy,
knows also about Epic poetry. All the elements of an Epic poem are
found in Tragedy, but the elements of a Tragedy are not all found
in the Epic poem.

Comedy has had no history, because it was not at first treated seriously. Perhaps now we know
why the Academy Awards have not given a Best Picture Oscar to a comedy since Annie Hall in
1977: Because modern folks treat comedy much the same way – apparently – that people in
ancient Greece did, considering it to be a lesser narrative form.

I would hope someone steeped in Aristotle could go into more depth about why comedy was
considered in this light, but for now I guess all of us who write comedy can take comfort in the
observation made by actor Edmund Gwenn whose dying words reportedly were:

All the honors go to the tragedian for chewing up the scenery, while the comedian, who has to be
much more subtle to be funny, is just loudly criticized when he doesn’t come through.

Which over time has come to be remembered as this: “Dying is easy. Comedy is hard.”

Moving onto Aristotle’s second subject in this section, I find this intriguing:

* They differ in that Epic poetry admits but one kind of meter and is narrative in form… Tragedy
endeavors, as far as possible,
to confine itself to a single revolution of the sun, or but slightly to exceed this limit.

Setting aside the contemporary idea of free verse, historically poetry has had certain narrative
forms and patterns. And this is another reason why I think there is a significant point of
comparison between poetry and screenwriting.

Although I resist the use of the term “blueprint” to describe a screenplay — because it somehow
feels like it diminishes the creativity of what we do as screenwriters — the fact is a script is the
basis upon which the people who actually make a movie make the movie. Thus by default, a
script has certain conventions, seemingly similar to how Aristotle thought about Epic Poetry and
Tragedy.

The trick for screenwriters is to know and understand those conventions, working with and
around them so that the creative expression of our story can shine through, not reduced to
formulaic writing, but instead come alive within the context of a screenplay’s structure.

Part 6(A): The 6 Parts of Tragedy

Of the poetry which imitates in hexameter verse, and of Comedy, we

will speak hereafter. Let us now discuss Tragedy, resuming its formal
definition, as resulting from what has been already said.

Tragedy, then, is an imitation of an action that is serious, complete,

and of a certain magnitude; in language embellished with each kind
of artistic ornament, the several kinds being found in separate parts
of the play; in the form of action, not of narrative; through pity
and fear effecting the proper purgation of these emotions. By ‘language
embellished,’ I mean language into which rhythm, ‘harmony’ and song
enter. By ‘the several kinds in separate parts,’ I mean, that some
parts are rendered through the medium of verse alone, others again
with the aid of song.

With Part 6, we slam headlong into some really weighty content, so I am going to break out this
particular chapter into sections week by week. Today let’s zero in on that second paragraph.

As I read it, there seem to be six parts to Aristotle’s articulation of tragedy:

1. “An imitation of an action”.

2. “Serious, complete and of a certain magnitude”.

3. “In language embellished with each kind of artistic ornament, the several kinds being found in
separate parts of the play”.

4. “In the form of action, of narrative”.

5. “Through pity and fear effecting the proper purgation of these emotions”.

6. “By ‘language embellished,’ I mean language into which rhythm, ‘harmony’ and song enter.
By ‘the several kinds in separate parts,’ I mean, that some parts are rendered through the medium
of verse alone, others again with the aid of song”.

Coming at this from the perspective of screenwriting, I’d like to go through parts 2-4 and 6, then
look at the relationship between 1 and 5 because to me the pairing of those two seems like pure
gold.
#2 reads like Aristotle is saying must by definition have a certain heft to it and that heft is
achieved through its degree of seriousness, thematic weight, and a sense of fullness and
resolution. In other words, tragedies must be substantial.

#3 looks to be about various dramatic forms common to plays with a further suggestion that there
was at the time Aristotle crafted “Poetics” certain accepted practices in that regard, i.e., what
went where.

#4 appears to speak to the fact that a play is performed by actors who convey an actual story.

#6 seems to be linked to #3, but instead of actual various narrative forms, such as verse or song,
this is about the way these parts are crafted using rhythm and harmony.

I suspect our wonderful crew of Aristotelian experts — you know who you are and I thank you
profusely for your insights! — will set me straight or clarify my take if I’ve got anything wrong
on these four points.

Now let’s jump to #1 — imitation — and #5 — purgation — because this coupling seems
essential to why stories work.

We’ve already considered imitation because Aristotle introduced the idea in Part 1:

For as there are persons who, by conscious art or mere habit, imitate
and represent various objects through the medium of color and form,
or again by the voice; so in the arts above mentioned, taken as a
whole, the imitation is produced by rhythm, language, or ‘harmony,’
either singly or combined.

Now if I get the meaning right, Aristotle does not mean imitation as copying or mere mimicry,
but rather that other word he couples with imitation here: represent. Or perhaps better re-present.

Stories are not exact copies of reality, but rather re-presentations of them. So when we, the
audience, see a movie, watch a TV show or hear a story, we know it is different than the real
thing, it is a fictionalized account.

This is important because it affords us a certain distance from the reality.

Here is an example. Do you remember the 1996 movie Ransom starring Mel Gibson. Premise:
When a rich man’s son is kidnapped, he cooperates with the police at first but then tries a unique
tactic against the criminals.

If you don’t remember the movie, you perhaps may recall the throaty growl Gibson’s character
shouted in the trailer: “Give me back my son!”
That movie was a huge hit, generating $309M in worldwide box office revenue. And I remember
reading at the time in the trades that one of the prime reasons Ransom succeeded so well is
because the numbers propelled by one particular group of moviegoers: Parents.

Think about that: Why would parents want anything to do with a movie which premise is about
one of the single worst fears a parent can have — the kidnapping of their child?

My theory is because Ransom offered parents a safe way to live out those fears. The movie was
an imitation of reality, there was a distance between the story and actual child kidnapping,
therefore parents could attend a screening and have an opportunity to experience their worst
fears, but in a way they could control and know the story would have a beginning, middle and
most important ending allowing them an eventual escape from this horrific possibility.

That dovetails into the idea of purgation. It’s an interesting word which conjures up images of
ancient Romans chowing down on food and wine, then purging themselves by vomiting, so they
could go back to partying. But I dug deeper to find what the actual Greek word was: κάθαρσις
or catharsis.

Now that is a word I’ve run into a lot in my studies, particularly in the realm of psychology. In a
meta view, catharsis can be about a major moment when various psychological dynamics come
to a head, leading to a sort of purification of an individuals’ psyche, or at least a more pure self-
understanding.

That is valuable for a writer when thinking about Protagonist characters at key points in stories
where what they have experienced in their journey in the External World of actions and events
combined with what they have experienced in their accompanying journey in the Internal World
of reactions and emotions leads to significant shifts in their being, commonly known as
metamorphosis or transformation.

I doubt that’s what Aristotle is referring to here, but the distinction is only by degrees, for while
it’s possible in theory for an audience member to have such a revelatory experience while
witnessing a play, movie or what-not, more often their catharsis is smaller, although no less
meaningful or real in a psychological sense.

And the key to any sort of catharsis in an audience member to any type of story is their
identification with the situation, events, and especially the characters. To the degree, we resonate
with the experience of the characters in a story, we connect with them, we understand and
empathize with their emotions, passions, wants and needs, and in effect we participate in their
experiences. That can lead to catharsis, a roiling of feelings and a release of those feelings when
the story resolves.

So we have this fascinating dynamic articulated by Aristotle that is absolutely true in a

psychological way: Stories are imitations or re-presentations of reality, and therefore offer some
distance from the real world, which in turns creates a safe spot for audience members to
experience vicariously what happens within the story’s framework. But in order for that
experience to be meaningful and lead to any sort of catharsis for an audience member, we as
writers have to craft a sense of identification with the characters, events and scenarios.

Imitation creates distance.

Purgation requires identification.

That dual dynamic right there, my friends, is one of the most fundamental reasons why stories
work, an understanding that Aristotle had hit upon over 2,300 years ago.

Part 6(B): Character and Thought

Now as tragic imitation implies persons acting, it necessarily follows

in the first place, that Spectacular equipment will be a part of Tragedy.
Next, Song and Diction, for these are the media of imitation. By ‘Diction’
I mean the mere metrical arrangement of the words: as for ‘Song,’
it is a term whose sense every one understands.

Again, Tragedy is the imitation of an action; and an action implies

personal agents, who necessarily possess certain distinctive qualities
both of character and thought; for it is by these that we qualify
actions themselves, and these- thought and character- are the two
natural causes from which actions spring, and on actions again all
success or failure depends. Hence, the Plot is the imitation of the
action- for by plot I here mean the arrangement of the incidents.
By Character I mean that in virtue of which we ascribe certain qualities
to the agents. Thought is required wherever a statement is proved,
or, it may be, a general truth enunciated.

This is interesting because one thing I have heard said about Aristotle is that he perceived Plot to
be preeminent above all else when it came to narrative. Here, however, his argument — “Plot is
the imitation of the action- for by plot I here mean the arrangement of the incidents” —
necessarily implies that a story would have no plot without “personal agents” who “possess
certain distinctive qualities both of character and thought.”

Some Aristotelian expert is going to have clear that up for me. Perhaps Plot may be the most
important element of a story, however there is a necessary, even prior positioning of “personal
agents” or what we in the screenwriting trade call characters.

The use of that term could get a little confusing seeing as Aristotle has a different definition for
Character and a specific meaning for the concept of Thought:

* By Character I mean that in virtue of which we ascribe certain qualities to the agents: This
sounds an awful lot like what we may describe as a character’s personality traits or per Carl Jung
the nature of their psyche.
* Thought is required wherever a statement is proved, or, it may be, a general truth enunciated:
I’ll need some help with this because if Character means personality traits, it would seem to
follow that Thought pertains to the inner mind of a personal agent. So the former is the way they
present themselves to the External World in terms of their persona, the latter a reflection of their
Internal World.

This may not be at all what Aristotle means — again I welcome the insights of those who have
studied Aristotle and could shed some light on the subject matter — but it seems to suggest that
at least at one level, he is making a distinction between the Internal and External aspects of a
personal agent, and their connection to the personal agent’s actions.

“…for it is by these that we qualify actions themselves, and these- thought and character- are the
two natural causes from which actions spring.”

If that is accurate, then it drives home to screenwriters the importance of linking “personal
agents” (characters) to actions, and the Internal World of beliefs and ideas as well as the External
World of personality and habits to those actions, and as importantly exploring both realms to
fully understand the actors in our story universe.

Part 6(C): The 6 Parts of Tragedy, Part 2

Every Tragedy, therefore, must have six parts, which parts determine its
quality- namely, Plot, Character, Diction, Thought, Spectacle, Song. Two
of the parts constitute the medium of imitation, one the manner, and three
the objects of imitation. And these complete the fist. These elements
have been employed, we may say, by the poets to a man; in fact, every play
contains Spectacular elements as well as Character, Plot, Diction, Song,
and Thought.

I will await our roving group of Aristotelians to weigh in with their much appreciated analysis,
but in the meantime I’ll take a whack at it, digging deeper into a subject we first discussed two
weeks ago here:

* The two parts that “constitute the medium of imitation” I would take to be Diction and Song.
Song would musical components of the piece. Diction I figure has to do with the metrical
structure of the written lines.

* The one part tied to “manner” would, I think, be Spectacle. And that I’m assuming is the set
design, costumes, and what other elements of the play to make it appealing to the audience,
primarily on a visual level.

* The three parts related to the “objects of imitation” would be Plot, Character, and Thought.
Plot, as we have read last week, is the “imitation of the action… the arrangement of the
incidents.” By Characters, I suspect Aristotle is referring not only to the “personal agents” whose
actions are intimately involved in the “incidents” of the Plot, but also those aspects of personality
we, as audience members, associate with individuals. And Thought? As suggested last week,
“Thought pertains to the inner mind of a personal agent,” a reflection that in a story there is an
External World of action and dialogue, and an Internal World of intention and subtext.

Now I’m going to embrace my inner Carl Jung and go all alchemist here by adapting meaning
from each of these six that we, as contemporary screenwriters, might find more specific
resonance in them for our craft:

* Plot: I think we can all pretty much live with the concept of it being “the arrangement of the
incidents.”

* Character: Also the idea of “personal agents” can work within the context of a screenplay.

* Thought: We haven’t gotten there yet in “Poetics,” but I suspect Aristotle is going to suggest
that a Character’s actions are closely tied to, even driven by their Thought, that is what is going
on in their Inner Self [my words, not his]. And in my mind, this is absolutely critical in
developing a story. Plot does not emerge in a vacuum, rather it derives from a specific collection
of characters in a specific narrative context, each character of whom has their unique Wants,
Needs, Conscious, Unconscious, Subconscious, and Backstory influences. I like the idea of
Thought as a reference to all of that ‘stuff,’ although it does risk minimizing Feelings, Emotions,
Passions, and the like which are equally, if not more powerful influences than mere ‘thought’.
But if we look at Thought broadly as referring to the entirety of a Character’s internal workings,
including the emotional aspects, it can be a helpful touch point.

Huge Note: Thought reminds us we cannot create a Plot without grounding it in

Characters, and we cannot understand our Characters unless we immerse ourselves in the
world of their Thoughts.

* Diction: Since screenplays do not have any formalized sense of meter, although screenwriters
do (generally) cherish tight, lean writing, perhaps we can adapt Diction to mean what I call
Narrative Voice, essentially the attitude of the writer toward the telling of the story as personified
in the story’s invisible narrator. I even have a formula for it: Narrative Voice = Genre + Style. So
Diction can refer to the distinctive ‘voice’ we bring to everything we write in a story — scene
description, dialogue, scene construction, transitions — the personality of our Narrator as
evidenced in the words we use to convey the story.

* Song: Again adapting the concept, what if we look at this as the Rhythm of the narrative? It’s
pace, the balance between action scenes and interaction scenes, between night and day, outside
and inside, the harmonies we create through the interplay of our scenes and sequences?

* Spectacle: Here we land on pretty solid ground as movies are primarily a visual medium and
thus Spectacle would seem to best fit referring to the story’s cinematic potential. What is it about
our screenplay that is going to capture the ‘eyes’ of the reader, and through that experience, their
imagination? We must remember movies were once (and sometimes still are) called ‘motion
pictures,’ each word spotlighting visuality. Motion. Picture. So Spectacle would seem to be a
good reminder that we must always think first about the visual narrative, how to arouse a
reader’s sense of what they can see.
Note: “Spectacles” historically referred to someone’s eyeglasses, so again the word steers us
toward the idea of playing to a reader’s visual sensibilities.

Well, that was fun! As I say, I await the wisdom of our noble Aristotelians, but I’m comfortable
appropriating these six concepts into a modern framework, hopefully in the spirit of their original
intention.

Part 6(D): Plot First, Character Second

But most important of all is the structure of the incidents. For Tragedy
is an imitation, not of men, but of an action and of life, and life
consists in action, and its end is a mode of action, not a quality.
Now character determines men’s qualities, but it is by their actions
that they are happy or the reverse. Dramatic action, therefore, is
not with a view to the representation of character: character comes
in as subsidiary to the actions. Hence the incidents and the plot
are the end of a tragedy; and the end is the chief thing of all. Again,
without action there cannot be a tragedy; there may be without character.
The tragedies of most of our modern poets fail in the rendering of
character; and of poets in general this is often true. It is the same
in painting; and here lies the difference between Zeuxis and Polygnotus.
Polygnotus delineates character well; the style of Zeuxis is devoid
of ethical quality. Again, if you string together a set of speeches
expressive of character, and well finished in point of diction and
thought, you will not produce the essential tragic effect nearly so
well as with a play which, however deficient in these respects, yet
has a plot and artistically constructed incidents. Besides which,
the most powerful elements of emotional interest in Tragedy- Peripeteia
or Reversal of the Situation, and Recognition scenes- are parts of
the plot. A further proof is, that novices in the art attain to finish
of diction and precision of portraiture before they can construct
the plot. It is the same with almost all the early poets.

