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T R AG I C PAT H O S

Scholars have often focused on understanding Aristotles poetic theory,


and particularly the concept of catharsis in the Poetics, as a response
to Platos critique of pity in the Republic. However, this book shows
that, while Greek thinkers all acknowledge pity and some form of fear
as responses to tragedy, each assumes for the two emotions a different
purpose, mode of presentation, and, to a degree, understanding. This
book reassesses expressions of the emotions within different tragedies
and explores emotional responses to and discussions of the tragedies
by contemporary philosophers, providing insights into the ethical and
social implications of the emotions.

d a n a l a c o u r s e m u n t e a n u is Assistant Professor in the Depart-


ment of Greek and Latin at Ohio State University. She has published
articles on Aristotle, Greek drama, and the reception of classics in
modern literature and in opera, as well as edited a collection of
essays on emotion, gender, and genre in antiquity. Her future research
projects include a monograph on staged death in Greek drama and
an interdisciplinary project on the ethics of aesthetics.
TRAGIC PATHOS
Pity and Fear in Greek Philosophy and Tragedy

DANA L ACOURSE MUNTEANU


cambridge university press
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C Dana LaCourse Munteanu 2012

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First published 2012

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A catalogue record for this publication is available from the British Library

Library of Congress Cataloguing in Publication data


Munteanu, Dana LaCourse, 1972
Tragic pathos : pity and fear in Greek philosophy and tragedy / Dana LaCourse Munteanu.
p. cm.
Includes bibliographical references and index.
isbn 978-0-521-76510-7
1. Greek drama (Tragedy) History and criticism. 2. Pathos in literature. 3. Sympathy in
literature. 4. Fear in literature. 5. Aeschylus. Persae. 6. Aeschylus. Prometheus bound.
7. Sophocles. Ajax. 8. Euripides. Orestes. 9. Emotions (Philosophy) History.
10. Aesthetics, Ancient. i. Title.
pa3136.m86 2012
882 .0109162 dc23 2011027498

isbn 978-0-521-76510-7 Hardback

Cambridge University Press has no responsibility for the persistence or


accuracy of URLs for external or third-party internet websites referred to
in this publication, and does not guarantee that any content on such
websites is, or will remain, accurate or appropriate.
To Tutica (Felicia Amalia Florian),
whom I have dearly missed and whose love I can never forget
Contents

Preface and acknowledgments page ix


List of abbreviations xii

Introduction 1

part i theoretical views about pity and fear as


aesthetic emotions
1 Drama and the emotions: an Indo-European connection? 29
2 Gorgias: a strange trio, the poetic emotions 37
3 Plato: from reality to tragedy and back 52
4 Aristotle: the first theorist of the aesthetic emotions 70

part ii pity and fear within tragedies


5 An introduction 141
6 Aeschylus: Persians 151
7 Prometheus Bound 164
8 Sophocles: Ajax 181
9 Euripides: Orestes 208

Appendix Catharsis and the emotions in the definition of


tragedy in the Poetics 238
Bibliography 251
Index 275

vii
Preface and acknowledgments

Our fascination with literature depends to a great extent on how stories


enrich our emotional lives. However, analyzing in a coherent manner the
emotions that we feel for fiction remains extremely difficult. This book
is an examination of how ancient Greeks described and understood the
emotions stirred by tragedy. Since I have included an extensive introduction
and ample explanations of my intentions before every chapter, I shall
not bore the reader with a long preface, but shall list here only a few
necessary disclaimers, followed by acknowledgments. What follows is not
a study of Aristotles Poetics, although both Aristotle and his Poetics receive
extensive analysis, but a broader examination of pity and fear as tragic
emotions in Greek thought. Although I have tried to cover diligently
the bibliography relevant to my subject, it is inevitable that omissions
will have occurred, which I regret but consider inevitable, as I have dealt
with enormously popular authors and topics. Finally, as far as English
is concerned, I remember starting graduate school and using my new
adoptive language daily for scholarly matters: it felt at times as if I had
played a character (as Rimbaud famously once said: Je est un autre).
Nowadays English does not have any alienating effect on me, and many
scholars and friends have made suggestions to improve the style used in
this book, but I am sure that readers will still discover twisted idioms and
infelicities. When they do, I can only ask for their clemency and no
one has put it better than Nunlist (2009, ix) in the preface of his recent
book: exasperated readers will, surely, take into account that the only other
alternative would have been to write this book in my native language.
The task of thanking the many scholars and friends who have helped
me in the making of this book is daunting, but I shall do my best, with
apologies for the omissions, starting from the most recent to the earli-
est acknowledgments. The anonymous readers from Cambridge Univer-
sity Press sent me illuminating comments, made helpful suggestions, and
important corrections, for which I am very grateful. I thank the editor,
ix
x Preface and acknowledgments
Michael Sharp, for his prompt responses to all my queries and for his
professionalism. I am deeply grateful to Professor Ann Michelini for her
essential insights throughout various stages of writing this book, for her
patience with my shortcomings and her enthusiasm for my ideas. In later
stages of writing, I benefited from the advice of two wonderful Aristotelian
scholars, whom I thank wholeheartedly, Professor Elizabeth Belfiore (Uni-
versity of Minnesota) and Professor David Konstan (Brown University).
Professor Belfiore generously took time out of her sabbatical a few years
ago to read a very rudimentary draft and helped me rethink the structure of
the book. I am much indebted to Professor Konstan who has emailed me
detailed comments and suggestions on earlier (and sometimes abandoned)
drafts; he has often saved me from transgressions with kindness. For the
early, dissertational stage of the project, my thanks go first and foremost
to Professor Kathryn Gutzwiller, University of Cincinnati, who offered me
steady guidance and valuable suggestions.
I thank the Department of Classics, University of Cincinnati, for fund-
ing this project with Summer Research Scholarships (2007 and 2008). My
good friend, Todd Reinhard, read parts of this manuscript carefully and
offered stylistic suggestions, for which I am very grateful. A former graduate
student, Andrew Connor, helped me with the tedious task of checking ref-
erences. Jacquelene Riley, Head Librarian, University of Cincinnati, John
Miller Burnam Classical Library, and Susan Scott, Library Director, Ohio
State University at Newark, satisfied every bibliographical demand I had,
which greatly facilitated the completion of this book. Former colleagues,
staff, and friends in Cincinnati, especially Harry Gotoff, Gayle McGraham,
Ann Hamill, Eleni Hatzaki, Peter van Minnen, Valentina Popescu, Michael
Sage, Gisela Walberg, and Jean Susorney Wellington, provided encourage-
ment and stimulating conversations during welcome breaks from long
library sessions.
I am also deeply grateful to my colleagues in the Department of Greek
and Latin, at Ohio State University, where I started teaching in 2009,
for seeing originality in my work before it was officially accepted for
publication. Particularly I would like to thank the following professors in
the department for their collegial support and answers to various questions
and demands related to my book: Ben Acosta-Hughes, Richard Fletcher,
Fritz Graf, David Hahm, Bruce Heiden, Sarah Iles Johnston, and Timothy
McNiven. Finally, graduate student Samuel Flores has helped me with
indexing, for which I am thankful.
I would like to acknowledge my former Romanian professors, who often
accomplished teaching miracles, after the Socialist regime had attempted to
Preface and acknowledgments xi
shatter the bourgeois tradition of classics. Knowledge of ancient Greek
in Romania during the nineties was delivered through a kind of oral
tradition, almost without books (Latin was in a much better position in
this respect). Therefore, I would like to express my gratitude toward the
Department of Classics, Babes, -Bolyai University, Cluj, Romania, and its
marvelous professors: Frieda Edelstein, Malvina Patrut, , Elena Popescu,
Vasile Rus, and Mihai Nasta (Cluj and Brussels). Professor Popescu would
write paradigms on the blackboard inspired by the Muse (or nineteenth-
century German and French grammars), we would learn grammar from our
notes based solely on her delivery; without a Romanian-Greek dictionary,
we had to use a modern language (French, English, or German) to learn
Greek vocabulary. I remember copying by hand passages from Homer or
Herodotus from the only existing nineteenth-century French edition, with
minimal apparatus criticus and no commentary; then came the adventure
of translating and interpreting, often sharing my discoveries with my good
friends, Camelia Mihut, and Laura Muncaciu. Perhaps my writing would
have taken a different course, since Latin was second nature to me, if
Professor Frieda Edelstein, whom I greatly admire, had not told me once
that I had too much imagination to write on Latin syntax. I do not know
whether she was right, but her Latin syntax course was one of the most
intriguing philosophical approaches to language that I have encountered.
My interest in Aristotle started in a literary theory class, conducted by
Professor Muthu, in Cluj as well. I remember memorizing the definition
of tragedy from the Poetics in Greek to impress the professor who was not
a classicist (it worked); Aristotle must have impressed me, since I have
continued to think about the meaning of his poetic theory.
On a personal note, I thank my husband, Cary LaCourse, for supporting
my scholarly cause and never ceasing to believe in my star. Love and thanks
go to my parents, Violeta and Laurent, iu Munteanu, for all their help
through graduate school and afterwards, and to my little boy, Lysander, for
helping me put things in perspective.
List of abbreviations