The plot, then, is the first principle, and, as it were, the soul
of a tragedy; Character holds the second place. A similar fact is
seen in painting. The most beautiful colors, laid on confusedly, will
not give as much pleasure as the chalk outline of a portrait. Thus
Tragedy is the imitation of an action, and of the agents mainly with
a view to the action.

If you remember anything of Aristotle in relation to writing, it’s probably this: Plot is the first
principle. He is unequivocal about that point, repeating it often.

How he gets to that point is intriguing. It appears he starts by drawing a distinction between
action and quality.
Of the former he associates words and phrases such as incidents, life, mode of action. Even his
assignation for what we, as screenwriters, would refer to as a ‘character’ — personal agent —
implies action.

Of the latter he draws a connection to the term character, but I think he means it in this way:
moral or ethical quality. As in, “She is a person of high character.”

So purely at the most basic sense of things, it’s hard to argue against Aristotle’s point: If Tragedy
is “an imitation… of an action and of life,” then it is ultimately dependent upon the “structure of
the incidents.” That is Plot.

And yet as I indicated in previous posts, I can’t get away from what seems to me to be an equally
inescapable fact: you can not have incidents, action, life or Plot without Characters. Or not to
confuse matters because of his use of the term in this section — “Dramatic action, therefore, is
not with a view to the representation of character: character comes in as subsidiary to the
actions” — and by character here, I take it he means a moral or ethical quality of an individual,
then let’s say it this way:

You can not have Plot without Personal Agents.

Plots do not exist in a vacuum. By necessity, they require Personal Agents. Or else how would a
story have incidents, actions, or life? Who creates those incidents or actions, or have a life but
characters?

Let me try to make this point by referencing another ancient text: The two creation myths in the
book of Genesis from the Bible.

In the first account (Genesis 1:1-2:3), God creates the universe and everything in it in six days:
The first three days acts of division: darkness from light, waters above from waters below, sea
from land. The next three days, God populates this new environment, the darkness and light with
sun, moon and stars, the seas and skies with fish and birds, the land with animals and finally
humans.

Great, right? Here we have this place and these generic people. At this point, it is an origin
narrative, but without a plot.

In the second account (Genesis 2:4-2:25), God creates a man, literally breathing the “breath of
life” into man formed out of the “dust of the ground.” And it was this man, Adam who desired a
helpmate. So God put Adam into a deep sleep, removed one of his ribs, and created a woman,
named Eve.

And we all know what happens next. The serpent, the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil,
and the commandment not to eat its fruit… which Adam and Even do, and the Fall from Grace.

Now you have a story! A Tragedy at that.

So to drive home my point, consider the last paragraph from Poetics featured today:

The plot, then, is the first principle, and, as it were, the soul of a tragedy; Character holds the
second place. A similar fact is seen in painting. The most beautiful colors, laid on confusedly,
will not give as much pleasure as the chalk outline of a portrait. Thus Tragedy is the imitation of
an action, and of the agents mainly with a view to the action.

If by ‘character’ here Aristotle means moral or ethical values, they would be the “beautiful
colors” associated with a static painting. But we, as humans, want more than that, we want
stories, even the simple “pleasure” of a “chalk outline” which provides a structure of the
narrative. And in order to have that narrative, we need an “imitation of an action, and of the
agents [emphasis added] mainly with a view to the action.”

Therefore when Aristotle talks about Plot, he implies the presence of Personal Agents. You can
not dissociate them. So if what you have thought about “Poetics” is that Aristotle puts Plot first
and Character second, that is, in my view, a misunderstanding of terms. Moral or ethical values,
those “beautiful colors,” sure, they are secondary in importance to Plot. But since we cannot
have a Plot without Personal Agents, both must by definition exist side-by-side in their
importance in crafting a story.

Why is this particularly important in terms of screenwriting? Because in my view, there is way
too much focus on screenplay structure, and not enough focus on developing characters. Properly
perceived, when developing characters, we concurrently develop plot. And when developing
plot, we concurrently develop characters.

As the creation myths in Genesis remind us, we cannot have a story unless we have characters
who create incidents, events, actions and have lives.

Part 6(E): Thought Third

Third in order is Thought- that is, the faculty of saying what is

possible and pertinent in given circumstances. In the case of oratory,
this is the function of the political art and of the art of rhetoric:
and so indeed the older poets make their characters speak the language
of civic life; the poets of our time, the language of the rhetoricians.
Character is that which reveals moral purpose, showing what kind of
things a man chooses or avoids. Speeches, therefore, which do not
make this manifest, or in which the speaker does not choose or avoid
anything whatever, are not expressive of character. Thought, on the
other hand, is found where something is proved to be or not to be,
or a general maxim is enunciated.

Per Aristotle, a play that is a tragedy has six component parts: The first two are – in order of their
importance – Plot, then Character. Third is Thought.

What is Thought? Aristotle offers two takes on the concept here:

* The faculty of saying what is possible and pertinent in given circumstances.

* Thought… is found where something is proved to be or not to be, or a general maxim is

enunciated.

Saying. Enunciated. This would suggest that unlike the idea of thought being an inner activity of
our mind, Aristotle’s take on Thought is something that emerges into the External World through
the act of speech.

It is, however, more than simply words, rather it is language that “reveals moral purpose…
expressive of character.”

This takes me into the arena of theme. It could be an articulation of what is “possible and
pertinent” within the context of the overall narrative. It could be the enunciation of a “general
maxim” central to the story. It could be a premise that is “proved to be or not to be.” But it does
seem to me that the way Aristotle views Thought, at least as he describes it here, and a general
notion of Theme as we typically refer to it nowadays are related.

With these first three components of Tragedy, clearly we see we cannot take them on face value:

* Plot is not just the structure of events, but as mythos, how those incidents are organized to
convey a coherent articulation of something of meaning.

* Character refers to moral or ethical quality, not individuals in a story [Aristotle refers to them
as "personal agents"].

* Thought is not a mental activity, but an articulation of moral purpose and character, a
conveyance of a story’s themes.

All of which is to say, if we read “Poetics” merely at the surface level of meaning, we will likely
miss the essence of what Aristotle intended and certainly of what value we can glean from his
ideas as they relate to screenwriting.

Part 6(F): Diction Fourth, Song Fifth

Fourth among the elements enumerated comes Diction; by which I mean,

as has been already said, the expression of the meaning in words;
and its essence is the same both in verse and prose.

Of the remaining elements Song holds the chief place among the
embellishments.

Per Aristotle, a play that is a tragedy has six component parts: The first two are – in order of their
importance – Plot, then Character. Third is Thought.

You may read the post on Plot and Character here.

You may read the post on Thought here.

In order of importance, Diction is fourth, Song fifth.

Aristotle has little to say here about Diction and I’m guessing he pretty much concludes this is
the domain of actors as they deliver the “expression” of the words.

Song is an “embellishment,” so presumably not even necessary for a play, but a pleasurable
addition nonetheless.

From the perspective of contemporary screenwriting, I have little to add except to suggest that
here again, we find our way into and through this aspect of a filmed script through a deep
immersion in our characters, not only to know them so well we ‘hear’ their words which we
articulate as dialogue, but also drill down into each ‘personal agent’ and their Core Essence so
that actors can grasp what is essential about them. That is the perhaps the best way a writer may
ensure an actor will take the dialogue as written and give “expression to the meaning in words”
in a way that reflects the writer’s take on the story.

With regard to song, this has virtually nothing to do with screenwriting, but I sure wish modern
filmmakers would stop thinking they have to fill every second of a movie with soundtrack music.
Take a look at these scenes from just a few movies from the past:

Notice that? Characters. Dialogue. Action. And no soundtrack music. In fact, if you pay attention
to precisely this point and screen some of the greatest movies of the 60s and 70s, it’s amazing
how little accompanying music they have.

Every time I think of bringing up the subject of how damned annoying the unending music is in
contemporary films, I know I’ll come across as a stupid old fart, but here I’ve finally found some
cover for my wrinkled ass: Aristotle!

Song is an EMBELLISHMENT! Not a necessity.

So please, any of you who go on to make movies, you don’t have to squeeze every sixteenth note
from your composer to amortize the project’s music budget. You don’t have to telegraph with
music what we’re supposed to feel each second of the story. Give the characters and the narrative
some room to breathe, stretches of quiet so the audience members can process what’s going on
rather than be assaulted by a ceaseless cacophony of symphonic noise.

Embellishment. Not necessity.

If you think I sound like a grumpy geezer this week, just wait until next time when we discuss
the 6th element of Tragedy which Aristotle considers to be at the very bottom in terms of
importance.

Hey, Michael Bay! Aristotle for you on line 1!

A reminder: I am looking at “Poetics” through the lens of screenwriting, what is its relevance to
the craft in contemporary times. And I welcome the observations of any Aristotle experts to set
me straight as I’m just trying to work my way through this content the best I can.

How about you? What do you take from Part 6(F) of Aristotle’s “Poetics”?

See you here next Sunday for another installment of this series.

For the entire series, go here.

UPDATE: From comments, an observation by Jennine Lanouette:

I did my own immersion study of the Poetics about 15 years ago when, after I had already been
teaching screenwriting for a few years, I went back to graduate school to brush up on drama
history. I soon learned that what I had been taught about the Poetics in film school was not
entirely accurate. I decided to write a term paper on all the misinterpretations of the Poetics I was
finding in screenwriting how-to books, a subject I found rather distressing, but that my (theater)
professor thought was hilarious. Thus, I have since endeavored, as far as possible, to seek a
deeper understanding. A couple of thoughts on the discussion so far:

I think it’s important to keep in mind that the Poetics marks only the beginning of drama theory,
not the end. Much more has come to be understood since then and more is yet to be learned.
Also, it was written in a specific cultural and historical context that we can’t know fully, which is
further complicated by our dependence on translations. I would caution, therefore, against
getting too minute and too literal with the text. Better to simply appreciate the general principles.

For example, there are those out there who would like to read Aristotle’s prioritizing of plot over
character in a literal manner to justify cardboard character action films. But this doesn’t take into
account that for Aristotle the word Character was with a capital C, meaning the inherent moral
qualities of an individual, as opposed to personality traits or psychology, and that frequently, in
those days, Character was portrayed through declamatory recitation, either by the chorus or the
character himself.

It was the tendency to describe a character’s inherent moral qualities through dialogue that
Aristotle was arguing against by relegating Character to second place. This came from his
philosophical belief that the true measure of a person’s moral character is in his actions. It was
also why he considered Tragedy a superior art form to the Epic Poem, in that it provides the
opportunity to show moral character through a person’s actions rather than just talking about it. It
was the relatively new practice of revealing story elements through action that he was giving
priority to by putting plot first.

What does this tell us about screenwriting? First, we can let go of the idea that character is
secondary to plot since our understanding of character by now is quite expanded from
Aristotle’s, including as it does personality and psychology. He couldn’t possibly have meant
character as we know it because it didn’t exist in his world. But more so, when Aristotle placed
plot first, he was referring to structure, which is to say the manner in which the actions are
organized. What distinguishes drama (Tragedy then, movies now) from narrative (the epic poem
then, the novel now) is the ability to use action to tell the story. But in order to be successful, the
action must be organized in a coherent structure. This was the radical new idea in Aristotle’s
time that still holds true today.

To see Jennine’s paper “The Uses and Abuses of Aristotle’s Poetics in Screenwriting How-to
Books,” go here.

Part 6(G): Spectacle Sixth

The Spectacle has, indeed, an emotional attraction of its own, but,

of all the parts, it is the least artistic, and connected least with
the art of poetry. For the power of Tragedy, we may be sure, is felt
even apart from representation and actors. Besides, the production
of spectacular effects depends more on the art of the stage machinist
than on that of the poet.

I was all set to go off on a rant about Hollywood’s obsession with ginormous CGI (Computer
Generated Imagery) movies with aliens, robots, monsters, superheroes, vampires, zombies,
global disasters…

You know spectacle movies.

Armed with Aristotle’s Totem Pole of Tragedy Elements and spectacle sitting right there at the
very bottom of importance, I was going to gleefully dance all over the mindless detritus which
was Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen, the paradigm of this type of movie, a product so
utterly caught up in the spectacle of violence and destruction, my then almost nine year-old son
summed it up aptly when I asked him what the movie was about. His succinct response:
“Blowing stuff up.”

But I have to pull my punches here for three reasons:

* That bombast of a movie blew up at the box office, generating a worldwide total of $836M, so
that should pretty much shut me up right there.

* Aristotle’s perception of what ‘spectacle’ was is light years away from what the CGI and VFX
wizards are capable of producing nowadays, coming a looooooong way from the “stage
machinsts” of old.

* And that brings up another big point: If Aristotle were alive today, what would he think of the
seemingly limitless visual possibilities available to storytellers?

Might he embrace them? Indeed, might he be really into them? What if he was one of those
obsessed cosplay Comic-Con souls? Maybe he would have enjoyed Transformers: Revenge of
the Fallen?
Or maybe not. For he draws what in effect is equivalent to above-the-line / below-the-line:

Above-The-Line: “The art of poetry.”

Below-The-Line: “The least artistic.”

I’ll have to rely on our Aristotelian experts for further analysis of this question: When Aristotle
says, “The Spectacle has, indeed, an emotional attraction of its own,” by emotional attraction is
he relegating spectacle to a lesser domain of human experience with poetry providing an
intellectual and/or moral (“character”) attraction?

If so, I think the point offered previously still stands: For a story to mean anything, it must be
tethered to (especially) Plot, Character, and Thought, as well as Diction and Song.

And if that is true, then we can introduce the idea of a “character driven” story. Yes, it can be
high concept. It may have spectacle. But for it to constitute something more than just “blowing
stuff up,” the events that happen to the personal agents in a story must be grounded in who, what,
why and how those characters are.

Part 7(A): Beginning, Middle, End

These principles being established, let us now discuss the proper

structure of the Plot, since this is the first and most important
thing in Tragedy.

Now, according to our definition Tragedy is an imitation of an action

that is complete, and whole, and of a certain magnitude; for there
may be a whole that is wanting in magnitude. A whole is that which
has a beginning, a middle, and an end. A beginning is that which does
not itself follow anything by causal necessity, but after which something
naturally is or comes to be. An end, on the contrary, is that which
itself naturally follows some other thing, either by necessity, or
as a rule, but has nothing following it. A middle is that which follows
something as some other thing follows it. A well constructed plot,
therefore, must neither begin nor end at haphazard, but conform to
these principles.

Okay, here we go. Arguably this second paragraph is the foundation stone of what we have come
to know as Three Act Structure:

Beginning = Act One

Middle = Act Two
End = Act Three

Three parts. Three movements. The number “3” is an interesting one.

  Three is first odd prime number and the second smallest prime
 There are three types of galaxies: elliptical, spirals, and irregulars
 Three basic Earth divisions: Igneous- Metamorphic- Sedimentary
 Freud suggested that psyche was divided into three parts: Ego, Super-Ego, Id
 Holy Trinity: Father – Son – Holy Ghost
 The three R’s: Reading – ‘Riting – ‘Rithmetic

There is an inherent sense of structure to the number 3: a triangle of three points; three pitches in
a triad, the most basic form of a chord.

There is also a sense of finality upon experiencing that third part: third’s a charm; three strikes
and you’re out.

Furthermore there are innate cycles in the physical universe that reflect three movements:
Sunrise – Day – Sunset; Departure – Journey – Return; Birth – Life – Death.

So, too, in the world of ideas: Hegel’s dialectic of Thesis – Antithesis – Synthesis; classical
music’s sonata form of Exposition – Development – Recapitulation.

The idea of these three movements is so fundamental to the human experience, it is little wonder
that story structure evolved to Beginning, Middle and End. Nor I guess that Aristotle should land
on this articulation as well.

Indeed directly related to screenwriting, these three movements of Beginning, Middle, and End
undergird all elements of script structure:

 Every scene should have a Beginning – Middle – End.

 Every sequence should have a Beginning – Middle – End.
 Every subplot should have a Beginning – Middle – End.
 Every screenplay should have a Beginning – Middle – End.

There are those nowadays who claim Three Act Structure in relation to a screenplay is a “myth,”
such as here and here. In my view, they do so at their peril. Does each act have a substructure?
Certainly. May we divide each act into smaller sequences? Yes. But almost invariably, those
smaller components can be interpreted as comprising an act or acts, and the overall narrative of a
screenplay will more than likely have three overarching movements.

Beginning. Middle. End. The foundation of a “well constructed plot.”

Part 7(B): Beauty, Magnitude and Order

Again, a beautiful object, whether it be a living organism or any

whole composed of parts, must not only have an orderly arrangement
of parts, but must also be of a certain magnitude; for beauty depends
on magnitude and order. Hence a very small animal organism cannot
be beautiful; for the view of it is confused, the object being seen
in an almost imperceptible moment of time. Nor, again, can one of
vast size be beautiful; for as the eye cannot take it all in at once,
the unity and sense of the whole is lost for the spectator; as for
instance if there were one a thousand miles long. As, therefore, in
the case of animate bodies and organisms a certain magnitude is necessary,
and a magnitude which may be easily embraced in one view; so in the
plot, a certain length is necessary, and a length which can be easily
embraced by the memory.

For beauty depends on magnitude and order. Three substantive concepts in one short sentence. I
trust our Aristotelians will provide more background on each. Here is my quick take from what
we’ve read thus far in “Poetics” including this excerpt:

Order: An “orderly arrangements of parts,” such as in a story [as noted last week] Beginning,
Middle and End. Presumably not just those three aspects, but a balance between the three parts
and the overall appearance or experience of the parts in combination as a coherent whole.

Magnitude: As I read the excerpt above, I was reminded of the Goldilocks fable, how the
porridge of the Three Bears was too hot or too cold, their beds too big or too small, the little girl
only finding satisfaction with something in the middle. Likewise per Aristotle, an object cannot
be beautiful if it is too small — “for the view of it is confused, the object being seen in an almost
imperceptible moment of time” — nor too big — “for as the eye cannot take it all in at once, the
unity and sense of the whole is lost for the spectator”. It must have sufficient magnitude, a
“certain length” at minimum, but one that can be “easily embraced by the memory” so not too
large.

Beauty: Dredging into my brain cells housing knowledge implanted there in college, I seem to
remember some talk about Aristotle equating Beauty with Truth. However I don’t think he’s
using the term in that way here, rather in the context of discussing Tragedy and plays, Beauty is
an aesthetic description of a process whereby an artist creates something. And I must say, the use
of this concept in relation to writing truly appeals to me. No matter the scope of a creative
breakthrough, from a big thing like a key understanding of a character to a small item such as the
choice of a perfect descriptive word, I experience Beauty often as I write. Even the balance of
black ink and white space on a screenplay page can be Beautiful to the eye. Indeed for all the
hardships the creative life involves, the act of writing is fundamentally a beautiful thing, an
expression of the Self, making Something from Nothing.

In fact, these three concepts — Beauty, Magnitude, Order — lead me to believe that Aristotle
would find a screenplay as a narrative form to be quite pleasing. There is such an emphasis on
structure in writing a script, so Order is a priority. The story has to be long enough to allow for a
plot to play out and characters to go through their respective transformations, yet not overly long
to dilute the power of the narrative, and that implies Magnitude. And like poetry, a screenplay
can be a beautiful form to read, at least before it goes into the hands of those involved in the
movie’s production.
Indeed if we were to mix up all three concepts, I think we could easily land on a word I
mentioned above: Balance. So much of what we do in a screenplay is achieve to find balance —
page count, scene length, subplots, dialogue compared to action, act length, exterior and interior
scenes, day and night scenes, action and interaction scenes, themes and motifs, and so on.

So these concepts of Beauty, Magnitude and Order would seem to have great applicability for a
contemporary screenwriter in plying his/her craft in the creation of a feature length screenplay.

Part 7(C): Story Length and Change of Fortune

The limit of length in relation to dramatic competition and sensuous

presentment is no part of artistic theory. For had it been the rule
for a hundred tragedies to compete together, the performance would
have been regulated by the water-clock- as indeed we are told was
formerly done. But the limit as fixed by the nature of the drama
itself is this: the greater the length, the more beautiful will the
piece be by reason of its size, provided that the whole be
perspicuous. And to define the matter roughly, we may say that the
proper magnitude is comprised within such limits, that the sequence
of events, according to the law of probability or necessity, will
admit of a change from bad fortune to good, or from good fortune to
bad.

It seems that Aristotle’s point about story “length” reflects his previous comments about
magnitude, that “the more beautiful will the piece be by reason of its size,” suggesting that –
ahem – size does matter.

Then Aristotle adds this point: “…provided that the whole be perspicuous.” If that twenty five
cent word throws you, basically it means intelligible. So it’s not enough for a plot to have merely
a Beginning, Middle and End, or a random chain of events. Rather there has to be a coherence to
the narrative, it has to convey meaning that is understandable to the audience.

It’s that last part that really grabs my attention: …that the sequence of events, according to the
law of probability or necessity, will admit of a change from bad fortune to good, or from good
fortune to bad [emphasis added].

Change, either ‘positive’ or ‘negative,’ must occur. And once again, we have a direct connection
of Character, as in our current use of the term, or Personal Agents per Aristotle, to Plot. Because
good fortune or bad fortune happens to Characters, it is their fates that change. Thus it would
seem Aristotle assumes this narrative element to be an essential part of Plot.

Of course, this dovetails directly into Joseph Campbell’s perspective that the whole point of a
Hero’s Journey is the transformation that happens to the Hero, their change. And in my view,
that links up beautifully with Carl Jung’s notion of individuation, the process whereby an
individual moves toward wholeness by engaging and understanding all aspects of their psyche. It
confirms the approach I take in teaching Core I: Plot which combines Aristotle, Campbell, Jung
and the Whammo Theory, all four combining to create a solid theoretical foundation for
screenplay structure as well as one grounded in the pragmatic realities of working in Hollywood.

Part 8: Unity

Unity of plot does not, as some persons think, consist in the unity
of the hero. For infinitely various are the incidents in one man’s
life which cannot be reduced to unity; and so, too, there are many
actions of one man out of which we cannot make one action. Hence the
error, as it appears, of all poets who have composed a Heracleid,
a Theseid, or other poems of the kind. They imagine that as Heracles
was one man, the story of Heracles must also be a unity. But Homer,
as in all else he is of surpassing merit, here too- whether from art
or natural genius- seems to have happily discerned the truth. In composing
the Odyssey he did not include all the adventures of Odysseus- such
as his wound on Parnassus, or his feigned madness at the mustering
of the host- incidents between which there was no necessary or probable
connection: but he made the Odyssey, and likewise the Iliad, to center
round an action that in our sense of the word is one. As therefore,
in the other imitative arts, the imitation is one when the object
imitated is one, so the plot, being an imitation of an action, must
imitate one action and that a whole, the structural union of the parts
being such that, if any one of them is displaced or removed, the whole
will be disjointed and disturbed. For a thing whose presence or absence
makes no visible difference, is not an organic part of the whole.

Well! We are clearly into some substantial ideas here, ones that relate to the very essence of
‘story’. Let me cull out some key parts:

* As therefore, in the other imitative arts, the imitation is one when the object imitated is one, so
the plot, being an imitation of an action, must imitate one action… We must not assume that
unity derives from a character, assuming that since they are a single individual, the narrative
arising from them will be somehow unified. No, characters, reflecting as they do the lives of
human beings, have multiple aspects to their persona, experience, personal history, and so forth.
Rather unity derives from “one action” and the imitation of it as represented in a plot.

An obvious question to an outsider living in the modern age [read: me] is this: What does
Aristotle mean by the term action? On the one hand, it reads like an inciting incident that sets
into motion a plot, and I would assume that he means only one plot is possible to derive from
that initial action. But doesn’t that depend upon where the writer stands in relation to the story?
If I have typed FADE OUT / THE END, I can look back at the plot and perhaps say, “Yes, this
narrative is the only possible way things could have gone.” However if I stand at the front of the
plotting process, there are, in fact, an endless number of plot choices I could make. Even if I was
to immerse myself in the lives of the characters, the fact is they, too, would have innumerable
choices.
So then I’m led to think, by action does Aristotle mean the entire plot of a story? This must be
more on target, yes? For again, if I stand at FADE OUT / THE END, I have a vantage point
which allows me to see the unity of the plot, having worked out its details.

Of course, Aristotle never had to work with movie studios, producers, and talent who all have
ideas about what the plot should be, and frankly how unified can a screenplay be if it is written
and rewritten by multiple writers?

* …that a whole, the structural union of the parts being such that, if any one of them is displaced
or removed, the whole will be disjointed and disturbed. This all writers ought to be able to
understand. Whether we can assess a piece of material from a vaunted perspective of Unity or a
more proletariat vantage point whereby this scene leads to that scene which leads to that scene,
we get that there is a flow of events that if altered runs the risk of being disrupted and become
‘disunified.’

* For a thing whose presence or absence makes no visible difference, is not an organic part of
the whole. We also should be able to grasp this: If a scene or character contributes nothing to the
story, it is not an inherently valuable, beneficial, necessary or “organic” part of the whole.

Therefore the whole “unity” angle is something screenwriters know and struggle with in crafting
a story. However I want some clarity on precisely what Aristotle means by “action”. Is it the
inciting incident? The entire plot? Or does it describe something else?

Inquiring minds want to know. Hopefully our band of intrepid Aristotelians will be able to shed
some light on the subject.

Part 9(A): Poet and Historian

It is, moreover, evident from what has been said, that it is not the
function of the poet to relate what has happened, but what may happen-
what is possible according to the law of probability or necessity.
The poet and the historian differ not by writing in verse or in prose.
The work of Herodotus might be put into verse, and it would still
be a species of history, with meter no less than without it. The true
difference is that one relates what has happened, the other what may
happen.

Part 9 has a lot of stuff going on in it, so I’m going to break it down into several parts.

Based on what follows in Part 9 and elsewhere, I think it’s safe to make the assumption Aristotle
is speaking about how many, if not most plays of the time were based upon or grounded in
historical events and/or figures. Later in Part 9, he does mention Agathon’s Antheus, “where
incidents and names alike are fictitious,” but the detail into which Aristotle goes in articulating
his line of reasoning suggests he is talking about stories based upon actual occurrences in the
past.
Given that frame of reference, we can see why this point he makes here — “one (historian)
relates what has happened, the other (poet) what may happen” — which seems quite obvious is
a critical one worth underscoring. Whereas an historian’s domain is about what is already
known, the poet’s area of focus is on what is not known, that is the outcome of the story’s plot.
As a result, there is a kind of dynamism that derives from the latter that history cannot replicate
for as long as a writer can create a narrative with the potential for anything to happen, that is in
theory at least more compelling and engaging for the audience: the mystery of what will happen,
how will it turn out, how will it get to the point where it does resolve itself.

As a screenwriter, this speaks to me in a powerful way relative to the dynamic of Time that
exists in a script universe. As we discussed this week, screenplays are written in the present
tense, unlike most novels and short stories which are composed in the past tense. That means
there is an immediacy in the action that pulls the reader into the narrative because of an
experience we have that it is unfolding in the The Now.

But there is, I believe, something more going on in the Present of a script: There is the push of
the Backstory and everything that happens post-FADE IN after the fact, what we may call
Present-Past, and there is the pull of Narrative Destiny and everything that lies ahead, what we
may call Present-Future. So that in any given scene, there can be this dynamic tension between
the Past and Future, each tugging on and influencing the Present.

And that is where I plug into Aristotle’s idea that unlike historians, poets craft stories about
“what may happen.” A screenplay that unfolds in the Present and carries with it in each moment
the mystery and potential of what may happen can be a powerful thing. That aura of an
indeterminate Future influenced by the forces of the Past looms large over any script we write.
Hopefully.

But as we shall see, Aristotle has a vigorous view about how “what may happen” must be
grounded in logic, not just some random set of events. We pick that up in the next few weeks as
we continue our exploration of Part 9 of “Poetics”.

I welcome the input of the traveling feast of Aristotelians who have taken to gathering here for a
weekly discourse. If you have just stumbled onto this series, you should really go back and read
the comments in each post as the folks who have been participating have added incredible insight
into this seminal work by Aristotle.

Part 9(B): Possibility, Probability and Necessity

It is, moreover, evident from what has been said, that it is not the
function of the poet to relate what has happened, but what may happen-
what is possible according to the law of probability or necessity.
The poet and the historian differ not by writing in verse or in prose.
The work of Herodotus might be put into verse, and it would still
be a species of history, with meter no less than without it. The true
difference is that one relates what has happened, the other what may
happen. Poetry, therefore, is a more philosophical and a higher thing
than history: for poetry tends to express the universal, history the
particular. By the universal I mean how a person of a certain type
on occasion speak or act, according to the law of probability or necessity;
and it is this universality at which poetry aims in the names she
attaches to the personages. The particular is- for example- what Alcibiades
did or suffered. In Comedy this is already apparent: for here the
poet first constructs the plot on the lines of probability, and then
inserts characteristic names- unlike the lampooners who write about
particular individuals. But tragedians still keep to real names, the
reason being that what is possible is credible: what has not happened
we do not at once feel sure to be possible; but what has happened
is manifestly possible: otherwise it would not have happened. Still
there are even some tragedies in which there are only one or two well-known
names, the rest being fictitious. In others, none are well known-
as in Agathon’s Antheus, where incidents and names alike are fictitious,
and yet they give none the less pleasure. We must not, therefore,
at all costs keep to the received legends, which are the usual subjects
of Tragedy. Indeed, it would be absurd to attempt it; for even subjects
that are known are known only to a few, and yet give pleasure to all.
It clearly follows that the poet or ‘maker’ should be the maker of
plots rather than of verses; since he is a poet because he imitates,
and what he imitates are actions. And even if he chances to take a
historical subject, he is none the less a poet; for there is no reason
why some events that have actually happened should not conform to
the law of the probable and possible, and in virtue of that quality
in them he is their poet or maker.

Justifiably chastened as I was last week by some folks for separating out the first four lines of
this part [italicized above], the point being that I disconnected the first part of Aristotle’s
argument from the second, I have posted the entire paragraph so we can discuss it as a whole. I
have also highlighted three terms that recur through this section: possible, probable, necessary.

To start the discussion, let me excerpt this from a comment made last week by Jennine
Lanouette:

The fifth sentence begins “Poetry, therefore, . . .” giving a clear indication that what follows will
shed light on what came before. He then says that poetry is a higher form than history because,
whereas history is for reporting the particular (i.e., chronicling factual incident), poetry is for
expressing the universal (i.e., drawing larger meaning from the specific incidents). Considering
this, I disagree that Aristotle sees the poet’s area of focus as being on the outcome of the story’s
plot. Over and over, he uses the phrase “of probability and necessity” which to me pretty easily
translates to what we call “cause and effect,” the backbone of dramatic structure. Thus, he is not
saying that the outcome of the plot is unknown (indeed, if it’s based on a historical incident, the
outcome is known) so much as that it is the poets job to draw cause and effect relationships
between the particular incidents in order to illuminate their larger meaning. To my reading, the
remainder of that paragraph also supports the idea that, while the historian chronicles a series of
events, the poet looks for cause and effect relationships among those events and structures their
account accordingly. The implication being that it is the structuring of those cause and effect
relationships that elevates the story to a higher universal expression.

This strikes me as an excellent articulation of the primary point of cause and effect, a discussion
that appears to put us squarely into the arena of “unity of action,” a continuous and seamless
chain of events constituting story structure. To which pgronk added this observation last week:

>>uncertainty of the Future.

And isn’t that the riddle of the Sphinx every writer has to answer? She has to (eventually) figure
out:
1) How the story ends.
2) Build a chain of cause and effect that leads to that end and makes it believable.
3) With an emotional payoff (That, imho, is the central focal point of Aristotle’s inquiry into
tragedy; he was trying to figure out the mechanics of how it happens, explain how it is possible
to evoke fear and pity in an audience.)
4] BUT do it all in a way that keeps the audience in the semi-dark, guessing, wondering,
worrying, hoping about what may happen — the future.