Abbreviations of Greek authors and works generally follow the LSJ system.
Classical journals are abbreviated in accordance with LAnnee Philologique.
Aristotles works are cited by book and Bekker numbers. Platos works are
cited by book and Stephanus numbers. Here is a list of the most commonly
used abbreviations:

Aristotles works
de An. de Anima
EE Ethica Eudemia
EN Ethica Nicomachea
MA de Motu Animalium
Mem. de Memoria
Metaph. Metaphysica
Ph. Physica
Po. Poetics
Pol. Politica
Rh. Rhetorica
Top. Topica

Platos works
Ap. Apologia
Grg. Gorgias
La. Laches
Lg. Leges
Men. Meno
Phd. Phaedo
Phlb. Philebus
R. Republic
Smp. Symposium

xii
List of abbreviations xiii
Sph. Sophista
Tht. Theaetetus

Aeschylus works
Ag. Agamemnon
PV Prometheus Victus
Pe. Persians

Sophocles works
Aj. Ajax
Ant. Antigone
OC Oedipus Coloneus
OT Oedipus Tyrannus
Ph. Philoctetes
Tr. Trachiniae

Euripides works
Alc. Alcestis
Hel. Helena
Her. Hercules
Heracl. Heracleidae
IA Iphigenia Aulidensis
IT Iphigenia Taurica
Med. Medea
Or. Orestes

Pindars works
N. Nemean Odes
P. Pythian Odes
Introduction

premise and purpose


The activity of art is based on the fact that a man receiving through his
sense of hearing and sight another mans expression of feeling is capa-
ble of experiencing the emotion which moved the man who expressed
it. To take the simplest example: one man laughs and another, who
hears, becomes merry; or one man weeps and another, who hears,
feels sorrow.
(Leo Tolstoy, What is Art?, translated by Louise and Aylmer
Maude, London, 1930, 171)

Certain assumptions about art can be found across cultures. The idea
that works of art transmit emotions to the audience is formulated, for
example, in Platos Ion and resurfaces in Tolstoys What is Art?. Yet, what
lies behind such a general assumption of an emotional chain that links
poet, bard, and audience? There is, in fact, not much agreement. Indeed,
theorists continue to grapple with understanding the very formation of
the emotions produced by art;1 so, naturally, adequately understanding the
subsequent physical, psychological, and ethical effects of these emotions
is all the more daunting. This book will explore some specific, culturally
circumscribed approaches to the emotional responses to tragedy in fifth-
century Athens. Although the subject matter is rather tightly focused, it
will be of interest, I hope, to audiences from various humanistic fields, for
it examines not only how the ancient Greeks thought about the emotional
effects of poetry, but also assesses what may be culturally specific as well as
universally relevant in our reflections on art.
Pity and fear, the emotions mentioned so frequently in Aristotles Poetics,
have stirred much spirited discussion within scholarly circles. Stephen Hal-
liwell and Jonathan Lear, two of the most prominent Aristotelian scholars

1
A subsequent section of this introduction will be devoted to explaining terminology (e.g., emotion,
aesthetic emotion, etc.).

1
2 Introduction
of our time, debate the significance of pity in the Poetics as follows. Halliwell
notes that the emotion has the potential to contribute to the tacit redefini-
tion of an audiences moral identity. Lear forcefully objects: My response
is this: thats very nice, if true. But what if it isnt? How would we ever
know, especially if we are spending our philosophical time telling ourselves
self-satisfied stories about the redemptive power of pity?2 The controversy
reflects an impasse that well characterizes the mainstream approach to the
subject of tragic emotions in fifth-century Athens. Scholarly focus has
often been on understanding Aristotles aesthetic theory, and particularly
the mysterious concept of catharsis in the Poetics as a reply to Platos cri-
tique of tragic pity in the Republic. My book has a different focus, as it will
not seek the right meaning of tragic pity. Rather, it will broadly examine
various cultural views about pity and fear as responses to tragedy (and, in
passing, epic) in classical Athens and reassess emotional expressions of pity
and fear within different tragedies to suggest moral, social, and political
implications of the responses of the audiences to various plays.
Classicists have studied descriptions of pity and fear as tragic emo-
tions particularly in the works of Aristotle.3 Scholars have also emphasized
the importance of emotions in Greek tragedy for fifth-century Athenian
audiences, who expected the tragedians to move and entertain them.4
The novelty of my study lies in recovering various cultural facets of the
emotional responses to tragedy through a synthesis of sources, such as
philosophical descriptions (Gorgias, Plato, Aristotle), fragments of comic
poetry, and dramatic scholia, to the extent that they reflect ancient literary
criticism,5 reports about the original tragic performances, and emotional
expressions of the internal audiences (i.e. characters and chorus witnessing
the suffering of others within drama) in individual tragedies. In the treat-
ment of each tragedy, most original are the assessments of the relationship
between the emotional expressions of internal audiences and the likely and
reported reactions of the external spectators. The emphasis will be on the

2
The quotations are to be found in two essays published in the same collection: Halliwell 1995, 94,
and, respectively, Lear 1995b, 96.
3
Most prominently, Halliwell 1986 and 1998, 168201; Belfiore 1992, 177254; Konstan 1999b, 2005a,
in which he reviews some of his own earlier views on the tragic emotions in Aristotle, and 2006,
with individual chapters dedicated to pity and fear.
4
Stanford 1983; Heath 1987 and 1989. Among the earlier studies on the subject, see Shisler 1945, who
examines gestures and other descriptions of actions (e.g. tearing clothing, kneeling, etc.) as concrete
expressions of emotions in tragedy.
5
For an update on the editions of the dramatic scholia and a brief evaluation of the ancient information
that they contain, see Dickey 2007, 318. Kraus 2002 provides a useful review of the theoretical criteria
for examining ancient and modern commentaries to classical texts as readings that reflect the taste
of their authors and the interpretative interests of their times.
Introduction 3
descriptions of the emotions as a result of viewing suffering through the
eyes of internal spectators, which offer models of interpretation for external
audiences.

emotion: emotion as response to tragedy, to art(s)