Yes, not only a riddle, but a fundamental reality for a writer of rubber meeting the road. How to
do that, indeed! I have two further things to add re this part, one a question, one a crazy
interpretation that may be of some help in that regard:

* Notice how Aristotle uses “law of probability or necessity” twice at toward the front of Part IX,
but then at the end writes, “law of the probable and possible.” Are the terms “necessity” and
“possible” interchangeable? Or do they mean different things? The first two instances – with
“necessity” – he uses “or”. The last instance – with “probable” – he uses “and”. So does
“probability or necessity” represent two divergent paths whereas “probable and possible”
represents paths than can converge?

I suspect one interpretation can arise from the perspective of time.

If we are talking about a story at its beginning, then might that not be where possibility is most
relevant because the entire chain of impending events awaits in the future.

If we are talking about a story in its middle, then might that not be where probability is most
relevant because we will have experienced enough of the chain of events to be able to see
patterns and deduce certain potential outcomes.

If we are talking about a story at its end, then might that not be where necessity is most relevant
because we will know how the chain of events played out all the way through to its resolution.

* In addition to what Aristotle may have meant and the above interpretation per time, I can
extract an additional way to think about the three terms, and tie them back into pgronk’s point
via my obsession: character.
What if we, as writers, looked at the dynamic of possibility from the specific perspective of an
individual character, and even more specifically – the Protagonist? They are alive in the moment.
Every scene is the present to them. Furthermore they believe themselves to be free agents with
free will. So whatever goal they have in mind, whether a macro one related to the overall
narrative or a near-term objective in this scene or that, wouldn’t the Protagonist operate under the
assumption that they are living in the realm of possibility?

Now let’s widen the perspective to include all of the characters in that particular story universe
(let’s call them the Collective). Each of them would act as Protagonists in their own story and,
therefore, would bring with them the attitude articulated above: Everything is possible to them
individually. And yet they know that cannot be true ultimately because by virtue of existing
amidst a whole set of other characters as a Collective, some are going to win, some are going to
lose, some are going to live, some are going to die, some goals will be achieved, some will not.
So once we move from the Protagonist to the Collective level, isn’t this more the domain of
probability, characters assessing the possibilities and figuring out the odds, which in turn would
impact the choices they make and the actions they take?

Finally let’s step outside the story universe entirely to the vantage point of the writer. We see the
Protagonist and their critical role within the overall narrative. Likewise we can observe and
analyze the nature of the interrelationships of the Collective, and determine the cause and effect
each individual will have upon the plot. But there’s also this: If we dig down deep enough into
the Protagonist and grasp the essence of their Metamorphosis, can we not discern the narrative
destiny implied therein? How the possibilities the Protagonist believes are present, and the
probabilities the entire Collective of other characters believe to be in play, are actually all
tethered to the Protagonist’s own fate as grounded upon their transformation-journey. Thus from
a writer’s perspective outside the story universe, we can divine and understand the necessity of
the chain of events.

And so circling back to pgronk’s point about the “riddle of the Sphinx,” the trick may be for us,
as writers, understanding the necessity of the chain of events, where the narrative destiny must
go, but by writing each scene from the perspective of the Protagonist, who believes in possibility,
and the Collective, which traffics in probability, we can imbue our writing with that sense of
potential – anything can happen – while at the same time moving the plot forward toward its
inevitable conclusion.

In other news, I think I just broke my brain…

I welcome the input of the traveling feast of Aristotelians who have taken to gathering here for a
weekly discourse. If you have just stumbled onto this series, you should really go back and read
the comments in each post as the folks who have been participating have added incredible insight
into this seminal work by Aristotle.

Part 9(C): Episodic

Of all plots and actions the episodic are the worst. I call a plot
‘episodic’ in which the episodes or acts succeed one another without
probable or necessary sequence. Bad poets compose such pieces by their
own fault, good poets, to please the players; for, as they write show
pieces for competition, they stretch the plot beyond its capacity,
and are often forced to break the natural continuity.

I chose to excerpt this small section because it is important in at least two ways.

First, the concept of an ‘episodic’ plot helps Aristotle drive home what ‘unity’ means. Let’s
remember this from Part 8:

As therefore, in the other imitative arts, the imitation is one when

the object imitated is one, so the plot, being an imitation of an action,
must imitate one action and that a whole, the structural union of the
parts being such that, if any one of them is displaced or removed, the
whole will be disjointed and disturbed.

Note: “imitate one action and that a whole, the structural union.” Each of these three expressions
is a reflection of the idea of unity of action. Combined with the discussion in the first half of Part
9, where the focus is on possibility, probability and necessity, the sort of guiding principles for a
writer in constructing a narrative, then if a story has “acts that succeed one another without
probably or necessary sequence,” we are dealing with something that is ‘episodic’ in nature.

My take on this is that ‘unity of action’ is not just about a story being about one thing, it must
also have a flow from scene to scene, event to event that is as well both probable and necessary.

The second point is this: In terms of screenwriting, where we have limited time to tell a story (as
compared to a novel), we must create that sense of flow, or what can be called narrative drive.
As screenwriter William Goldman (Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, Misery) says:

Rule of thumb: You always attack a movie scene as late as you possibly can. You always come
into the scene as the last possible moment, which is why when you see a scene in a movie where
a person is a teacher, for instance, the scene always begins with the teacher saying, ‘Well,
class…’ and the bell rings. And then you get into another scene because it’s very dull watching a
man talk to people in a room… In a book you might start with some dialogue, and then describe
your clothing, and more dialogue. The camera gets that in an instant. Boom, and you’re on.
Get on, get on. The camera is relentless. Makes you keep running [emphasis added].

How to deal with a “relentless” camera? It almost always involves some sort of ‘engine’ to
propel the plot forward. If we do not find that ‘engine,’ if our story has little or no narrative
drive, scenes happening one after the other in a kind of random or thoughtless manner, a script
reader is likely to critique the script for being ‘episodic.’

In fact, I have a name for this: The Dreaded Episodic Curse! I came up with that because when I
receive notes on a script where a producer or exec says, “It feels episodic,” I know I’ve got work
to do.
It’s a complex circumstance because some movies which have a rather free-form or random feel
to scene placement and transitions can work fine in part because that is a conscious part of the
filmmaker’s style or more likely the characters are so compelling, our emotional connection to
those characters creates a narrative drive of our own, our desire to learn what happens to them
propels us through the script, one page after the other.

But for most mainstream commercial movies, we have to find that ‘engine’ that moves the story
forward, one scene to the next.

So a takeaway from Parts 8 and 9 of “Poetics” for a contemporary screenwriter is that the
narrative we construct must move, scene to scene, according to what is probable and what is
necessary, as Aristotle states. If not, that in and of itself will lead to a story that feels ‘episodic.’

But that is not enough. We also need to create some type of narrative drive to propel the story
ahead because even if each event is probable and necessary, it can nonetheless suffer from The
Dreaded Episodic Curse.

I welcome the input of the traveling feast of Aristotelians who have taken to gathering here for a
weekly discourse. If you have just stumbled onto this series, you should really go back and read
the comments in each post as the folks who have been participating have added incredible insight
into this seminal work by Aristotle.

Part 9(D): Surprise, Cause and Effect

But again, Tragedy is an imitation not only of a complete action,

but of events inspiring fear or pity. Such an effect is best produced
when the events come on us by surprise; and the effect is heightened
when, at the same time, they follow as cause and effect. The tragic
wonder will then be greater than if they happened of themselves or
by accident; for even coincidences are most striking when they have
an air of design. We may instance the statue of Mitys at Argos, which
fell upon his murderer while he was a spectator at a festival, and
killed him. Such events seem not to be due to mere chance. Plots,
therefore, constructed on these principles are necessarily the best.

Unfamiliar with the story of Mitys at Argos, I did some research. There’s not much I could find
beyond Aristotle’s description. Mitys is slain by his murderer. Later a statue is erected in Mitys’
honor. The murderer stands before the statue, presumably inspecting and/or admiring. Then the
statue falls on the murderer killing him. Something like this:

Okay, probably not much like that, but still it’s a visual reference.

What I gather from Aristotle’s comments in referencing the fate of Mitys’ killer is the best type
of stories have these type of twists, especially as endings, featuring two aspects:
* Surprise: Some sort of reversal or twist which the reader will not expect (i.e., the statue falls on
the killer).

* Cause and Effect: The surprising event, upon reflection by the reader, will seem not to be born
out of happenstance, but in fact is in retrospect inevitable within the context of the dynamics set
into motion in the narrative.

Thus an echo of something Aristotle raised previously in this chapter: While we may experience
the surprise in the present as a possibility, albeit one we could not have anticipated, when we
look back on it as a past event, we will see it as having been tied to narrative destiny.

This is good advice, it seems to me, for all writers, witness these notable movie surprises:

And this:

And this:

Each a surprise in the moment. Each inevitable in retrospect due to cause and effect.

I welcome the input of the traveling feast of Aristotelians who have taken to gathering here for a
weekly discourse. If you have just stumbled onto this series, you should really go back and read
the comments in each post as the folks who have been participating have added incredible insight
into this seminal work by Aristotle.

Part 10: Simple and Complex Plots

Plots are either Simple or Complex, for the actions in real life,
of which the plots are an imitation, obviously show a similar distinction.
An action which is one and continuous in the sense above defined,
I call Simple, when the change of fortune takes place without Reversal
of the Situation and without Recognition

A Complex action is one in which the change is accompanied by such

Reversal, or by Recognition, or by both. These last should arise from
the internal structure of the plot, so that what follows should be
the necessary or probable result of the preceding action. It makes
all the difference whether any given event is a case of propter hoc
or post hoc.

Here Aristotle draws a distinction between two general types of plots: Simple and Complex. It’s
interesting how he describes the former through what it is missing, namely Reversal and
Recognition.

What a Simple plot actually consists of is rather amorphous based on what Aristotle presents
here. The use of the phrase post hoc, literally “after this,” suggests that a Simple plot is
comprised of a set of events that while continuous in nature lacks a sense of causality.
A Complex plot is propter hoc, literally “because of this,” which means there is a sense of
causality in the emergence of events.

We will delve more fully into Reversal and Recognition in Part 11 next week, but for purposes of
our discussion today, my initial take on these two concepts is this:

* Reversal: A dramatic change in plot circumstances to the point where it can be seen to come
full circle.

* Recognition: An awareness of some key realities or truths on the part of characters within the
story.

If that is anywhere close to Aristotle’s meaning, that intrigues me for two reasons in relation to
screenwriting:

(1) A screenplay universe is comprised of two realms: External World, the domain of Action and
Dialogue; Internal World, the domain of Intention and Subtext. The former is where we see and
hear events played out. The latter is where we intuit and interpret the meaning of those events. In
other words:

External World = Physical Journey

Internal World = Psychological Journey

Reversal would seem to slot most fully into the External World. Recognition would seem to be
most connected to the Internal World. Thus it seems safe to infer that for Aristotle, a successful
Complex plot must traffic in and service both the Physical journey and the Psychological
journey.

(2) This connection of Reversal and Recognition brings to mind the cosmogonic cycle as
represented in the Hero’s Journey:

You can see both Reversal and Recognition at work: The former in the way the Hero comes full
circle in their journey, the latter with those key words revelation and especially transformation.

At its most basic, the Hero’s Journey is comprised of three movements: Separation, Initiation,
Return, echoing Aristotle’s idea of narrative as having a Beginning, Middle and End. Joseph
Campbell asserted that the whole point of the Journey is transformation — the Hero separates
from the Old World, is initiated in the New World, the events and actions unfolding there
impacting the Hero, then returns home a changed individual.

This linking of the Psychological World with the Physical World is another way of driving home
the difference between a Simple and Complex plot: The interweaving connections between
events in the plot and the change that occurs within a character’s psyche puts the story in propter
hoc territory. Indeed from a screenwriting standpoint, it speaks to the narrative destiny of a
Protagonist, reflected in the harmonic convergence of plot events and personal transformation.
Much more next week!

I welcome the input of the traveling feast of Aristotelians who have taken to gathering here for a
weekly discourse. If you have just stumbled onto this series, you should really go back and read
the comments in each post as the folks who have been participating have added incredible insight
into this seminal work by Aristotle.

Part 10: Simple and Complex Plots

Plots are either Simple or Complex, for the actions in real life,
of which the plots are an imitation, obviously show a similar distinction.
An action which is one and continuous in the sense above defined,
I call Simple, when the change of fortune takes place without Reversal
of the Situation and without Recognition

A Complex action is one in which the change is accompanied by such

Reversal, or by Recognition, or by both. These last should arise from
the internal structure of the plot, so that what follows should be
the necessary or probable result of the preceding action. It makes
all the difference whether any given event is a case of propter hoc
or post hoc.

Here Aristotle draws a distinction between two general types of plots: Simple and Complex. It’s
interesting how he describes the former through what it is missing, namely Reversal and
Recognition.

What a Simple plot actually consists of is rather amorphous based on what Aristotle presents
here. The use of the phrase post hoc, literally “after this,” suggests that a Simple plot is
comprised of a set of events that while continuous in nature lacks a sense of causality.

A Complex plot is propter hoc, literally “because of this,” which means there is a sense of
causality in the emergence of events.

We will delve more fully into Reversal and Recognition in Part 11 next week, but for purposes of
our discussion today, my initial take on these two concepts is this:

* Reversal: A dramatic change in plot circumstances to the point where it can be seen to come
full circle.

* Recognition: An awareness of some key realities or truths on the part of characters within the
story.

If that is anywhere close to Aristotle’s meaning, that intrigues me for two reasons in relation to
screenwriting:
(1) A screenplay universe is comprised of two realms: External World, the domain of Action and
Dialogue; Internal World, the domain of Intention and Subtext. The former is where we see and
hear events played out. The latter is where we intuit and interpret the meaning of those events. In
other words:

External World = Physical Journey

Internal World = Psychological Journey

Reversal would seem to slot most fully into the External World. Recognition would seem to be
most connected to the Internal World. Thus it seems safe to infer that for Aristotle, a successful
Complex plot must traffic in and service both the Physical journey and the Psychological
journey.

(2) This connection of Reversal and Recognition brings to mind the cosmogonic cycle as
represented in the Hero’s Journey:

You can see both Reversal and Recognition at work: The former in the way the Hero comes full
circle in their journey, the latter with those key words revelation and especially transformation.

At its most basic, the Hero’s Journey is comprised of three movements: Separation, Initiation,
Return, echoing Aristotle’s idea of narrative as having a Beginning, Middle and End. Joseph
Campbell asserted that the whole point of the Journey is transformation — the Hero separates
from the Old World, is initiated in the New World, the events and actions unfolding there
impacting the Hero, then returns home a changed individual.

This linking of the Psychological World with the Physical World is another way of driving home
the difference between a Simple and Complex plot: The interweaving connections between
events in the plot and the change that occurs within a character’s psyche puts the story in propter
hoc territory. Indeed from a screenwriting standpoint, it speaks to the narrative destiny of a
Protagonist, reflected in the harmonic convergence of plot events and personal transformation.

Much more next week!

I welcome the input of the traveling feast of Aristotelians who have taken to gathering here for a
weekly discourse. If you have just stumbled onto this series, you should really go back and read
the comments in each post as the folks who have been participating have added incredible insight
into this seminal work by Aristotle.

A reminder: I am looking at “Poetics” through the lens of screenwriting, what is its relevance to
the craft in contemporary times. And I welcome the observations of any Aristotle experts to set
me straight as I’m just trying to work my way through this content the best I can.

Part 11: Reversal, Recognition and Suffering

Reversal of the Situation is a change by which the action veers round
to its opposite, subject always to our rule of probability or necessity.
Thus in the Oedipus, the messenger comes to cheer Oedipus and free
him from his alarms about his mother, but by revealing who he is,
he produces the opposite effect. Again in the Lynceus, Lynceus is
being led away to his death, and Danaus goes with him, meaning to
slay him; but the outcome of the preceding incidents is that Danaus
is killed and Lynceus saved.

Recognition, as the name indicates, is a change from ignorance to

knowledge, producing love or hate between the persons destined by
the poet for good or bad fortune. The best form of recognition is
coincident with a Reversal of the Situation, as in the Oedipus. There
are indeed other forms. Even inanimate things of the most trivial
kind may in a sense be objects of recognition. Again, we may recognize
or discover whether a person has done a thing or not. But the recognition
which is most intimately connected with the plot and action is, as
we have said, the recognition of persons. This recognition, combined
with Reversal, will produce either pity or fear; and actions producing
these effects are those which, by our definition, Tragedy represents.
Moreover, it is upon such situations that the issues of good or bad
fortune will depend. Recognition, then, being between persons, it
may happen that one person only is recognized by the other- when the
latter is already known- or it may be necessary that the recognition
should be on both sides. Thus Iphigenia is revealed to Orestes by
the sending of the letter; but another act of recognition is required
to make Orestes known to Iphigenia.

Two parts, then, of the Plot- Reversal of the Situation and Recognition-
turn upon surprises. A third part is the Scene of Suffering. The Scene
of Suffering is a destructive or painful action, such as death on
the stage, bodily agony, wounds, and the like.

From my reading of this, it appears that Reversal (Peripeteia) and Recognition (Anagnorisis) are
linked in at least two ways:

* Both “turn upon surprises.” A Reversal is “a change by which the action veers round to its
opposite.” The unanticipated nature of this change would by definition translate into a surprising
development. Meanwhile Recognition is “a change from ignorance to knowledge” which in its
“best form” is “coincident with a Reversal of the Situation,” and therefore also a surprising turn.

* Whereas Reversal appears to be something that transpires in the External World, the realm of
events and happenings, Recognition would seem to be situated primarily in the Internal World,
the realm of characters and their inner lives (i.e., feelings, thoughts, impressions). Yet they
would seem to be linked as Recognition follows from Reversal. Even in the examples Aristotle
notes, there is event that happens in the External World (a character appears), followed by
another character’s response (Recognition).

As I was reading this, what I thought was a good example of these two dynamics in tandem came
to mind: The conversion experience of Paul as described in the Acts of the Apostles 9:-3-9:

As he [Paul] neared Damascus on his journey, suddenly a light from heaven flashed around him.
He fell to the ground and heard a voice say to him, “Saul, Saul, why do you persecute me?”

“Who are you, Lord?” Saul asked.

“I am Jesus, whom you are persecuting,” he replied. “Now get up and go into the city, and you
will be told what you must do.”

The men traveling with Saul stood there speechless; they heard the sound but did not see anyone.
Saul got up from the ground, but when he opened his eyes he could see nothing. So they led him
by the hand into Damascus. For three days he was blind, and did not eat or drink anything.

Two things. First, we have to note that up to this point in his life, Paul [known as Saul], actively
persecuted those who professed faith in Jesus as the Christ. After this conversion experience,
Paul became an advocate for the faith, even coming to be known as one of the Apostles. Second,
his conversion is what precipitated him changing his name from Saul to Paul, signifying a
distinction between his new life from his old life. Paul veering around to his “opposite” way of
being and believing exemplifies, I think, Reversal and Recognition.

As to the third part — the “Scene of Suffering” (Pathos) — I’m a bit in the gray on this. Is
Aristotle suggesting there is some sort of inherent causality within a tragedy that requires this
turn at the end of a story? Or is this an awareness the writer brings to the story-crafting process
whereby s/he will steer the plot, granting that this turn has to be both probable and necessary?

In screenwriting, whether a story has a happy ending or a tragic one, what transpires during the
climax of the narrative resolves stakes at work in the External World of the plot and stakes
present in Internal World of the characters’ emotional and psychological experiences, but also
what screenwriter Michael Arndt suggests is a third arena: philosophical stakes. Combining all
three in a holistic, interconnected manner can translate into catharsis, which suffuses a story’s
conclusion with meaning on multiple levels, what Arndt typifies as an “insanely great ending.”

I realize this is not Suffering per se, but the idea of catharsis during the story’s Final Struggle
does seem to derive from the interplay of Reversal and Recognition.

Hopefully our wonderful band of Aristotelians will enlighten us about all three dynamics
discussed in Part 11, especially how Suffering is tied to the other two.

Part 12: Prologue, Episode, Exode and Chorus

The parts of Tragedy which must be treated as elements of the whole
have been already mentioned. We now come to the quantitative parts-
the separate parts into which Tragedy is divided- namely, Prologue,
Episode, Exode, Choric song; this last being divided into Parode and
Stasimon. These are common to all plays: peculiar to some are the
songs of actors from the stage and the Commoi.

The Prologue is that entire part of a tragedy which precedes the Parode
of the Chorus. The Episode is that entire part of a tragedy which
is between complete choric songs. The Exode is that entire part of
a tragedy which has no choric song after it. Of the Choric part the
Parode is the first undivided utterance of the Chorus: the Stasimon
is a Choric ode without anapaests or trochaic tetrameters: the Commos
is a joint lamentation of Chorus and actors. The parts of Tragedy
which must be treated as elements of the whole have been already mentioned.
The quantitative parts- the separate parts into which it is divided-
are here enumerated.

Let me just acknowledge up front: I’m reaching out to our honored group of Aristotelians to
provide a deeper context and analysis of how Greek plays operated thousands of years ago as the
specifics listed here are largely outside my realm of study. However, I do have three musings on
this section:

* Contemporary screenplays and ancient Greek tragedies have this in common: They are both
heavily structured. While a screenplay’s structure would seem to be tied to it being – at some
point – a blueprint to make a movie, as I thought about it more, it seemed to me there might be
more of a parallel to Greek plays in this respect: Back then as well as today, audiences would
bring a certain set of expectations about what they would see and hear, even down to the order of
the narrative. While a modern screenplay doesn’t precisely parallel the structure of a Greek
tragedy, the overall arc may be quite similar in telling a story with a Beginning, Middle and End.

* Is it too simplistic to think of it this way:

Prologue = Act I
Episode = Act II
Exode = Act III

My guess: Probably. I look forward to more feedback from our resident experts.

* As I understand it, the chorus was a major component of ancient Greek tragedies. Indeed if I
recall correctly from my college studies, plays of that era were often heavily musical. I have
written previously about classical music’s sonata form and how there is a parallel between its
three parts and three act structure:
Exposition = Act I
Development = Act II
Recapitulation = Act III

So there is precedence for a connection between music structure and screenplay structure. But
what of the chorus in contemporary filmmaking? If one of its functions is to convey key
exposition to the audience, might a parallel to today be flashbacks, flash-forwards, dreams,
memories, and the like? Or perhaps voiceover narration? Essentially any device that ‘breaks into’
the narrative to convey key information?

This gets down to what the underlying function of the chorus was and I hope our Aristotelians
will provide some clarity on that front.

Bottom line from my reading of this part of “Poetics”: I come away inclined to see more
commonality between storytelling then and storytelling today, at least insofar as screenplays are
concerned.

Part 13(A): A Perfect Tragedy

As the sequel to what has already been said, we must proceed to consider
what the poet should aim at, and what he should avoid, in constructing
his plots; and by what means the specific effect of Tragedy will be
produced.

A perfect tragedy should, as we have seen, be arranged not on the

simple but on the complex plan. It should, moreover, imitate actions
which excite pity and fear, this being the distinctive mark of tragic
imitation. It follows plainly, in the first place, that the change
of fortune presented must not be the spectacle of a virtuous man brought
from prosperity to adversity: for this moves neither pity nor fear;
it merely shocks us. Nor, again, that of a bad man passing from adversity
to prosperity: for nothing can be more alien to the spirit of Tragedy;
it possesses no single tragic quality; it neither satisfies the moral
sense nor calls forth pity or fear. Nor, again, should the downfall
of the utter villain be exhibited. A plot of this kind would, doubtless,
satisfy the moral sense, but it would inspire neither pity nor fear;
for pity is aroused by unmerited misfortune, fear by the misfortune
of a man like ourselves. Such an event, therefore, will be neither
pitiful nor terrible. There remains, then, the character between these
two extremes- that of a man who is not eminently good and just, yet
whose misfortune is brought about not by vice or depravity, but by
some error or frailty. He must be one who is highly renowned and prosperous-
a personage like Oedipus, Thyestes, or other illustrious men of such
families.
I find this pretty fascinating on several fronts. First, there is Aristotle’s specific articulation of
what constitutes a “perfect tragedy”:

* …arranged not on the simple but on the complex plan: This circles back to what Aristotle
discussed in Part 10:

A Complex action is one in which the change is accompanied by such

Reversal, or by Recognition, or by both. These last should arise from
the internal structure of the plot, so that what follows should be
the necessary or probable result of the preceding action.

* …imitate actions which excite pity and fear: Apparently the emotional goal of the writer for a
Tragedy.

Then three examples of what a Perfect Tragedy is not:

* …the change of fortune presented must not be the spectacle of a virtuous man brought from
prosperity to adversity.

* Nor, again, that of a bad man passing from adversity to prosperity.

* Nor, again, should the downfall of the utter villain be exhibited.

Then what arouses “pity”:

* …unmerited misfortune, fear by the misfortune of a man like ourselves.

In the end, Aristotle presents an ideal character as the subject for a Perfect Tragedy:

…a man who is not eminently good and just, yet whose misfortune is brought about not by vice
or depravity, but by some error or frailty.

So it would seem Aristotle is playing the sympathy card: (1) A character with whom we can
relate. (2) The cause of the Tragedy cannot emerge from wanton and egregious acts of
debilitation, but rather a more nuanced cause: errors, frailty.

In both cases, Aristotle grounds sympathy in the proximity of the character to the audience. They
are a “man like ourselves.” They are not hugely overrun by consumptive or corrupting instincts,
but rather mere mortals prone to mistakes.

In modern parlance, we might refer to this character as a “good guy” or “good gal.”

What this reminds me of is how in screenplays, one of our primary goals is to create reader (or
audience) identification with the Protagonist. This is critical to engage a reader and get them
hooked on the journey and outcome of the narrative. Sympathy and proximity are a solid one-
two punch to engender that identification.
All of which leads me to my second thought: Why was Tragedy such a big deal to the Greeks?
Why was it considered to be the acme of contemporary literature and cultural art? How and why
did ancient Greeks find Tragedies so entertaining? Something to do with the power of morality
tales? Witnessing misfortunes befalling a “good guy” and left to think, “There but the grace of
God go I”?

Next there is Aristotle’s use of the Greek word ἁμαρτία (Hamartia). Here “errors.” In the New
Testament, it is translated as “sin.” While the latter would seem to have more existential heft to it
(sin against God), they both have this in common: Bolstering the universality of the human
experience.

Each of us has made errors. Each of us has frailties. Each of us has sinned and “fallen short of
the glory of God.”

It’s that guy (or gal), the mere mortal, who is the subject of Tragedies per Aristotle, which helps
us to relate to such characters.

Final thought: Whereas Aristotle may have found “pity and fear” to be something of a
“pleasurable” experience, mainstream Hollywood movies for the most part go in an entirely
opposite direction. Not pity and fear, but empathy and hope… for a happy ending. So in effect,
Aristotle as a representative and cheerleader for Tragedy could serve as a reverse barometer for
contemporary commercial movies at least as far as Hollywood’s conventional wisdom is
concerned, that most consumers want upbeat resolutions to stories.

Part 13(B): A Well-Constructed Plot

A well-constructed plot should, therefore, be single in its issue,

rather than double as some maintain. The change of fortune should
be not from bad to good, but, reversely, from good to bad. It should
come about as the result not of vice, but of some great error or frailty,
in a character either such as we have described, or better rather
than worse. The practice of the stage bears out our view. At first
the poets recounted any legend that came in their way. Now, the best
tragedies are founded on the story of a few houses- on the fortunes
of Alcmaeon, Oedipus, Orestes, Meleager, Thyestes, Telephus, and those
others who have done or suffered something terrible. A tragedy, then,
to be perfect according to the rules of art should be of this construction.
Hence they are in error who censure Euripides just because he follows
this principle in his plays, many of which end unhappily. It is, as
we have said, the right ending. The best proof is that on the stage
and in dramatic competition, such plays, if well worked out, are the
most tragic in effect; and Euripides, faulty though he may be in the
general management of his subject, yet is felt to be the most tragic
of the poets.
In the second rank comes the kind of tragedy which some place first.
Like the Odyssey, it has a double thread of plot, and also an opposite
catastrophe for the good and for the bad. It is accounted the best
because of the weakness of the spectators; for the poet is guided
in what he writes by the wishes of his audience. The pleasure, however,
thence derived is not the true tragic pleasure. It is proper rather
to Comedy, where those who, in the piece, are the deadliest enemies-
like Orestes and Aegisthus- quit the stage as friends at the close,
and no one slays or is slain.

This section is intriguing on multiple fronts. First, there is the iteration of what constitutes a
“well-constructed plot”:

* A well-constructed plot should, therefore, be single in its issue.

* The change of fortune should be… from good to bad.

* It should come about as the result… of some great error or frailty.

Of course, by “well-constructed plot,” Aristotle infers that by aesthetic necessity, it must be a

tragedy. One striking aspect of this articulation is how, dare I say, formulaic it sounds. Note the
three uses of the word “should.” No equivocating or nuance here. Anything less than these three
dynamics in a play and presumably it would fall short of a “well-constructed plot.”

Looking at these attributes from the perspective of a modern screenplay, “single in its issue”
suggests a story that has a tight, clear narrative focus. “From good to bad” seems obvious if a
writer is to maximize the dramatic nature of a character’s ‘fall.’

“Of some great error or frailty” I find to be particularly interesting. While waiting for our
Aristotelians to weigh in on these two concepts and their more specific historical meaning, I can
extrapolate this from a screenwriting perspective:

Error: An event or events that occur in the External World (Plotline).

Frailty: A psychological, emotional, or spiritual condition of key characters in the Internal World
(Themeline).

To really work for our purposes, we would have to change the conjunction from “or” to this: “Of
some great error and frailty.” The events in the plot of a contemporary screenplay have to be
intimately tied to inner lives of the characters, specifically the Protagonist, one feeds the other
which impacts the other which feeds the other again which impacts the other again, and so on, a
continuous interweaving that translate into a transformational narrative.

As to the meaning of the second paragraph, it would appear Aristotle is suggesting that the best
writing aims for some sort of aesthetic purity rather than attempting to satisfy the whims of an
audience. Perhaps an early stab at the dynamic tension between art and commerce? Based on
this, I doubt Aristotle would have much success going up for open writing assignments in
Hollywood where one of the most important questions a screenwriter, agent, producer or studio
executive can ask about any given project is this: Who is the audience?

Fortunately there were no Hollywood movie moguls back in the time of Aristotle. I guess we had
to wait for Shakespeare to come along to concretize the notion of ‘popcorn entertainment’…
before there was any popcorn, of course.

Part 14(A): Fear and Pity

Fear and pity may be aroused by spectacular means; but they may also
result from the inner structure of the piece, which is the better
way, and indicates a superior poet. For the plot ought to be so
constructed that, even without the aid of the eye, he who hears the
tale told will thrill with horror and melt to pity at what takes
Place. This is the impression we should receive from hearing the
story of the Oedipus. But to produce this effect by the mere
spectacle is a less artistic method, and dependent on extraneous
aids. Those who employ spectacular means to create a sense not of
the terrible but only of the monstrous, are strangers to the purpose
of Tragedy; for we must not demand of Tragedy any and every kind of
pleasure, but only that which is proper to it. And since the
pleasure which the poet should afford is that which comes from pity
and fear through imitation, it is evident that this quality must be
impressed upon the incidents.