Materia teatrului este emot, ia. Nu ma duc la teatru pentru a audia o conferinta, ci
pentru ca e un spat, iu unde, sufletes, te, ma deschid. Emot, iile sunt zona mea cea mai
obscura, despre ele s, tiu cel mai put, in s, i le exprim cel mai greu. Daca am un blocaj este
la nivelul emotiilor, nu al intelectului, nu al trupului. Iar teatrul trebuie sa ne dea o
educat, ie pe care s, coala nu ne-a dat-o. S, coala nu ne-a dat nici o educatie a emot, iilor,
teatrul trebuie sa ne-o dea. (Andrei S, erban, Romanian-American theater director,
Puncte Cardinale, September 2008, 7)
The essence of theater is emotion. I do not go to see a play in order to hear a
lecture but because the theater is a space where I open my soul. The emotions
belong to my most obscure area; I know least about them and I express them with
utmost difficulty. If I lack an ability to express myself it concerns my emotions,
not my intellect or my body. And theater must give us an education that school
has not given us. School has not provided us with an education of the emotions;
theater has to provide us with that.
Any book dealing with emotions has to define its subject, which is a
notoriously difficult matter in this case. Indeed, fascinating studies have
been written about the search for a comprehensive definition of emotions
and have underlined the problems surrounding the concept as well as the
possible solutions.6 As Ben-Zeev has noted,7 emotion is a complex phe-
nomenon, which should be described on different levels: physiological,
psychological, sociological, and philosophical. No level can fully define the
emotion, but each contributes to the definition. An emotion, then, consists
of a response to environmental stimuli that often produces physiological
changes (i.e. flow of adrenaline, heart rate); it involves a psychological eval-
uation (cognitive and affective) of the stimuli; and, finally, it often leads to
action and motivation. Philosophically speaking, an emotion raises prob-
lems that pertain to morality and rationality; sociologically, the emotion
may vary in intensity and symptoms, according to factors related to culture,
gender, age group, etc. The complexity of the emotions makes a holistic
6
Out of the numerous interesting studies of this sort, I have selected only a short list of essential
readings here: two collections of essays edited by Solomon (2003), providing a historical survey of
the topic, and (2004), combining philosophical, psychological, and biological approaches. Good
summaries of the problems and controversies pertaining to emotions are offered, for example, by
Lewis and Haviland 1993, Hillman 1999, and Ben-Zeev 2000, 178.
7
Ben-Zeev 2000, 10.
4 Introduction
approach almost impossible. Therefore, several disciplines have contributed
significantly to the modern understanding of the emotions, most notably
biology, psychology, linguistics, anthropology, and philosophy. Moreover,
the tremendous contemporary interest in emotions has produced signif-
icant recent studies in the field of classics.8 Although the recent eclectic
approaches to the subject have benefited scientists and humanists alike,
they have also created some difficulties. Thus, while choosing one or two
emphases in the study of emotion (for example, biological or sociological)
represents a necessary norm, it also oversimplifies the subject, for almost
inevitably researchers will emphasize the correctness of one type of study
and dismiss partially or completely the validity of other perspectives.9 In
addition, controversies surrounding the emotions often derive from cause-
and-effect relationships.10
A branch of modern philosophy of art has developed the study of the
so-called aesthetic emotions, under two divisions: (1) expression theory,
which analyzes the emotions expressed in art, and (2) reception theory,
which concentrates on the emotions of the viewers, spectators, listeners,
and readers, triggered in response to various arts.11 While sharing all the
complexities of the genus, aesthetic emotion presents additional difficulties.
Attempts to define a unified field of research have created a first predica-
ment. Since various arts communicate through different media, can we
speak of a unified mode of emotional expressions? The expression theory
(1) analyzes, for example, how literary works describe emotions as well as
how musical pieces convey the impression of certain emotions through
sound-combinations.12 But in the latter case, listeners do not always

8
An overview of the current directions in the study of emotions in classical scholarship is provided
by Fitzgerald 2008, 125. Sokolon 2006, 3348, reviews contemporary approaches (evolutionary,
feeling theory, sociological, etc.) to emotions and their connections with Aristotles thought.
9
An example of this sort is the book of Griffiths (1997), which completely dismisses philosophical
explanations for emotions and accuses philosophers of ignoring biological and psycho-linguistic
developments in the field. It proposes that biological genetics and environmental sociology ought
to be the primary tools in understanding the emotions.
10
A famous controversy, for example, has centered around the question of whether emotions originate
in the head or in the body, the James-Cannon debate, a kind of chicken or the egg, which still
divides some modern scholars. For a recent reappraisal of various difficulties, see Pert 1997, 13543,
as well as Lane and Nadel 2000. A current debate of importance, for example, concerns the degree
of universality of the emotions (emphasized by evolutionary theorists) as opposed to their cultural
specificity (emphasized by sociologists). For a concise general presentation of this controversy, see
Keltner and Haidt 2001; from a linguistic point of view, see, for example, Wierzbicka 1999, 273307.
Cairns (2008) has evaluated the importance of this debate for the field of classics.
11
Matravers (1998) offers a comprehensive presentation of the modern field. I have discussed modern
theories more extensively and outlined a comparison between the modern and the ancient views
about the aesthetic emotions elsewhere, in an article (2009).
12
Collingwood (1938) developed the basic theory of emotional expression in art. Behrend (1988) and
Kivy (1989) apply the expression theory of emotions to non-verbal arts, specifically music.
Introduction 5
absolutely agree on the emotional outcome, and there seems to be no truly
objective method of establishing the nuance of the emotions produced by
non-verbal arts. Expression of emotion in art has been used ambiguously
and it may cover a variety of meanings. With respect to painting, for exam-
ple, it can mean the release of emotion by an artist (in a painting, etc),
the pretense of emotion, the projection of an emotion in the painting by
the viewer, etc.13 Fortunately, my work does not require finding solutions
to these problems. I shall examine the situations, manner, and reasons for
which characters in Greek tragedies express emotions, particularly pity and
fear and, furthermore, the way in which they describe these two emotions.
My use of the expression theory will therefore be limited to reconstructing
a kind of psychological profile of internal spectators and their reactions to
suffering.
Reception theory (2) deals with the emotions of the audience as responses
to the works of art.14 Scholars have compared the aesthetic emotions
(inspired by art) and the regular emotions (caused by real events). Some
have argued that the former differ from the latter on two accounts: their
formation, since the objects of the aesthetic emotions are not taken as
real, and their consequences, since they do not lead us to action. Take,
for instance, the example of a novel such as Tolstoys Anna Karenina. Can
we be saddened by the fate of the unfortunate Anna, when we know
that she does not exist? Furthermore can we aid any fictional heroine? No,
we cannot. In fact, we do not act on our emotion, as we might in real
life.15 As far as the practical result of an emotion is concerned, it has been
convincingly demonstrated that while, indeed, the aesthetic emotion does
not compel us to action, the ordinary emotion does not necessarily have
to result in taking action in real life either.16 Thus, aesthetic emotion does
not split from an absolute norm for being devoid of action.17 On the other
hand, the causes of the aesthetic emotion remain more problematic. To the
question of how we can be moved by fiction, scholars from various fields
have given the following answers:
(a) Aesthetic emotions are irrational, because they have no real cause
or purpose.18

13
Shibles 1995, 73, provides this example and further criticism of the expression theory.
14
I am taking the meaning of art in the most general way, including visual arts, music, literature,
and, for modern times, film. Unless I specify otherwise, I use the term audience in a very broad
sense, which includes listeners, viewers, readers, etc.
15 16
Radford 1975, 6780. Matravers 1998, 5781.
17
In the Republic, Plato worries about the opposite problem, namely that aesthetic emotion secretly
leads to morally unwanted action (i.e. pity for tragic characters leads to grieving for personal loss
in real life).
18
Radford (1975).
6 Introduction
(b) Aesthetic emotions occur in the game of make-believe, in which the
audience pretends to take fiction as reality, as children do while playing
games; therefore, the emotions felt in response to art are not real but
quasi-emotions.19
(c) Aesthetic emotions are formed in a similar way to ordinary emotions,
based on a set of presumptions, which we consider plausible whether
they are real or hypothetically presented to our imagination.20 We take
fiction as a true report, in the same way we read a piece of news,
assuming that it is true. Let us say we are reading in a newspaper
that someone has been imprisoned unjustly. Similarly, we read that an
innocent Edmond Dantes has been thrown in prison on his wedding
day in Dumas Count of Monte Cristo. The cognitive premises for both
the fictional and the real stories do not differ. It is therefore likely
that we have the same emotional reactions to both real and imaginary
stimuli. According to this, aesthetic emotions do not differ essentially
from real-life emotions.21
(d) Aesthetic emotions may be similar but not quite equal to the ordinary:
they are triggered by a complex interaction between data-driven mental
processing and hypothesis-driven processing.22 Thus, we react based
on the given data (i.e. an innocent is falsely imprisoned) but, at the
same time, we realize the fictional nature of the subject (i.e. we know
that Edmond Dantes is not real in Dumas novel).
Let me briefly summarize the merits and shortfalls of each theory, even if
a thorough critique is beyond the scope of this introduction. The strict
cognitivist viewpoint (a) signals a paradox. The emotion aroused by fiction
ought not to exist in the same way in which the emotion caused by real
events does, because it does not have true cognitive premises. Never-
theless, as Radford himself admits, we appear to feel an emotion that has
no base in reality. A step toward an explanation is Waltons association
between fiction and childrens games (b): we know that fictional scenarios
are not real, yet we buy into them as if they were. This idea has a long
tradition, as I shall show, and can be already recognized in Gorgias ideas
about tragic illusion, or apate, in which the spectator willingly lets himself
be deceived by a playwrights creation. However, Waltons theory does not
explain entirely why the spectators believe that they feel genuine emotions,
although they know that they are engaged in a kind of game, in which
they only pretend to believe the fictional scenario. The true report

19 20
K. Walton 1990. Currie 1990, 182216, Matravers 1998, 4255.
21 22
Most prominently, Robinson 2005. Palencik 2008.
Introduction 7
theory has the great merit to suggest that we can cognitively treat fiction as
reality. Especially when we deal with emotion felt for another, it seems
to me, we can imaginatively participate in fiction to the point that we no
longer care whether the premises of the story are real or imaginary. Thus,
just as in the above given example, when someone suffers unjustly, the
cognitive premise is similar whether we read a story based on a true fact or
imagined, and therefore we may feel pity for the victim and indignation at
those who inflict suffering. Nevertheless, it seems, the true report theory
cannot fully explain the emotions that concern the self, such as fear or
anger. And here the recent theory of Palencik that combines hypothetical
and data-based thought processing (d) may soon lead to more complex
and convincing explanations. We cannot directly fear a fictional danger
or become angry at a character, unless we feel the emotions on behalf of
other characters. Nevertheless, some spectators, for example, declare that
they were truly afraid for themselves, when, for example, seeing the Green
Monster. What kind of fear is this? Is it the same kind that they would
have felt if they encountered such a monster directly? The strict cognitivists
might label this absurd or unfounded fear. The scholars who emphasize
the role of imagination do not usually deal with this emotion at all. Some
have rightly suggested that fear at the horror movie might have to do
with activating ancestral, automatic brain responses to horrifying-looking
creatures.23 Indeed, the instinctive response, it seems to me, has to do with
an instantaneous feeling of repulsion that could be shared regardless of
whether someone faces real or fictional monsters. However, doesnt this
type of initial reaction, aroused by both fictional and real stimuli, differ
from fearing an approaching beast in a real circumstance? In the situation
of a real dangerous encounter, in addition to the initial feeling of repulse,
the emotion of fear likely involves other cognitive processes, such as real-
ization of immediate danger, and probably compels us to action, such as
running away from the monster or trying to kill it. And, indeed, the spec-
tators in a movie theater may not feel this type of absolute fear (here the
strict cognitivists might be right for once). Similarly, I think, we can never
become truly angry, when imaginatively involved in fiction. Indeed, we
cannot believe a true report in which a fictional character would insult us
directly. A fictional villain may insult another character, whom we may like,
or oppose a cause, for which we stand. But in such cases we become indig-
nant, not angry, although (like in the case of fear) we might experience an
initial wave of physiological symptoms that indignation shares with anger.
23
E.g., Hartz 1999, 5607.
8 Introduction
While modern theories do not fully articulate this distinction between
emotions oriented toward others and toward self, they anticipate it. Thus,
scholars who underline the similar cognitive premises for both data-based
and aesthetic emotions often discuss emotions related to others (pity, com-
passion, indignation). Conversely, those theorists who argue that aesthetic
emotions have to be different from real-life emotions often discuss a self-
concerned emotion, fear. Pity and fear, the emotions that Aristotle grouped
together as quintessential responses to tragedy, might in fact belong to very
different categories of aesthetic emotions. The formation of pity does not
differ much, whether the emotion is felt for real or imaginary misfortunes,
whereas real and aesthetic fear seem not to resemble each other so closely
in their formation.
My analysis focuses on the nature of emotions as response to art (i.e.
aesthetic emotions), particularly to tragedy in ancient Greek culture. This
subject is limited by time and culture, as it pertains to the philosophical
descriptions (Gorgias, Plato, Aristotle) of pity and fear as reactions to
tragic poetry (by extension sometimes to epic and visual arts), in fifth-
and fourth-century Athens and, secondarily, the expressions of the tragic
emotions within tragedies. Nevertheless, it can appeal broadly to scholars
from various fields. Many of the problems raised by the ancient texts
remain of interest for modern philosophy, psychology, literary criticism,
and cultural history. Take, for instance, the psychological effects of the
aesthetic emotions. How does the response to the suffering of another
affect the viewers own self? How does it relate to pleasure and knowledge?
Consider the question of the audiences expectations for emotional arousal.
Why have literary texts been judged according to their ability to elicit
certain emotions? My use of modern theories of aesthetics is intended
to shed a new light on certain aspects of the ancient accounts that have
remained somewhat obscure to classicists. At times, I shall use both ancient
ideas and modern theories to present certain problems that await solutions,
such as understanding the varieties of tragic fear.

some specifications: aesthetic emotions political and


ethical implications
My approach will not avoid discussing possible inter-relations among
drama, politics, and ethics. On the contrary, when authors, such as Plato,
underscore the moral and social implications of the emotions felt for
tragedy, I shall analyze those with due diligence. Similarly, if, for example,
characters discuss the political significance of pity within tragedies, I shall
Introduction 9
consider the implications of such comments for the audiences. On the
other hand, we must not assume that moral and political facets of the
tragic emotions were important at all times, in all ancient testimonies. Too
often, modern interpretations of the ancient texts have subordinated the
emotional responses to tragedy to social realities or politics. And this sub-
ordination sometimes only serves to obscure the subject. Take, for instance,
a recent example of a contemporary analysis of the Poetics that explains the
aesthetic response as a mere reflection of political attitudes:
As Aristotle famously observes in the Poetics, the finest tragedies which is to
say, the tragedies that most dramatically exorcise emotions of pity and fear
are always on the story of some few houses, such as Oedipus, because the
misfortune of someone better than us matters most (1453a1454a15). Likewise,
we might consider why the tragedy of Princess Dianas death could provoke
mourning across the world, while the death of an indigent provokes apathy or,
more accurately, nothing at all.24
Now does Aristotle mean that, in general, we care about the socially
powerful while we do not care about the weak? Does this mean that the
emotions elicited by tragedy in Aristotles opinion are a reflection of the
political hierarchy? Is it true that, overall, in society, our sympathy can be
elicited only by celebrities? Generally, this does not ring true. Who has not
wept over Dickens orphan characters who were certainly helpless and
unimportant socially? Or who does not care about the hungry children
of the contemporary world, though feeling sorry for them might not
lead to our helping them? If so, is the socio-political position of Oedipus
the important factor that triggers our pity? Yes and no. It is, but only
incidentally, I think, not intrinsically. The political reading is a kind of
anachronism, an example of modern politicizing of an Aristotelian point.
To any careful reader of the Poetics, Aristotles observation appears to be
the result of complex psychological and philosophical presumptions rather
than a reflection of social rankings. It revolves around the concept of the
reversal of fortune and how we contemplate it.25 Someone powerful and
successful, such as an Oedipus, who rules over Thebes after he has solved
the impossible riddle of the Sphinx, may seem to us infallible. Therefore,
as Aristotles constant emphasis on surprising (yet logical) recognitions and

24
Gross 2006, 4; on the problem of the nobility of tragic characters and of tragedy as genre, see
Eagleton 2003, 123.
25
Overall, Aristotles emphasis is on plot as action, not on characters. As Belfiore 2000b warns,
our modern translation plot of the Aristotelian term mythos is imperfect, and so is our modern
understanding of it, influenced by narratology, which emphasizes character over action and has no
equivalent for some Aristotelian concepts (e.g., plot as function of tragedy).
10 Introduction
reversals implies, when such a hero falls from the heights we may be in a
state of disbelief that leads to shock and, finally, to the Aristotelian ideal
type of tragic pity and fear. If even such a person can suffer, we might
just imagine how frightening the future looks for the rest of us. Similarly,
the story of Diana could have served for a good Aristotelian plot.26 The
young and beautiful princess Diana, who had been married to one of the
most privileged men in the world, appeared to have everything, and should
have lived happily ever after (like Oedipus should have). And yet, she did
not: she endured a bitter divorce and died suddenly. And that leads us to
surprise, shock, and finally pity for her. As observers of the literary or real
world, we entertain the illusion that those who possess political power, and
moral and physical abilities live safely and happily. Therefore, the fall of
such persons displays an impressive reversal of fortune to us, so essential
for the Aristotelian plot. Thus, it is not that a servant could not elicit a
form of our sympathy in tragedy (and we will see an instance in which a
Phrygian slave tries to do so in Euripides Orestes) or that a poor child in
Ethiopia does not elicit a form of our pity, but this may be a different kind
of emotion than what Aristotle wants from tragedy. Certainly a servant or
a poor child does not seem immune to suffering. On the other hand, one
should feel pity and shock for Andromache, who has become a slave after
being a prosperous princess in Troy. As a tragic character, Andromache
in fact, emphasizes this horrific reversal in Euripides play. Yet, one could
not, by Aristotelian standards, feel the same kind of tragic pity for a
woman who has always suffered as a slave. On the contrary, we expect that
certain people suffer, so that, when we see them suffering, we do not feel
shocked, and, therefore, our pity for them does not fit Aristotelian criteria.
Likewise, we expect certain people who are enemies to make each other
suffer, but those instances of suffering do not provide material for good
tragic plots; best tragic plots should portray shocking conflicts among the
kin (Po. 14.1453b). Thus, it is not the political element per se that motivates
our emotional reactions to the Oedipus, but that element remains ancillary
to the philosophical in explaining the peculiarities of our aesthetic emotion.
Furthermore, at times, classical scholars have interpreted the aesthetic
and the political as opposed concepts in the literary criticism of classical
tragedy. The debate on whether ancient audiences expected foremost to