We have encountered Aristotle’s rather dismissive attitude toward “spectacle” as in Part VI:

The Spectacle has, indeed, an emotional attraction of its own, but,

of all the parts, it is the least artistic, and connected least with
the art of poetry. For the power of Tragedy, we may be sure, is felt
even apart from representation and actors. Besides, the production
of spectacular effects depends more on the art of the stage machinist
than on that of the poet.

In Part XIV, he drives home the same point in two additional ways. First, Aristotle contrasts
spectacle to the “inner structure of the piece.” In modern film, we might say “special effects” vs.
“narrative.” And I think we could all agree that the former without the context of the latter is
pretty much just a bunch of eye candy and noise, devoid of any emotional meaning [read:
Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen].

Aristotle goes even further with his second point: “Those who employ spectacular means to
create a sense not of the terrible but only of the monstrous, are strangers to the purpose of
Tragedy.” There is a certain kind of reliance upon the “spectacular” that can take a story
completely out of the realm of Tragedy. I can’t help but get the feeling Aristotle is saying this as
a kind of warning, perceiving the “spectacular” to have some sort of lure to writers, a seemingly
easy path to creating a reaction in the audience. However that would seem to be a path toward
‘cheap’ writing, not worthy of Tragedy, nor likely to produce content that is consistent with the
genre.

Which leaves us with this: What of “fear”? What of “pity”? We have seen this coupling before in
Parts IX, XI and XIII. Clearly it is significant. What precisely does Aristotle intend in the use of
these two concepts?

I await the insight of our faithful Aristotelians, steeped in the literature as they are. In the
meantime, here is my speculative response:

* Pity would seem to be pretty clear to understand, based on the empathy the audience might feel
for characters who undergo tragic experiences. In other words, we might feel sorry for them.

* If empathy can lead to a sense of identification, then perhaps fear is a vicarious experience,
seeing and hearing tragic events happening to characters which raises a concern: These, too,
could befall us.

Over the course of our ongoing discussion, I seem to remember an observation that the idea of
“audience identification” was not a goal for ancient Greek dramatists, caught up more generally
in the wonder of superheroes, gods and goddesses circumnavigating a series of sizable
challenges.

However “audience identification” is important – critically so! – for contemporary screenwriters.

This is how we shrink the distance between what is written on the page and the reader’s
imagination, luring them into our stories through their connection with key characters, most
notably the Protagonist.

Moreover it is the dynamic of “audience identification” that helps to create one of the most
powerful aspects of a story: The ability for the audience to safely experience fearful and pitiful
events.

I recall the 1996 movie Ransom in which a mother and father go through a parent’s worst
nightmare: The kidnapping of their child. The movie grossed $309M worldwide, hugely
successful. Here’s the shocker: The primary audience members were parents! Why would they
willingly pay money to watch a movie that features the trauma of a child’s kidnapping?

Precisely because Ransom provided a safe haven in which parents could live out their darkest
fears. Through their identification with the parents Tom (Mel Gibson) and Kate (Rene Russo),
we experience what they experience. We feel their fears. We feel pity for them. Those emotions
are real… even if the story is not. And precisely because the story is not real, that enables us, as
audience members, to enter fully into it, knowing it is a contained, fictional environment.

Thus for certain stories, we would aim to arouse fear and pity in script readers and audience
members. How to do that? Best not through spectacle, but rather the “inner structure of the
piece” (narrative). And at least for contemporary stories, aim to create a sense of audience
identification with the characters and events in the stories we write.

Part 14(B): The Conditions of a Tragedy

Let us then determine what are the circumstances which strike us as

terrible or pitiful.

Actions capable of this effect must happen between persons who are
either friends or enemies or indifferent to one another. If an enemy
kills an enemy, there is nothing to excite pity either in the act
or the intention- except so far as the suffering in itself is pitiful.
So again with indifferent persons. But when the tragic incident occurs
between those who are near or dear to one another- if, for example,
a brother kills, or intends to kill, a brother, a son his father,
a mother her son, a son his mother, or any other deed of the kind
is done- these are the situations to be looked for by the poet. He
may not indeed destroy the framework of the received legends- the
fact, for instance, that Clytemnestra was slain by Orestes and Eriphyle
by Alcmaeon- but he ought to show of his own, and skilfully handle
the traditional material. Let us explain more clearly what is meant
by skilful handling.

The action may be done consciously and with knowledge of the persons,
in the manner of the older poets. It is thus too that Euripides makes
Medea slay her children. Or, again, the deed of horror may be done,
but done in ignorance, and the tie of kinship or friendship be discovered
afterwards. The Oedipus of Sophocles is an example. Here, indeed,
the incident is outside the drama proper; but cases occur where it
falls within the action of the play: one may cite the Alcmaeon of
Astydamas, or Telegonus in the Wounded Odysseus. Again, there is a
third case- [to be about to act with knowledge of the persons and
then not to act. The fourth case] is when some one is about to do
an irreparable deed through ignorance, and makes the discovery before
it is done. These are the only possible ways. For the deed must either
be done or not done- and that wittingly or unwittingly. But of all
these ways, to be about to act knowing the persons, and then not to
act, is the worst. It is shocking without being tragic, for no disaster
follows. It is, therefore, never, or very rarely, found in poetry.
One instance, however, is in the Antigone, where Haemon threatens
to kill Creon. The next and better way is that the deed should be
perpetrated. Still better, that it should be perpetrated in ignorance,
and the discovery made afterwards. There is then nothing to shock
us, while the discovery produces a startling effect. The last case
is the best, as when in the Cresphontes Merope is about to slay her
son, but, recognizing who he is, spares his life. So in the Iphigenia,
the sister recognizes the brother just in time. Again in the Helle,
the son recognizes the mother when on the point of giving her up.
This, then, is why a few families only, as has been already observed,
furnish the subjects of tragedy. It was not art, but happy chance,
that led the poets in search of subjects to impress the tragic quality
upon their plots. They are compelled, therefore, to have recourse
to those houses whose history contains moving incidents like these.

Enough has now been said concerning the structure of the incidents,
and the right kind of plot.

Aristotle lays down several conditions related to story as tragedy:

* Actions capable of this effect must happen between persons who are either friends or enemies
or indifferent to one another. This speaks to the respective narrative functions of characters
involved in the story and sets up for the use of archetypes in terms of story development
(Protagonist, Nemesis, Attractor, Mentor, Trickster).

These next four refer to the “skillful handling” of a tragedy:

* The action may be done consciously and with knowledge of the persons.

* …the deed of horror may be done, but done in ignorance.

* …to be about to act with knowledge of the persons and then not to act.

* …when some one is about to do an irreparable deed through ignorance, and makes the
discovery before it is done.

This reads like classic Aristotelian logic, reminiscent of his explanation (Part VII) of beginning,
middle and end:

A whole is that which has a beginning, a middle, and an end. A beginning is that which does not
itself follow anything by causal necessity, but after which something naturally is or comes to be.
An end, on the contrary, is that which itself naturally follows some other thing, either by
necessity, or as a rule, but has nothing following it. A middle is that which follows something as
some other thing follows it.

From a screenwriting perspective, I find myself agreeing with Aristotle’s contention that the best
way of handling a story is when a character is about to “do an irreparable deed through
ignorance,” then “makes the discovery before it is done.” That elevates both Fear and Pity to the
maximum state of intensity. It also seems to follow the old Hollywood dictum about movie
endings: “Give the audience what they expect, then give them what they want.” Expect:
Character A to unknowingly kill her friend Character B. Want: At the last second, Character A
recognizes Character B as her lover and refrains from killing him.
Of course, Shakespeare took this approach and went one step further with the play “Romeo and
Juliet” by having one character commit suicide — when Romeo mistakenly thinks Juliet is dead,
an unwitting act — then the other commit suicide — when Juliet kills herself knowing that
Romeo has actually died. That is some serious tragedy.

One other point: The way Aristotle breaks down the various possible ways of handling a tragic
narrative brings to mind something screenwriters face on a daily basis: forks-in-the-road. Do we
take this approach or that? Do we try this narrative path or that? We both feel and think our way
through such choices, test them out, see if they work. If not, we go back and try another path.
What Aristotle points out is often there is an inherent logic to these forks-in-the-road. That logic
can derive from the writer exploring various options, however the final choice any character
makes must work within the context of their own internal world view, way of being, belief
system, etc.

Part 15(A): Four Qualities of a Tragic Hero

In respect of Character there are four things to be aimed at. First,

and most important, it must be good. Now any speech or action that
manifests moral purpose of any kind will be expressive of character:
the character will be good if the purpose is good. This rule is relative
to each class. Even a woman may be good, and also a slave; though
the woman may be said to be an inferior being, and the slave quite
worthless. The second thing to aim at is propriety. There is a type
of manly valor; but valor in a woman, or unscrupulous cleverness is
inappropriate. Thirdly, character must be true to life: for this is
a distinct thing from goodness and propriety, as here described. The
fourth point is consistency: for though the subject of the imitation,
who suggested the type, be inconsistent, still he must be consistently
inconsistent. As an example of motiveless degradation of character,
we have Menelaus in the Orestes; of character indecorous and inappropriate,
the lament of Odysseus in the Scylla, and the speech of Melanippe;
of inconsistency, the Iphigenia at Aulis- for Iphigenia the suppliant
in no way resembles her later self.

Let’s just bracket the culturally specific bias against women and slaves represented here —
thankfully, humankind has made some progress on those fronts — to focus on “four things to be
aimed at,” what I think we can describe as ‘qualities.’ But before we go there, don’t we need to
revisit the subject of what Aristotle meant by character?

From Part 2 on “moral character”.

From Part 6(B): “By Character I mean that in virtue of which we ascribe certain qualities to the
agents.”
From Part 6(D): “Dramatic action, therefore, is not with a view to the representation of character:
character comes in as subsidiary to the actions.”

If I’ve got this right, Aristotle uses ‘character’ to refer to virtue and one’s moral standing. What
we would mean by a character in a story, Aristotle employs the term “personal agent.”

Thus when Aristotle ascribes these “four things” in “respect to Character,” I take it he is talking
about moral virtue. Furthermore that character is represented by this quartet of qualities:

* A hero must be good.

* This goodness must be proper to the nature of the hero.

* The goodness must also feel realistic.

* The exhibition of character by a hero must be consistent.

In terms of contemporary storytelling, the concept of ‘good’ is elastic, not rigid. In TV, Tony
Soprano (“The Sopranos”), Nancy Botwin (“Weeds”), Dexter Morgan (“Dexter”), Jackie Peyton
(“Nurse Jackie”), Walter White (“Breaking Bad”), and Carrie Mathison (“Homeland”) to name a
few represent a wide spectrum of morally ambiguous characters, each with some ‘good’ qualities
to go along with their personal flaws and skewed world views.

That said most mainstream movies feature Protagonists who are in essence ‘good’ people. They
may begin in an inauthentic psychological state and/or have some significant unresolved issues
in their past, but ‘heroic’ nonetheless. This is especially so with big blockbuster movies like
2013 hits Gravity, The Hunger Games: Catching Fire, Star Trek: Into Darkness, Thor: The Dark
World, World War Z, Frozen, and Captain Phillips.

Thus while there may be more latitude in terms of modern story heroes in terms of their
‘goodness,’ it is still a pretty relevant quality for most Protagonist figures.

The other three qualities – propriety, realistic, consistency – are all completely in line with
modern screenwriting and TV writing sensibilities. If a character’s goodness fails on any of these
fronts, that character is an example of flawed execution.

Finally I love this observation: “For though the subject of the imitation, who suggested the type,
be inconsistent, still he must be consistently inconsistent.” That brought to mind this character:

Consistently inconsistent. That describes beautifully the Joker’s schemes. He embraces chaos,
but there is a consistency, even a thoroughness to his inconsistency. We don’t know how and
where he’ll wreak havoc, but we are sure that he will do so.

Part 15(B): The Unraveling of the Plot

As in the structure of the plot, so too in the portraiture of character,
the poet should always aim either at the necessary or the probable.
Thus a person of a given character should speak or act in a given
way, by the rule either of necessity or of probability; just as this
event should follow that by necessary or probable sequence. It is
therefore evident that the unraveling of the plot, no less than the
complication, must arise out of the plot itself, it must not be brought
about by the Deus ex Machina- as in the Medea, or in the return of
the Greeks in the Iliad. The Deus ex Machina should be employed only
for events external to the drama- for antecedent or subsequent events,
which lie beyond the range of human knowledge, and which require to
be reported or foretold; for to the gods we ascribe the power of seeing
all things. Within the action there must be nothing irrational. If
the irrational cannot be excluded, it should be outside the scope
of the tragedy. Such is the irrational element the Oedipus of Sophocles.

Aristotle returns to a subject he covered in Part 9: Probability and necessity. And to me, this
speaks primarily about where the narrative drive originates. Does it derive from the characters
within the story universe? Or does it derive from the writer from outside the story universe? The
former is what I take Aristotle to mean. The latter can be an example of deus ex machina or as I
refer to it in my teaching: writer’s convenience. That is we force something to happen in the
story universe to fit our needs as writers. That is inauthentic. An authentic plot is one driven by
the characters and their needs.

Once again, this is – in my view – where plot goes directly back to character. Each character, and
in particular the Protagonist, has a destiny. What they do derives from the probability of the
choices they make. What happens then is tied to the necessity of those choices. It’s what I call
the narrative imperative and I believe that aligns nicely with Aristotle’s articulation here.

From a screenwriting perspective, here is something interesting. Just recently, I posted this: All
the Things That Are Wrong With Your Screenplay in One Handy Infographic, this from a
professional reader who calculated certain problems common to 300 scripts s/he covered for
some major Hollywood studios. Notice how many of the issues relate to probability and
necessity:

* The character logic is muddy

* The ending is completely anti-climatic

* The script suffers from arbitrary complexity

* The script goes off the rails in the third act

* The script’s questions are left unanswered

* The story is a string of unrelated vignettes

* The plot unravels through convenience/contrivance

* The script is totally confused

* The ending is a case of deus ex machina

Every single one of these problems could be resolved if a writer dug deeply into their characters
(especially the Protagonist), determining what their Disunity is, what their Core Essence is, what
their Unity is, all of which informs the very nature of the physical journey and psychological
journey comprising the substance of the narrative. It is a writer’s understanding of those
dynamics which feeds both probability and necessity in terms of character action and, therefore,
the plot.

Interesting, too, the script reader’s use of the word “unravels” which has a negative connotation
in contrast to Aristotle which I take to mean “unspools” or “plays out,” the natural chronology of
events and in a well-constructed story.

Bottom line, when we craft a story, that’s what we want: a narrative that flows organically and
by necessity.

Part 15(C): The Example of Good Portrait Painters

Again, since Tragedy is an imitation of persons who are above the

common level, the example of good portrait painters should be followed.
They, while reproducing the distinctive form of the original, make
a likeness which is true to life and yet more beautiful. So too the
poet, in representing men who are irascible or indolent, or have other
defects of character, should preserve the type and yet ennoble it.
In this way Achilles is portrayed by Agathon and Homer.

These then are rules the poet should observe. Nor should he neglect
those appeals to the senses, which, though not among the essentials,
are the concomitants of poetry; for here too there is much room for
error. But of this enough has been said in our published treatises.

I’m sure our Aristotelians will be able to put some historical context to this point Aristotle makes
and provide some deep insight.

Me? I confess I laughed out loud when I read this: “So too the poet, in representing men who are
irascible or indolent, or have other defects of character, should preserve the type and yet ennoble
it.”

Or in Hollywood speak: “Could you make the character more sympathetic?”

It’s an age-old battle between writers and suits.

Writers know that the greater the distance for a character to travel in their psychological and
emotional journey, the better. It makes for better drama and a more satisfying resolution of the
story. So most writers’ instincts pretty much default to starting our stories with – in particular –
Protagonists in a decided state of Disunity, whether the character is aware of this fact or not. This
is where the infamous “character flaw” that always gets kicked around in development circles
has its roots.