26
Perhaps objections can be raised to seeing Diana as a character of Greek tragedy; here I am simply
developing the suggestion of Gross, to show that it is not the status in itself but rather the reversal
that makes ones misfortune memorable. Wallace 2007, 18, has sketched a theoretical comparison
between tragedy as literary genre and real events that appear tragic to us; for seeing the tragic
as a mode of accepting heroically our mortality and suffering, see Morris 1991, 25566.
Introduction 11
derive pleasure and emotion from tragedy (Heath) or whether they primar-
ily invested tragedies with social and political significance (Goldhill) does
not concern my study.27 Rather, I shall explore, when the issue appears to
be relevant, how pity and fear as responses to specific tragedies or expressed
within drama may have presented ethical and political challenges for con-
temporary audiences. This topic will become important, for example, when
we consider Platos account of tragic pity and when we wonder whether
a tragedy, such as the Persians, could have aroused pity for the historical
enemy.

emotion and the language-game:


cultural unity and variety
Das Mitleid, kann man sagen, ist eine Form der Uberzeugung, da ein Andrer
Schmerzen hat.
Pity, one might say, is a form of conviction that someone else is in pain. (Wittgen-
stein, Philosophical Investigations 287, transl. G. E. M. Anscombe, Oxford, 1968,
98)
Any definition of the term emotion is complicated by the problem of
cultural and personal subjectivity. Emotion has been recently defined as a
response to certain environmental stimuli. Yet, is this response absolutely
uniform? Or does it differ from individual to individual as well as cultur-
ally, even though we use the same name by convention? Let us consider
Wittgensteins famous paradox of the beetle in the box and then his
further observation about pity.
If I say of myself that it is only from my own case that I know what the word pain
means must I not say the same of other people too? And how can I generalize
the one case so irresponsibly?
Now someone tells me that he knows what pain is only from his own case! Suppose
everyone had a box with something in it: we call it a beetle. No one can look into
anyone elses box and everyone says he knows what a beetle is only by looking at his
beetle. Here it would be quite possible for everyone to have something different in
his box. One might even imagine such a thing constantly changing. But suppose
the word beetle had a use in these peoples language? If so it would not be used
27
Heath (1987) argues in the first chapter that ancient audiences expected foremost to derive pleasure
on account of feeling emotions when watching tragedies. Goldhill (1990) has emphasized the social
aspects of Greek tragedy and argued that Greek culture was a performance culture; Griffin (1998)
has supported the opposite view: the social aspect of tragedy was not essential for the ancient
audience. For a direct response to Griffin, see Seaford (2000). Heath (2006) has reviewed the terms
of this dispute.
12 Introduction
as the name of a thing. The thing in the box has no place in the language-game
at all; not even as a something: for the box might even be empty. (Wittgenstein,
Philosophical Investigations, 293, transl. G. E. M. Anscombe (Oxford, 1968) 100.)
If we were to replace beetle with pain and box with mind, then
we can think of Wittgenstein parable as a paradigm for the subjectivity of
the sensation of pain.28 What I interpret as feeling pain may not be identical
with what someone else designates as pain, even if we both use the same
word. Emotions that are based on responses to pain become therefore
even more difficult to define and are highly subjective. Pity relies on our
assumption that another person is suffering (Philosophical Investigations,
287). But the assumption may be wrong, or we may imagine that someone
suffers more or less than he does. Let us complicate things even further.
What if the emotion concerns the pain of a fictional character? What
happens when we read Homers description of Achilles pity for Priam? We
imagine Priams suffering and how Achilles might think and feel about the
old kings misfortune. Is our pity for Priam the same as the feeling that
a listener to a Homeric bard might have had? Or is it identical with the
emotion described in Platos Republic? Could we even speak about our
own emotion as being always the same? Suppose that a person reads the
Homeric poem at different times in life. Would the emotional reaction to
the scene remain the same when the reader is ten and then fifty years old?
Acknowledging the relativity of emotional experiences remains essential
for my approach to understanding the tragic emotions. On the one hand,
we cannot regard emotional experiences as completely subjective; on the
other, we must account for the differences between one response and
another. If everyone thinks that there is something in the box and calls
that a beetle, there must be a common expectation about the nature of this
culturally constructed beetle (whether existent or imaginary). Simply put,
regardless of the existence or non-existence of the beetle, of the various
sizes and shapes of whatever people carry in boxes, there has to be some
common denominator. In Wittgensteins example, everyone who carries
a box believes (rightly or not) that it has a beetle inside, which forms a
cultural expectation. The implication is that by calling the response to
certain stimuli pain and furthermore, to someone elses pain, pity,
people develop a common understanding of what they define as such. And
yet, they might have somewhat different actual experiences and perhaps

28
I am not claiming here to find the correct meaning of Wittgensteins paradox, which has been
notoriously difficult to interpret, but I am rather using this famous example to build my own
argument.
Introduction 13
even describe them differently. Thus, for example, both Plato and Aristotle
talk about pity as the reaction of the audiences of tragedy and, probably,
most of the fifth- and fourth-century audiences expected to feel pity when
seeing a tragedy. But what were the common cultural expectations about
this emotion as response to tragedy? In what respect was everybodys box
alike, the box supposed to contain pity? Did Plato and Aristotle mean
exactly the same thing when they described pity as a response to tragedy
or something somewhat different, although they used the same name?
How different are the beetles in the box? Did ancient audiences feel
the same kind of pity when watching Aeschylus Persians and also when
watching Sophocles Ajax? The intention of this study is, on the one
hand, to understand the common cultural expectations about the tragic
emotions in classical Athens and, on the other, to recover some of the
various emotional experiences that may have been hidden under common
assumptions.
Various cultural meanings inhere to the universal definition of any
given emotion. Konstan (2001; 2006) has recently underlined cultural
differences between ancient and modern understandings of the emotions.29
My study pertains to a more narrowly focused subject and time frame;
specifically, it examines the variations within classical Greek culture of two
particular emotions as responses to tragedy and, by extension, to other
arts. Variations in the psychology of the aesthetic emotional responses
comprise my chief interest. How do the ancient authors describe the causes
of pity and fear as responses to tragedy? How do these emotions manifest
and affect the spectators? What are their ethical and political consequences,
according to different writers? Secondly, the internal emotional reactions
of characters in tragedies have commonly been interpreted as a reflection of
emotions expressed in society. While the validity of this approach cannot
be denied, the emphasis of the present book is different; it is on pity and
fear as emotional reactions within tragedies and on assessing how these
internal reactions could have functioned as models of response to suffering
for Athenian audiences. What produces the tragic emotions on the stage?
Are those responses to suffering universally shared? Do the pity and fear
of the internal spectators of the tragic events fit the theoretical descriptions
of the two emotions, as found in Gorgias, Plato, and Aristotle? Characters
who express the tragic emotions internally will serve our analysis in two
respects. A first area of interest concerns the degree to which these internal
29
In his review of Konstans Pity Transformed (2001), Cairns 2004 provides interesting additional
reflections on the relationship between the universal features of pity and the particular cultural
manifestations of this emotion.
14 Introduction
spectators may reflect the psychology of the ancient viewer (for example,
the extent to which psychological conditions of fear in response to seeing
suffering within tragedies correspond to theoretical descriptions, and can
thus be considered typical). A second objective is to consider how the
internal spectators may have influenced and challenged the audience
by providing not only a first line of emotional responses to suffering but
also complex and, quite frequently, conflicting discourses explaining their
emotional reactions.

a brief review of scholarship: problems


O Fear, I know thee by my throbbing heart,
Thy withering power inspired each mournful line,
Though gentle Pity claim her mingled part,
Yet all the thunders of the scene are thine!
(William Collins, Ode to Fear)

Pity
Seminal studies have been recently dedicated to the specific cultural aspects
of pity in ancient Greece. Employing different kinds of textual evidence,
such as oratorical pieces, history, inscriptions, and drama, Konstan exam-
ines diachronically the meaning of pity and compassion from archaic
Greece to late antiquity, and outlines certain differences between the
ancient and modern manifestations of the emotion.30 Nussbaum, draw-
ing on various sources, has discussed cultural similarities and differences
in conceptualizing compassion in ancient and modern times, from Greek
tragedy to philosophy and contemporary media.31 Sternberg has used the
evidence of historians and orators and purposely not tragedians to
analyze displays of real-life pity (as opposed to scenes from tragedies), such
as the ransom of captives, the transport of the ill and wounded, etc.32
The significance of the theme of pity in Greek epic and particularly in
the Iliad has yielded fascinating interpretations in recent years. Crotty has
emphasized the role of the arousal of pity in the scenes of supplication
in the Homeric poems.33 Of special value are Crottys points about the

30
Konstan 2001.
31
The chapter entitled Compassion in Nussbaums book (2001, 40154) synthesizes and crystallizes
the authors views on the subject. Additionally, Nussbaum 2007 explores how certain modern events
can stir pity and terror, in a manner similar to the dramatic events of Greek tragedies.
32 33
Sternberg 2006. Crotty 1994, 323; 4269.
Introduction 15
importance of memory in the stirring of pity and the function of pity
and shame in the heroic code. Kim has argued for the unity of the Iliad
on account of the prevalence of pity as an emotion that is expressed in a
formulaic manner throughout the poem.34 An essential feature of pity as
expressed by Homeric characters is that it results in immediate action. As
Kim notes, to pity, in other words signifies to avenge, to heal, to give
burial; to be pitiless, conversely, is to effect the opposite.35 In the same
vein, Most has argued that pity appears to be a fundamental emotion for
the Homeric warrior, and, more specifically, that pity for a fallen comrade
often prompts a violent and vengeful action against the enemy.36 Hammer
evaluates Achilles pity as a measure of self-reflection that enables the hero to
construct an image of the self in relationship with others.37 Therefore, these
studies have concentrated primarily on ways in which the emotion reflects
the moral values of the Homeric world and on the formulaic expressions
of the emotion in the poems.
Similarly, numerous studies have concentrated on how pity, as expressed
by characters in individual tragedies, reflects cultural values and civic ideals
in fifth-century Athens. Sternbergs collection of essays, for example, con-
tains several important contributions in evaluating how tragic pity relates
to Athenian oratory, politics, and ethical ideals.38 Moreover, scholars have
conducted numerous illuminating analyses of the moral implications of
pity in individual tragedies. To mention only a few, Konstan and Nuss-
baum offer important appraisals of the expressions of pity in Sophocles
Philoctetes.39 Pucci has explored the different connotations that pity receives
in various Euripidean plays.40
My interest in the topic is of a different nature, namely to compare
the theoretical accounts of tragic pity and the internal expressions of the
emotion in tragedies and thus to establish the common cultural features
of the emotion as well as its variables. In the study of plays, the main
emphasis will be on pity as the response of internal spectators, on the
psychological formation of the emotion as well as the consequences of
viewing the suffering of another for the self. Pity often represents only
one of the many possible reactions to the dramatic events and the internal
characters often present alternative emotional responses to the dramatic
events in heated rhetorical debates.

34 35 36 37
Kim 2000. Kim 2000, 67. Most 2003. Hammer 2002.
38
Sternberg 2005 essential for the topic of tragic pity as reflection of civic ideals in this valuable
collection are the studies provided by the following scholars: Falkner (2005), Konstan (2005b),
Johnson and Clapp (2005), and Tzanetou (2005).
39 40
Konstan 1999a, Nussbaum 2008. Pucci 1980, especially 16974.
16 Introduction

fear. the ontological problem of dramatic fear


A first fundamental problem lies in the very nature of aesthetic fear.
More than any other emotion, fear as a response to literary and visual arts
seems to differ strikingly from fear as a response to real danger. As scholars
have recently argued, in many cases our emotional responses to fiction
resemble our responses to real events in both formation and intensity.41
This theory, as I have already suggested, works very well in the case of pity,
which relies on similar propositional settings (whether the cause is real or
imaginary), such as someone innocent has suffered injustice, whether
found in a true report in a newspaper or in an imagined true report
in a work of fiction. One major difference between the ordinary and the
aesthetic emotion is determined by our ability or inability to take action
as a result of our emotion. The reader of a newspaper who reacts to a real
event may be able to act on his emotion (by offering help, for instance,
after a natural disaster), whereas the reader of fiction does not (alas, we
cannot help our favorite characters!). Yet, fear is a very peculiar, selfish
emotion. It does not involve a response to the suffering of another, as do
pity and indignation, but it is caused by the probability of a threat to the
self, and it usually presupposes a strong desire to act (i.e. flee danger). It
may not be by chance that scholars who suggest that the emotions elicited
by art, quasi-emotions, differ from the regular emotion often choose to
study fear in order to make this point.42 Fear comes from the belief that
we are threatened, a belief that we cannot hold while imagining fictional
perils.43 So how are we to understand fear inspired by fiction?
In fact, emotional responses to real (or perceived as real) dangers involve
a number of nuances. Roberts, for example, presents the varieties of fear as
follows.44 A basic distinction can first be drawn between fear and anxiety.45
Fear per se appears to be a reaction to a defined, probable danger, whereas
anxiety occurs when someone construes a situation as only vaguely threat-
ening. More intense manifestations of fear are fright, in which the danger
is more definite than in fear, and dread, in which the danger is seen not

41
Most prominently, Robinson 2005, 1100.
42
E.g., Walton 1978 and 1990. But fear ought to receive a special treatment. Even when scholars treat
fear together with the other emotions elicited by art, they need to discuss some features of this
emotion separately. An excellent review of the interpretative trends in modern aesthetics and some
original solutions to these problems can be found in Hartz 1999.
43
Knuuttila 2004, 357, has pointed out certain contradictions in the Aristotelian treatment of fear,
which sometimes seems to be aroused by imagination, sometimes only by belief.
44 45
Roberts 2003, 193202. On the history of this distinction, see Wierzbicka 1999, 1389.
Introduction 17
as present but as inevitably approaching.46 Further extreme expressions
of either fear or fright are terror and panic, both defined rather by the
irrational behavioral manifestations than by the specific type of danger.
Terror represents a paralyzing kind of fear or fright, while panic manifests
itself through uncontrollable bodily activities, such as shaking or running
purposelessly. Horror represents a reaction to an aversive object, which is
not necessarily construed, however, as a possible (as in the case of fear) or
imminent (as in the case of dread) threat. The concern of the person experi-
encing horror usually relates to something abnormal, grotesque, disfigured,
or disfiguring. We may perceive certain things as horrifying, without being
afraid of them (e.g., a basket of aborted human fetuses appears horrifying to
most people, regardless of their opinions about abortion, without inspiring
fear).47 Now, do these fear-related emotional reactions to real situations
explain our responses to fiction? Indeed, these conceptual categories do
seem helpful for understanding our responses to frightening literary or
visual fictions. An easily transferable response from reality to fiction appears
to be horror. It is likely that we react with horror when we conceive of a
situation in which a man blinds himself (may it be real or dramatic, i.e.
Oedipus); the Green Slime as well as the sight of the Furies can provoke a
similar aversion. While fear itself does not appear a plausible response to
art, since we cannot directly fear the peculiar fictional misfortunes, other
varieties of the emotion can apply to fiction. Aesthetic dread, with its
extremes (panic and terror) can occur, not because we fear the particular
fate of an Ajax, for example, but through a kind of contemplative con-
jecture: we observe his death, which reminds us of our imminent death,
which we dread. Finally, fear for others as a form of anxiety may concern
both real and fictional persons.
In addition to an analysis of aesthetic pity, the first section of this book
explores how ancient authors have described varieties of fear as responses
to art, in particular to tragic poetry. Some difficulties of the subject have
been noticed by classicists, most notably by Halliwell and Konstan, espe-
cially as they emerge from the Aristotelian poetic theory, in which fear
(phobos) is constantly paired with pity (eleos) but never fully explained.48
In his recent re-examination of the question of whether Aristotle thinks