The suits tend to operate from a different perspective. They are concerned about many things, of
course, but here are two big ones: (1) Is the Protagonist one audiences will care about? (2) Is the
Protagonist an actor will want to play?

And that’s the root of the tension: Writers starting the character as far away as possible
psychologically from where they need to end up and the good folks on the other side of the desk
worrying a character that flawed may be off-putting.

“Can’t you make her more likeable?”

You know, like a “good portrait painter.” The character can be “true to life,” but please, make
them “beautiful.” They may be “irascible” or “indolent” or have other “defects,” but for the love
of God make sure they are “ennoble.”

I have had a variation of this discussion dozens of times. Go here for just one example.

That said, there seems to be more latitude in this regard the last 5-10 years or so with the
emergence of so many anti-heroes as cultural icons, especially on TV (The Sopranos, The
Shield, Breaking Bad, Dexter, Sons of Anarchy). Perhaps we are in a dark mood at a trans-global
level, I don’t know. But even if you are working with an anti-hero who may not be particularly
sympathetic, the pressure is there to at least make him/her empathetic. We may not approve of
their world view, but we need to understand it, grasp its logic within the character’s place in the
story universe.

If you’re gonna make the character a pig, at least put lipstick on him/her… you know… like a
good portrait painter.

A related point to Aristotle’s idea of beauty. I’d love to see our Aristotelians weigh in on the
subject because to me beauty is perhaps the single most important touch point for contemporary
storytelling. For starters, when we experience beauty, we are lifted out of the mundane and
transported somewhere special, a modern approximation of the ‘sacred’. Next beauty transcends
the boundaries of human experience. Tragedy or comedy, high brow or low brow, big events or
tiny moments, something can happen within any genre which we experience as beauty.

My guess is Aristotle had what I guess we could call a more traditional sense of beauty,
reflective of his time and cultural milieu… as in how good portrait painters know how to make a
subject “beautiful.” But as I suggested above, contemporary stories can have beauty emerge
across the breadth of human experience.
So that would be an interesting side subject arising from this part of “Poetics”.

Part 16: Recognition

What Recognition is has been already explained. We will now enumerate

its kinds.

First, the least artistic form, which, from poverty of wit, is most
commonly employed- recognition by signs. Of these some are congenital-
such as ‘the spear which the earth-born race bear on their bodies,’
or the stars introduced by Carcinus in his Thyestes. Others are acquired
after birth; and of these some are bodily marks, as scars; some external
tokens, as necklaces, or the little ark in the Tyro by which the discovery
is effected. Even these admit of more or less skilful treatment. Thus
in the recognition of Odysseus by his scar, the discovery is made
in one way by the nurse, in another by the swineherds. The use of
tokens for the express purpose of proof- and, indeed, any formal proof
with or without tokens- is a less artistic mode of recognition. A
better kind is that which comes about by a turn of incident, as in
the Bath Scene in the Odyssey.

Next come the recognitions invented at will by the poet, and on that
account wanting in art. For example, Orestes in the Iphigenia reveals
the fact that he is Orestes. She, indeed, makes herself known by the
letter; but he, by speaking himself, and saying what the poet, not
what the plot requires. This, therefore, is nearly allied to the fault
above mentioned- for Orestes might as well have brought tokens with
him. Another similar instance is the ‘voice of the shuttle’ in the
Tereus of Sophocles.

The third kind depends on memory when the sight of some object awakens
a feeling: as in the Cyprians of Dicaeogenes, where the hero breaks
into tears on seeing the picture; or again in the Lay of Alcinous,
where Odysseus, hearing the minstrel play the lyre, recalls the past
and weeps; and hence the recognition.

The fourth kind is by process of reasoning. Thus in the Choephori:

‘Some one resembling me has come: no one resembles me but Orestes:
therefore Orestes has come.’ Such too is the discovery made by Iphigenia
in the play of Polyidus the Sophist. It was a natural reflection for
Orestes to make, ‘So I too must die at the altar like my sister.’
So, again, in the Tydeus of Theodectes, the father says, ‘I came to
find my son, and I lose my own life.’ So too in the Phineidae: the
women, on seeing the place, inferred their fate- ‘Here we are doomed
to die, for here we were cast forth.’ Again, there is a composite
kind of recognition involving false inference on the part of one of
the characters, as in the Odysseus Disguised as a Messenger. A said
[that no one else was able to bend the bow; ... hence B (the disguised
Odysseus) imagined that A would] recognize the bow which, in fact,
he had not seen; and to bring about a recognition by this means- the
expectation that A would recognize the bow- is false inference.

But, of all recognitions, the best is that which arises from the incidents
themselves, where the startling discovery is made by natural means.
Such is that in the Oedipus of Sophocles, and in the Iphigenia; for
it was natural that Iphigenia should wish to dispatch a letter. These
recognitions alone dispense with the artificial aid of tokens or amulets.
Next come the recognitions by process of reasoning.

I believe the Greek word Aristotle uses here for the term “recognition” is Anagnorisis
(ἀναγνώρισις). One definition I found online:

The recognition or discovery by the protagonist of the identity of some character or the nature of
his own predicament, which leads to the resolution of the plot; denouement.

The root of the Greek word is related to “gnosis” which means ‘knowledge,’ thus recognition is
tied to some new knowledge a character learns that pivots their understanding of their situation.

Aristotle’s list of five types of recognition evolves from least “artistic” to most. Briefly they are:

* Signs or marks
* Contrived by author
* Prompted by memory
* Deductive reasoning

There appears to be an intriguing arc at work here. The first two would seem to be the most
obvious examples of a writer’s hand print. The next two are elevated in status because they move
the recognition from outside the story universe — the writer’s hand — to inside, rooted in the
experience of the characters. Memory would seem to be less than deductive reasoning because
the former is more internal in nature while the latter lends itself to an interactive experience with
the audience whereby we participate in the character’s revelatory process.

Based upon what we have studied thus far, it is abundantly clear why the last type on the list
ranks the highest in Aristotle’s opinion: “But, of all recognitions, the best is that which arises
from the incidents themselves, where the startling discovery is made by natural means”
[emphasis added].

This reads like classic Aristotle, taking us back to the ideas of ‘necessity’ and ‘probability’
whereby it is the events in the plot themselves that create the circumstances of the revelation.
And this makes perfect sense as from an audience standpoint, it represents the most immersive
way of participating in the recognition — as the character experiences occurrences which lead to
discovery, so too do we.
Yet even as Aristotle talks about “incidents” that drive the revelation, thus seemingly grounded
in plot, there is an implicit connection to character: For the very idea of ‘recognition’ requires a
character to do the recognizing. That is, the incidents are meaningless unless they mean
something revelatory to specific characters.

In other words, revelation can happen in the plot. But recognition requires an awareness arising
within a character.

So once again in “Poetics,” a discussion about plot necessarily involves character, a fact which
continues to support my ongoing take about Aristotle’s theories: Plot cannot be separated from
character.

Consider one of the most famous recognitions in recent film history – the ending of The Sixth
Sense where Malcolm (Bruce Willis) realizes he is dead:

This recognition falls entirely into Aristotle’s fifth category, Malcolm looking back at key
incidents in his experience, stitching them together and now seeing them in a different light. But
they are his memories and his emotions that create and drive the recognition. The incidents are
meaningless without the meaning Malcolm ascribes to them in this moment of revelation.

Part 17: Plot and Episode

In constructing the plot and working it out with the proper diction,
the poet should place the scene, as far as possible, before his eyes.
In this way, seeing everything with the utmost vividness, as if he
were a spectator of the action, he will discover what is in keeping
with it, and be most unlikely to overlook inconsistencies. The need
of such a rule is shown by the fault found in Carcinus. Amphiaraus
was on his way from the temple. This fact escaped the observation
of one who did not see the situation. On the stage, however, the Piece
failed, the audience being offended at the oversight.

Again, the poet should work out his play, to the best of his power,
with appropriate gestures; for those who feel emotion are most convincing
through natural sympathy with the characters they represent; and one
who is agitated storms, one who is angry rages, with the most lifelike
reality. Hence poetry implies either a happy gift of nature or a strain
of madness. In the one case a man can take the mould of any character;
in the other, he is lifted out of his proper self.

As for the story, whether the poet takes it ready made or constructs
it for himself, he should first sketch its general outline, and then
fill in the episodes and amplify in detail. The general plan may be
illustrated by the Iphigenia. A young girl is sacrificed; she disappears
mysteriously from the eyes of those who sacrificed her; she is transported
to another country, where the custom is to offer up an strangers to
the goddess. To this ministry she is appointed. Some time later her
own brother chances to arrive. The fact that the oracle for some reason
ordered him to go there, is outside the general plan of the play.
The purpose, again, of his coming is outside the action proper. However,
he comes, he is seized, and, when on the point of being sacrificed,
reveals who he is. The mode of recognition may be either that of Euripides
or of Polyidus, in whose play he exclaims very naturally: ‘So it was
not my sister only, but I too, who was doomed to be sacrificed’; and
by that remark he is saved.

After this, the names being once given, it remains to fill in the
episodes. We must see that they are relevant to the action. In the
case of Orestes, for example, there is the madness which led to his
capture, and his deliverance by means of the purificatory rite. In
the drama, the episodes are short, but it is these that give extension
to Epic poetry. Thus the story of the Odyssey can be stated briefly.
A certain man is absent from home for many years; he is jealously
watched by Poseidon, and left desolate. Meanwhile his home is in a
wretched plight- suitors are wasting his substance and plotting against
his son. At length, tempest-tost, he himself arrives; he makes certain
persons acquainted with him; he attacks the suitors with his own hand,
and is himself preserved while he destroys them. This is the essence
of the plot; the rest is episode.

This should feel like pretty familiar territory to any writer, perhaps especially screenwriters who
work with a narrative form (screenplay) that is so much about story structure. And frankly, it’s a
hoot to see Aristotle provide a story synopsis not once, but twice in this chapter, sounding very
much like a writer giving an elevator pitch to a producer or studio exec. “So Odysseus, see, he’s
stuck, a long way from home, desperate to get back to his beloved wife. But this god Poseidon’s
got other plans…”

Moreover Aristotle suggesting writing process — “he [the writer] should first sketch its general
outline, and then
fill in the episodes and amplify in detail” — sounds incredibly like the approach I take in prep-
writing, figuring out the story’s major Plotline points, then working out all the subplots and
character dynamics accordingly. Or I’d be on safer ground if I said my approach resembles his!

Here again Aristotle emphasizes how the plot needs to flow from within the nature of the story
universe, not the writer manipulating events from the outside. As I suggested previously, the best
way I have found to accomplish this end is immerse oneself in the story’s characters and allow
them to lead us through the emerging narrative.

Finally I am intrigued by the relationship in this part between plot and episode. As far as I can
tell, Aristotle’s use of ‘plot’ here refers to the overall narrative, while ‘episode’ refers to the sets
of events that transpire within the larger story.
What would be the closest parallel to episode in contemporary screenwriting?

Would it be the plot point, a significant event that twists the plot in a new direction?

Would it be a sequence, a set of scenes, each one with its own beginning, middle and end, each
moving seamlessly, one to the other?

I’d be curious to hear what our wonderful band of Aristotelians think on the matter, hopefully
providing a clearer definition of ‘episode’ per Aristotle’s usage.

Part 18(A): Complication and Denouement

There is a further point to be borne in mind. Every tragedy is in part Complication and in part
Denouement; the incidents before the opening scene, and often certain also of those within the
play, forming the Complication; and the rest the Denouement. By Complication I mean all from
the beginning of the story to the point just before the change in the hero’s fortunes; by
Denouement, all from the beginning of the change to the end. In the Lynceus of Theodectes, for
instance, the Complication includes, together with the presupposed incidents, the seizure of the
child and that in turn of the parents; and the Denouement all from the indictment for the murder
to the end. Now it is right, when one speaks of a tragedy as the same or not the same as another,
to do so on the ground before all else of their Plot, i.e. as having the same or not the same
Complication and Denouement. Yet there are many dramatists who, after a good Complication,
fail in the Denouement. But it is necessary for both points of construction to be always duly
mastered.

Having once mispronounced denouement in a meeting with a studio exec, the term is pretty
much seared into my consciousness at this point, having consulted several dictionaries to gain
more precision in my understanding of the word’s meaning… and how to say it [day - new -
mah].

From the French, its literal meaning is “untying.” So we may think of Complication, as used here
by Aristotle, to signify “tying,” as in the various strands of a rope, and the Denouement then the
untying of those strands, so that by the end of the story, the knot (the core of the Complication) is
undone and the narrative resolved.

I’m also able to amortize some of the cost of my college education as I remember having studied
this part of “Poetics” wherein we learned the concepts of rising action and falling action, the
former related to Complication, the latter to Denouement.

Going one level deeper into my brain cells, I seem to recall that rising action related primarily to
the circumstances surrounding the Protagonist while falling action occurred after a reversal, thus
the narrative flow turned against the Antagonist.

As to whether Aristotle’s writings support this perspective specifically or even generally, I leave
that to our moveable feast of Aristotelians. I’m just reporting directly from the mush which lies
within my cranium.
Speaking from the perspective of contemporary screenwriting, Denouement has come to take on
a somewhat different function, if not meaning, representing that scene or scenes which occur
after the Final Struggle and Resolution. As was explained to me by a veteran screenwriter once
[paraphrased]: “After the climax of the story, you wanna give the audience a glimpse of what it
all means to the hero. To the victor goes the spoils. The denouement is seeing the spoils.”

A good example of this is the 1983 comedy Trading Places. Check out this video from about the
1:00 minute mark where Dan Aykroyd explains how his character (Louis) along with Eddie
Murphy’s (Billy Ray) outwitted the Duke brothers (Final Struggle/Resolution), then the
Denouement featured at the 1:59 mark on: “Looking good, Billy Ray” / “Feeling good, Louis”
— champagne, pretty girls, desert isle and all. Spoils, indeed!

So two basic screenwriting takeaways from this first part of Part XVIII:

* Typically, a story builds tension, then ultimately resolves it.

* The resolution of the story — the untying of the knot – is every bit as important as the setup
and development of the story — the tying of the knot. “But it is necessary for both points of
construction to be always duly mastered.”

Part 18(B): Four Kinds of Tragedy

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

Reversal of the Situation and Recognition; the Pathetic (where the
motive is passion)- such as the tragedies on Ajax and Ixion; the Ethical
(where the motives are ethical)- such as the Phthiotides and the Peleus.
The fourth kind is the Simple. [We here exclude the purely spectacular
element], exemplified by the Phorcides, the Prometheus, and scenes
laid in Hades. The poet should endeavor, if possible, to combine all
poetic elements; or failing that, the greatest number and those the
most important; the more so, in face of the caviling criticism of
the day. For whereas there have hitherto been good poets, each in
his own branch, the critics now expect one man to surpass all others
in their several lines of excellence.

Complex. Pathetic (as in “pathos”). Ethical. Simple. If Tragedy is equivalent to what we mean
nowadays when we say Genre, then would these four “kinds” be considered sub-genres?

Not quite. Whereas Romantic Comedy or Contained Thriller are examples of sub-genres, these
four categories Aristotle cites feel more like narrative approaches. Two of them — Pathetic and
Ethical — seem like they fall into the arena of Theme, what sort of meaning the writer may be
attempting to work with, whereas the other two — Complex and Simple — appear to be more
about the scope of the story.

This comment — The poet should endeavor, if possible, to combine all poetic elements — is
intriguing as it suggests a good story ought to have multiple dynamics at work, both in terms of
plot construction and breadth, as well as theme and meaning [with the caveat Aristotle notes in
the following paragraph, which we will analyze next week, wherein he tells writers to avoid
"Epic structure... multiplicity of plots"].

I like to think of those “multiple dynamics” as layers, how a story can function at different levels
of our human experience. There is Conscious, Subconsious, and Unconscious. Within Conscious,
there is Emotional, Rational, Intuitive, Symbolic, and so forth [obviously these are all artificial
categories, but ironically in keeping with Aristotle who does the same thing!]