46
Roberts 2003, 199200, gives paradigmatic examples for fright (someone seeing a bear approaching
and construing a situation in which he will be mauled by the bear) and dread (someone dreading
the progress of his illness or an exam; oftentimes the outcome is inevitable in dread).
47
Roberts 2003, 202.
48
Halliwell 1998, 168201, with bibliography. For fear as a kind of appendix to pity in Aristotle, see
also Halliwell 2002, 21730; Konstan 1999b and 2005a.
18 Introduction
that the spectators feel fear for the tragic characters or feel fear only for
themselves, Konstan (2005) opts for the latter. This view departs from his
former opinion (1999b) as well as Halliwells position, which regards fear
as a type of anxiety, an emotion concerning others, primarily tragic agents,
in the Poetics.49 Such scholarly disagreements reflect the scarcity of explana-
tions in the Aristotelian treatise, which states that tragedy has to arouse pity
and fear but does not explain the nature of this fear. Thus, even as Konstan
(2005) concludes that Aristotle probably means that the spectators pity
the tragic characters, while they fear for themselves, he does so not with-
out emphasizing the inherent complications. People pity precisely those
things that occur to others, as they fear may happen to themselves (Rh.
2.1386a279). On the other hand, surely, the spectators cannot fear exactly
the kind of things for which they pity the tragic characters. Furthermore,
the spectators could never be so involved as to be terrified for themselves
or for their own, for that would be too terrible (deinon) and would drive
away pity (Rh. 2.1386a224). Indeed, I shall take into consideration some
of these perennial problems of the Poetics, but I shall attempt to draw
attention to other, less examined observations regarding tragic fear, such
as Platos descriptions of poetically induced fear, as well as some other
Aristotelian descriptions that seem to deal with unusual types of aesthetic
fear, particularly in the De Anima and the Rhetoric.

moral problems of ordinary fear: their consequences


for aesthetic fear
While scholars have shown tremendous interest in pity as a redemptive
and civilizing passion,50 they have not been equally interested in fear,
which generally remains an unpopular emotion. Its social and moral side
effects lack luster. As early as the Enlightenment, admirers of the Poetics
have praised pity and devalued fear. Most writes: No doubt, for the age of
bienseance, terror was about as welcome as a tarantula on a wedding cake.51
The difficulties that critics faced when dealing with fear continued after the
eighteenth century. Scholars have argued that tragedies provided audiences
with a kind of training in pity, an emotion that granted fifth-century
Athenians a model for social reconciliation and moral selflessness. Yet, the
advantages of feeling fear seemed to be harder to detect. In fact, the roots
49
See Halliwell 2002, 217, for a summary of his position, which is based on a particular passage from
the Poetics (for peri Po. 13.1453a56).
50
For a concise presentation of this point of view, see, for example, J. D. Schwartz 1993.
51
Most 2000, 29.
Introduction 19
of disapproval can already be found in ancient Greece. Fear as a reaction to
danger was seen as the premise for cowardice in archaic and classical Greece
and, therefore, was regarded as an undesirable emotion. Indeed, Wissmann
has shown in her study a close association between fear and cowardice in
Greek elegy, epic, and tragedy.52 This view continues to predominate in
Western cultures, in which fear is almost never viewed positively.53 Only
rarely does the idea that being afraid might result in an advantageous social
outcome surface in classical texts.54 For example, according to Aristotle,
a certain amount of fear is legitimate in certain circumstances,55 and fear
makes people prone to deliberation and to finding solutions for averting
danger.56 Deliberation caused by fear seems better than the feeling of
hopelessness, which leaves people unable to fear and therefore indifferent
to misfortune (Rh. 2.1383a58). Despite such occasional statements, as
Sokolon observes, even in the usually nuanced Aristotelian treatment of
the emotions, fear remains primarily a self-focused emotion that, unlike
others, often occurs in non-political circumstances, such as disease or
storms at sea.57
How did fear inspired by theatrical performances benefit the Athenians?
The question allows for no simple answers. As we shall see, Plato associates
fear with a response to real danger, and therefore cowardice with a type
of fear aroused by poetry. Aristotle never fully explains the particularities
of fear(s) as response to tragedy. Even the positive feature of the emotion
mentioned in his Rhetoric does not seem to fit the tragic emotion. So if the
orator, by inducing fear, can mobilize his audience to deliberate about the
best ways to escape danger, why would a dramatist want to terrify his audi-
ences? Consequently, overall treatments of the dramatic representations

52
Wissmann 1997 analyzes especially speeches of abuse that ridicule ones cowardice and speeches of
exhortation that attempt to expel it.
53
By contrast, non-Western societies appreciate and welcome some types of fear. Thus, for example,
Lutz 1988 discusses the metagu, a type of fear. One of the striking features of this emotion consists of
its positive social interpretation. Instead of being ashamed of their metagu, people may brag about
it, since it represents a token of non-aggressiveness: someone afraid is meek.
54
On some positive connotations of political fear, see Kapust 2008. Generally, Kristjansson 2007,
4966, proposes that the modern idea of negative emotions (e.g., envy, anger) ought not to
be applied to Aristotle, who finds most emotions to be justifiable in certain instances; however,
Kristjiansson does not discuss fear in particular.
55
Cf. Pearson 2009, 12937; I am grateful to one of the Cambridge readers for this important reference.
56
This point is well emphasized by Barker 2009, 4161, who argues that in Aristotles Poetics pity
and fear are desired responses to tragedy because they can teach the Athenians how to avoid being
excessively bold.
57
Sokolon 2006, 8896, reviews the Aristotelian analyses of fear (Rhetoric and Nicomachean Ethics) in
light of the new theories of emotion; see especially 956 for a discussion of fear as the least political
emotion.
20 Introduction
of fear in Greek tragedy and their implications for the Athenian audi-
ence unlike the dramatic displays of pity have rarely received scholarly
consideration. In addition to Wissmanns study, Rehm devoted an inter-
esting chapter, Tragedy and Fear, to the types of calamities that arouse
fear within Greek tragedies.58 He concludes that the tragic misfortunes
often represent collective calamities: wars, exile, captivity, and loss. Would
then such fear-inspiring mythical events have served as a kind of grim
reminder of real social calamities? Would then Athenian audiences have
contemplated such dramatic disasters to blunt their own anxieties by what
modern psychological theory calls exposure therapy? My study will assess
how internal expressions of fear in tragedies may have been interpreted by
contemporary audiences.

the two as pair


Famously, in the definition of tragedy and elsewhere, Aristotles Poetics
associates pity and fear.59 Nevertheless, one must question the nature of this
association and devote appropriate (if not always equal) attention to each
emotion separately. Why does Aristotle select these particular emotions?
Could other emotions as responses to drama have been important, yet
not documented in writing? How were the two emotions seen before
the Poetics? Plato, for example, does not directly link the two and speaks
mostly of tragic pity. Is he, at all, interested in fear as a reaction to tragedy?
I shall argue that he is, indeed. What happens after Aristotle? This study
will concentrate on both theoretical descriptions of tragic pity and fear
(Gorgias, Plato, Aristotle) and the kind of emotions that the dramatic
events arouse within the tragedies; it will appraise how those emotions may
or may not relate to theoretical descriptions; and whether certain varieties of
pity and fear should be regarded as predominant in the works of individual
dramatists.
Nachleben. From the eighteenth century on, new philosophical cur-
rents, such as Neoclassicism and German Idealism, have brought a new
wave of fascination with Greek tragedy and Aristotles Poetics.60 Goethe,
Schiller, Rousseau, Hegel, Nietzsche, Kierkegaard, Heidegger, and many

58
Rehm 2003, 4064.
59
The scholarship on this subject will be examined in detail in the chapter dedicated to Aristotle.
60
Kaufmann 1968 provides the standard analysis of the influence of Greek tragedy on Continental
philosophy. While I have not exhausted the bibliography on the topic, I recommend: Beistegui
and Sparks (2000), dealing with the influence of Greek tragedy on German thinkers (particularly
Goethe, Lessing, and Schlegel) and Lambropoulos (2006).
Introduction 21
others dedicated theoretical discussions to tragedy or to the idea of the
tragic, and sometimes developed their own original interpretations of the
function of pity and fear in art and society.61 Although it is not my purpose
to investigate these later interpretations, I may occasionally refer to them,
and acknowledge how contemporary aesthetics deals with certain prob-
lems that were anticipated in classical Greece. For example, the mysterious
Aristotelian formula of the proper pleasure of tragedy, oikeia hedone,
pleasure that derives from the painful emotions of pity and fear, continues
to preoccupy modern philosophers and psychologists.62 Why do we like
horror movies? Why do we want to be scared by fiction? Aristotle states
that there is such a pleasure coming from sorrowful emotions as a mat-
ter of of course, leaving thinkers throughout centuries with the task of
explaining the causes for this paradoxically sad joy.

notes on terminology: aesthetic or mimetic ? the terms


for pity and fear(s)
The term aesthetic has its own history.63 It was first used in modern
philosophy by Alexander Baumgarten in the eighteenth century, in a sense
that initially did not depart much from its original Greek meaning: it
referred to sensory perception, and then to the perception of beauty in
art by the senses. From here, Kant coined the new usage of the term in
his analysis of beauty in art and nature. As Goldman notes,64 now the
word describes a broad field of study that includes judgments, evaluations,
qualities, and experiences of beauty and pleasing art works; furthermore,
it refers to the experience and evaluation of art works (regardless of the
category of beauty).65 It is in this latter sense that I use the term aesthetic
as an attribute of emotion: an emotion produced by art, more specifically,
experienced as a response to tragedy or described within tragedies.