This is yet another reason why my son’s advice — “Go into the story and find the animals” —
was so prescient because one way of perceiving the use of that term “animals” is that it can refer
to the multiple layers of a story. As writers, we are tasked with going beneath the surface of the
narrative, finding those layers, determining how they can work as story dynamics, then do our
best to wrangle everything into a coherent and comprehensive whole. That is a lot of theoretical
jargon which basically means, “Write a compelling story.”

Finally there’s this observation by Aristotle: “For whereas there have hitherto been good poets,
each in his own branch, the critics now expect one man to surpass all others in their several
lines of excellence.”

It’s been said, “We stand on the shoulders of those who have come before us.” Aristotle seems to
be suggesting that is an imperative for writers: You must climb above those who have preceded
you! Whereas previously, a ‘good’ writer is one who employed one or two of these different
“kinds” of tragedy, we are tasked with doing better, and one way of achieving that is to use all
four narrative approaches: Complex, Pathetic, Ethical, Simple.

For screenwriters, it’s the same thing. We cannot simply replicate movies that have been
produced. Rather must find a way to do something distinctive, interesting, surprising, elevate our
stories beyond past iterations.

Part 18(C): Multiplicity of Plots

Again, the poet should remember what has been often said, and not
make an Epic structure into a tragedy- by an Epic structure I mean
one with a multiplicity of plots- as if, for instance, you were to
make a tragedy out of the entire story of the Iliad. In the Epic poem,
owing to its length, each part assumes its proper magnitude. In the
drama the result is far from answering to the poet’s expectation.
The proof is that the poets who have dramatized the whole story of
the Fall of Troy, instead of selecting portions, like Euripides; or
who have taken the whole tale of Niobe, and not a part of her story,
like Aeschylus, either fail utterly or meet with poor success on the
stage. Even Agathon has been known to fail from this one defect. In
his Reversals of the Situation, however, he shows a marvelous skill
in the effort to hit the popular taste- to produce a tragic effect
that satisfies the moral sense. This effect is produced when the clever
rogue, like Sisyphus, is outwitted, or the brave villain defeated.
Such an event is probable in Agathon’s sense of the word: ‘is probable,’
he says, ‘that many things should happen contrary to probability.’

These observations drive me back to Aristotle’s notion of “unity of action,” how a play should
have one main action. Once again, it makes me feel like Aristotle would have bonded with the
narrative form of a screenplay because a vast majority of mainstream commercial Hollywood
movies are of this paradigm: Single Protagonist, positive transformation.

True, there are movies like Babel, Crash, and Traffic, known as hyperlink cinema, what I call
‘multilinear’ storytelling, however they are in a tiny minority. It is much easier to write — and
for an audience to access and comprehend — a single Protagonist story which is one major
reason why they are so prevalent.

This phenomenon extends to the traditional biopic, akin to what Aristotle cites as an example:
“the entire story of Illiad.” How to tell a person’s life story? So many threads that suggest
multiple subplots. Nowadays writers have increasingly chosen not to try to cover the entirety of a
real person’s life, but rather spotlight a specific ‘chapter’ in their existence and use that as the
basis of a story, a lens through which to interpret the character. I discussed this with screenwriter
Arash Amel in our interview about his movie Grace of Monaco:

And the idea of taking a very limited period of somebody’s life — a snapshot — and also a
female character, something that I hadn’t actually explored before, was really interesting to me.
There’s a long story behind why Princess Grace — but to cut it short, she was the first media
princess before the concept had been invented and the last true fairytale princess, to a whole
generation she was an icon and totally forgotten and such a great tragic story never really told.

Increasingly we see these snapshot biographies and that reflects the sentiments of Aristotle’s
main point in this section of “Poetics”.

This is not to suggest we should free constrained from pursuing a multilinear story if that’s what
emerges in our creative process. However this is a harder path to tread, a sentiment with which
both Aristotle and today’s studio executives would agree.

Part 18(D): Chorus

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

be an integral part of the whole, and share in the action, in the
manner not of Euripides but of Sophocles. As for the later poets,
their choral songs pertain as little to the subject of the piece as
to that of any other tragedy. They are, therefore, sung as mere interludes-
a practice first begun by Agathon. Yet what difference is there between
introducing such choral interludes, and transferring a speech, or
even a whole act, from one play to another.
I find this fascinating because the way Aristotle refers to the Chorus is pretty much how I talk
about what I call Narrative Voice.

First, a definition of Greek chorus: “A Greek chorus (Greek: χορός, koros) is a homogeneous,
non-individualized group of performers in the plays of classical Greece, who comment with a
collective voice on the dramatic action.” I’m hopeful our band of Aristotelians will provide more
background and insight into the nature and function of the chorus in classical Greek tragedies.

As to Narrative Voice, think of it as the storytelling sensibility a writer brings to a screenplay

through his/her writing style. I even have a nifty formula for it: Genre + Style = Narrative Voice.

What are the points of connection between how Aristotle refers to chorus in this section of
“Poetics” and Narrative Voice?

* The Chorus too should be regarded as one of the actors: I think of Narrative Voice as a
screenplay’s invisible character, but a character nonetheless, present primarily in scene
description.

* It should be an integral part of the whole: A writer should develop their sense of Narrative
Voice in conjunction with the tone, atmosphere and feel of the story.

* And share in the action: As opposed to approaching a screenplay’s style as some sort of
generic thing, Narrative Voice implies a specific connection to the story’s genre — genre
affecting style, style conveying genre.

There is another parallel when Narrative Voice editorializes on the action, very much like a
Greek chorus commenting on the proceedings.

Here are some examples from the screenplay for the movie American Hustle, written by Eric
Warren Singer and David O. Russell (the editorializing in scene description italicized):

P. 7: Irving looks over and shrugs his shoulders. Not surprised at all the way this is going and
horrified to be in the room with these guys.

P. 38: Irving stares at Sydney with confusion. He’s never seen her like this before.

P. 39: Richie stares at Edith elated that she just stuck up for him. He’s really enjoying this
position of power she’s putting him in.

P. 71: Irv is touched. He sees it is a sincere gift from Carmine, because Carmine likes him; not
cynical in any way.

So while the Greek chorus may have vanished over time, it’s interesting to think about a possible
legacy in screenwriting: Narrative Voice.

Part 19: Thought and Diction

It remains to speak of Diction and Thought, the other parts of Tragedy
having been already discussed. concerning Thought, we may assume what
is said in the Rhetoric, to which inquiry the subject more strictly
belongs. Under Thought is included every effect which has to be produced
by speech, the subdivisions being: proof and refutation; the excitation
of the feelings, such as pity, fear, anger, and the like; the suggestion
of importance or its opposite. Now, it is evident that the dramatic
incidents must be treated from the same points of view as the dramatic
speeches, when the object is to evoke the sense of pity, fear, importance,
or probability. The only difference is that the incidents should speak
for themselves without verbal exposition; while effects aimed at in
should be produced by the speaker, and as a result of the speech.
For what were the business of a speaker, if the Thought were revealed
quite apart from what he says?

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

Modes of Utterance. But this province of knowledge belongs to the
art of Delivery and to the masters of that science. It includes, for
instance- what is a command, a prayer, a statement, a threat, a question,
an answer, and so forth. To know or not to know these things involves
no serious censure upon the poet’s art. For who can admit the fault
imputed to Homer by Protagoras- that in the words, ‘Sing, goddess,
of the wrath, he gives a command under the idea that he utters a prayer?
For to tell some one to do a thing or not to do it is, he says, a
command. We may, therefore, pass this over as an inquiry that belongs
to another art, not to poetry.

I may be taking a simplistic view here, but let me run with this and see what our Aristotelian
experts have to say on Part XIX: Isn’t this simply Aristotle’s way of drawing a distinction
between what screenwriters would call Dialogue and Action?

Dialogue: Under Thought is included every effect which has to be produced by

speech [emphasis added].

Action: Now, it is evident that the dramatic incidents must be treated from the same points of
view as the dramatic speeches [emphasis added].

Dialogue = Speech.

Action = Incidents.

Moreover, as in a screenplay, the impact Dialogue and Action may have on the plot is the same.
Aristotle lists the “effects” as being proof and refutation; the excitation of the feelings, such as
pity, fear, anger, and the like; the suggestion of importance or its opposite. In other words, make
something happen.
As to the observations about Diction, I’m thinking this is an implicit nod to the nature of ancient
plays which were, I am supposing, heavily dialogue oriented. They are, after all, considered to be
“poetry,” not some other “art.”

Of course with the advent of motion pictures, especially during the silent film era, the emphasis
switched almost entirely to visual storytelling.

Motion. Pictures. Both visual words. To this day, movies are primarily a visual medium. As
screenwriters, our scripts may very well have a “command, a prayer, a statement, a threat, a
question, an answer, and so forth,” but whatever dialogue we write can be best served while
maximizing the visual trappings of a scene.

In any event, the distinction between Dialogue and Action is an important one, reminding
screenwriters to find a balance between the two, something that can differ genre to genre, story
to story, but should always be a consideration in the writer’s consciousness.

Furthermore as Dialogue and Action occur in the physical realm of a movie, what we hear and
what we see, there is an implied meaning in the psychological realm, what we interpret and
intuit.

For Dialogue, we may call that Subtext. For Action, we may call that Intention.

Parts 20+21: Language and Words

Part XX

Language in general includes the following parts: Letter, Syllable,

Connecting Word, Noun, Verb, Inflection or Case, Sentence or Phrase.

A Letter is an indivisible sound, yet not every such sound, but only
one which can form part of a group of sounds. For even brutes utter
indivisible sounds, none of which I call a letter. The sound I mean
may be either a vowel, a semivowel, or a mute. A vowel is that which
without impact of tongue or lip has an audible sound. A semivowel
that which with such impact has an audible sound, as S and R. A mute,
that which with such impact has by itself no sound, but joined to
a vowel sound becomes audible, as G and D. These are distinguished
according to the form assumed by the mouth and the place where they
are produced; according as they are aspirated or smooth, long or short;
as they are acute, grave, or of an intermediate tone; which inquiry
belongs in detail to the writers on meter.

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

for GR without A is a syllable, as also with A- GRA. But the investigation
of these differences belongs also to metrical science.
A Connecting Word is a nonsignificant sound, which neither causes
nor hinders the union of many sounds into one significant sound; it
may be placed at either end or in the middle of a sentence. Or, a
nonsignificant sound, which out of several sounds, each of them significant,
is capable of forming one significant sound- as amphi, peri, and the
like. Or, a nonsignificant sound, which marks the beginning, end,
or division of a sentence; such, however, that it cannot correctly
stand by itself at the beginning of a sentence- as men, etoi, de.

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

no part is in itself significant: for in double or compound words
we do not employ the separate parts as if each were in itself significant.
Thus in Theodorus, ‘god-given,’ the doron or ‘gift’ is not in itself
significant.

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

in the noun, no part is in itself significant. For ‘man’ or ‘white’
does not express the idea of ‘when’; but ‘he walks’ or ‘he has walked’
does connote time, present or past.

Inflection belongs both to the noun and verb, and expresses either
the relation ‘of,’ ‘to,’ or the like; or that of number, whether one
or many, as ‘man’ or ‘men’; or the modes or tones in actual delivery,
e.g., a question or a command. ‘Did he go?’ and ‘go’ are verbal inflections
of this kind.

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

of whose parts are in themselves significant; for not every such group
of words consists of verbs and nouns- ‘the definition of man,’ for
example- but it may dispense even with the verb. Still it will always
have some significant part, as ‘in walking,’ or ‘Cleon son of Cleon.’
A sentence or phrase may form a unity in two ways- either as signifying
one thing, or as consisting of several parts linked together. Thus
the Iliad is one by the linking together of parts, the definition
of man by the unity of the thing signified.

Part XXI

Words are of two kinds, simple and double. By simple I mean those
composed of nonsignificant elements, such as ge, ‘earth.’ By double
or compound, those composed either of a significant and nonsignificant
element (though within the whole word no element is significant),
or of elements that are both significant. A word may likewise be triple,
quadruple, or multiple in form, like so many Massilian expressions,
e.g., ‘Hermo-caico-xanthus [who prayed to Father Zeus].’
Every word is either current, or strange, or metaphorical, or ornamental,
or newly-coined, or lengthened, or contracted, or altered.

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

a people; by a strange word, one which is in use in another country.
Plainly, therefore, the same word may be at once strange and current,
but not in relation to the same people. The word sigynon, ‘lance,’
is to the Cyprians a current term but to us a strange one.

Metaphor is the application of an alien name by transference either

from genus to species, or from species to genus, or from species to
species, or by analogy, that is, proportion. Thus from genus to species,
as: ‘There lies my ship’; for lying at anchor is a species of lying.
From species to genus, as: ‘Verily ten thousand noble deeds hath Odysseus
wrought’; for ten thousand is a species of large number, and is here
used for a large number generally. From species to species, as: ‘With
blade of bronze drew away the life,’ and ‘Cleft the water with the
vessel of unyielding bronze.’ Here arusai, ‘to draw away’ is used
for tamein, ‘to cleave,’ and tamein, again for arusai- each being
a species of taking away. Analogy or proportion is when the second
term is to the first as the fourth to the third. We may then use the
fourth for the second, or the second for the fourth. Sometimes too
we qualify the metaphor by adding the term to which the proper word
is relative. Thus the cup is to Dionysus as the shield to Ares. The
cup may, therefore, be called ‘the shield of Dionysus,’ and the shield
‘the cup of Ares.’ Or, again, as old age is to life, so is evening
to day. Evening may therefore be called, ‘the old age of the day,’
and old age, ‘the evening of life,’ or, in the phrase of Empedocles,
‘life’s setting sun.’ For some of the terms of the proportion there
is at times no word in existence; still the metaphor may be used.
For instance, to scatter seed is called sowing: but the action of
the sun in scattering his rays is nameless. Still this process bears
to the sun the same relation as sowing to the seed. Hence the expression
of the poet ‘sowing the god-created light.’ There is another way in
which this kind of metaphor may be employed. We may apply an alien
term, and then deny of that term one of its proper attributes; as
if we were to call the shield, not ‘the cup of Ares,’ but ‘the wineless
cup’.

A newly-coined word is one which has never been even in local use,
but is adopted by the poet himself. Some such words there appear to
be: as ernyges, ‘sprouters,’ for kerata, ‘horns’; and areter, ‘supplicator’,
for hiereus, ‘priest.’

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

one, or when a syllable is inserted. A word is contracted when some
part of it is removed. Instances of lengthening are: poleos for poleos,
Peleiadeo for Peleidou; of contraction: kri, do, and ops, as in mia
ginetai amphoteron ops, ‘the appearance of both is one.’

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

unchanged, and part is recast: as in dexiteron kata mazon, ‘on the
right breast,’ dexiteron is for dexion.

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

are such as end in N, R, S, or in some letter compounded with S- these
being two, PS and X. Feminine, such as end in vowels that are always
long, namely E and O, and- of vowels that admit of lengthening- those
in A. Thus the number of letters in which nouns masculine and feminine
end is the same; for PS and X are equivalent to endings in S. No noun
ends in a mute or a vowel short by nature. Three only end in I- meli,
‘honey’; kommi, ‘gum’; peperi, ‘pepper’; five end in U. Neuter nouns
end in these two latter vowels; also in N and S.

I don’t have much to say here other than this: As writers, we are wordsmiths. Words are our tools
and as such, we must care about language. Deeply. Aristotle’s in-depth analysis here reminds us
of this fact.

As to his dissection of metaphor, I got lost in it twice. However the journey was worth it just to
read this: For instance, to scatter seed is called sowing: but the action of the sun in scattering his
rays is nameless. Still this process bears to the sun the same relation as sowing to the seed.
Hence the expression of the poet ‘sowing the god-created light.’

Just stumbling across the idea of a poet ‘sowing god-created light’ makes me smile. Having
become a fan of poetry late in my life, I get this observation, I feel it. A wonderful expression of
the power of inspiration words can bring us. Beautiful!