61
Most 2000 and Eagleton 2003, 15377, offer summaries of these later philosophical developments of
the two emotions and provide excellent discussions of how later thinkers reinterpret or sometimes
misinterpret the classical views.
62
Nuttall 1996 reviews some answers to this thorny question from antiquity to modern times.
Generally, Heller 1987 proposes that the pleasures produced by terrifying stories derive from the
readers complex involvement in the fictional horrors while he maintains aesthetic detachment.
63
Goldman 2001 provides a review of the term aesthetic and the development of the field of
aesthetics as a whole.
64
Goldman 2001, 181.
65
Classicists have already applied the term aesthetic to the ancient theories of art. See, for example,
Lombardo 2002, 1113, for the disambiguation of the term; Buttner 2006 considers the question of
how the ancients have anticipated the modern ideas about beauty.
22 Introduction
Does the idea of aesthetic emotion belong to classical Greece or is this
concept entirely anachronistic? In other words, did the Greeks conceptu-
alize the aesthetic emotion? The short answer: yes, to a degree, although
the term aesthetic needs clarification and does not exactly match the
ancient categories. In an essay dedicated to Aristotles views about aes-
thetic pleasure, Heath introduces the problem of whether the philosopher
had an understanding of aesthetic in the modern sense of the word.66
Naturally, Aristotle uses aisthetikos,a word related to perception, in con-
nection with pleasure several times (for example, EE 2.1220b13), as Heath
observes; but, does he have a concept of pleasure caused by art, or of art at
all? Indeed, under the concept of mimesis, imitation or representation, Aris-
totle constantly groups several things that we would qualify as art: poetry,
painting, dance, and music. However, mimetic art depends upon a certain
likeness to reality, which is a more restrictive concept than that which we
commonly understand as art. Moreover, as Halliwell has shown, mime-
sis includes other types of activities, such as childrens imitative learning,
which we do not commonly consider as art.67 Although Heath discusses
the concept of pleasure, the same reasoning can apply to the emotions.
Thus, perhaps, the term mimetic instead of aesthetic captures the Aris-
totelian and Platonic understanding of the emotions caused by tragedy. I
shall try to acknowledge the ancient and modern differences on this matter
when it is appropriate.68 Aesthetic, nevertheless, will be commonly used
throughout this book, because it covers a broader spectrum of meanings
than mimetic, and it can refer to the emotion produced by art as well as
represented within it.
For the sake of convention and the Aristotelian tradition, I shall most
often employ the duet pity and fear. Nevertheless, it would be remiss
not to specify in each case the appropriate meaning and the varieties of
each emotion. Difficulties related to the terminology do not concern the
two emotions together but individually. Various terms, such as eleos, oiktos,
and their cognates, that signify pity (whether a response to social events
or to tragedy) in archaic and in classical Greece appear to have been used
without denoting fundamental differences in the nature of the emotion.69
By contrast, the diverse vocabulary related to fear in ancient Greek often

66 67
Heath 2009a. Halliwell 2002 offers the most exhaustive treatment of the subject of mimesis.
68
On the dangers of applying the term aesthetic in the modern sense to ancient literary criticism,
see Ford 2002a.
69
For this argument, see the extensive discussion of Sternberg 2005, 1547, particularly 1525. Inde-
pendently, in an analysis focused on Sophocles Philoctetes, Nussbaum 2001, 305, n. 14, has reached
the same conclusion regarding the interchangeable use of eleos and oiktos.
Introduction 23
contains suggestions of bodily and psychological reactions that could be
of importance for the study of the aesthetic emotion. In addition to the
generic fear (phobos), adopted by Aristotle in the Poetics, some other
terms may express specific kinds of fear that have particular meaning and
importance for the varieties of the emotions aroused by poetry and art.
In a study of the semantic roots of emotions in Indo-European, Kurath
has noted that several physical reactions lead to a cluster of words that
signify varieties of fear and related emotions.70 Indo-European roots for
tremble come to denote fear; likewise, words that originally denote stand
still, be still lead to expressions for amazement, embarrassment, horror,
hate, fear. Words for bristling of the hair could mean either fear or
rejoicing, a surprising association, perhaps caused by the adrenaline rush
that characterizes both intense fear and intense joy.71 As Mallory and Adams
have shown, we can specify with certainty the origin of several Greek words
that denote varieties of fear.72 Perhaps the most impressive reconstruction
pertains to the Greek verb dedw,to fear (to do), which likely derives
from a numeral (IE *dwi) and signals to be in doubt, perhaps related to
the process of decision-making on the battlefield (fight or flight).73 Other
words for fear denote physical manifestations: Greek trw, from IE * tres,
to tremble, or refer to specific dangers (i.e. perhaps of hunting); Gr.
tarbw, to be alarmed, from IE *terg(w), scare or threat (that lurks
behind). All these nuances may be significant for my inquiry, as they may
designate specific varieties of the emotion, and will receive due attention
whenever it is possible to recover these distinctions.
Lack of terminology can likewise present difficulty, particularly in Aristo-
tle. In fact, descriptions of fear-related emotional reactions may not receive
sufficient scholarly attention because of the absence of a specific word.
An interesting passage from Aristotles de Anima, which I have discussed
elsewhere,74 seems to distinguish between fear inspired by real dangers and
fear inspired by a painting, which is lower in intensity, although Aristotle
does not use different words for the different nuances of the emotion.

Methodology and structure


The material used for discussion in this book will be divided into two parts:
(i) theoretical views about pity and fear; and (ii) internal descriptions of
70 71
Kurath 1921. Kurath 1921, 336.
72
Mallory and Adams 2006, 32151, particularly on fear 33840.
73
Mallory and Adams 2006, 339; cf. *IE dwei, Av. dvaes, be hostile, provoke, Skt. dvesti, hates, is
hostile, Toch. A. wi, be frightened.
74
2009, 1235.
24 Introduction
emotions, as expressed in tragedies. The theoretical type of evidence is
evaluated and discussed for its intrinsic value as well as for its cultural
significance. Gorgias, Plato, and Aristotle have unique perspectives on
the aesthetic emotions produced by tragedy, even though they start from
common cultural premises. My examination intends both to reconstruct
a general set of emotional expectations for the fifth-century audiences of
tragedy and to explore the various ethical, political, and philosophical
implications of the emotions. Secondly, the emotional responses of inter-
nal audiences to suffering in various plays will be examined as a practical
type of evidence. This section intends to test some theoretical assump-
tions analyzed previously as well as to present opportunities for assessing
the responses of the historical audiences. Ancient philosophers and liter-
ary critics alike seem convinced that tragedies trigger specific emotions in
audiences, particularly pity. Yet, how does this theoretical claim fare when
assessed against tragic practice? More specifically, through what dramatic
devices do individual plays stir specific emotions? To study this, I consider
first the expressions and descriptions of pity and fear, as displayed by char-
acters within tragedies, by the internal audiences. Afterwards, I consider
how these internal emotional indicators might have affected the external
spectators. Furthermore, this examination takes into account not only cor-
respondences between the emotional responses of the internal and external
audiences but also other ambiguous responses of the internal spectators.
As tragedies often present some kind of conflict, characters on one side of
the debate may argue against pity as an appropriate reaction to the dra-
matic events, whereas the opponents may embrace the emotion. This type
of emotional split can divide the internal audiences and perhaps also the
external ones.
The following represents a brief preview of the content of the book and
a prelude to some of its interesting findings.

A synopsis
i. Theoretical views: Gorgias, Plato, Aristotle, scholiasts, comic writers.
The discussion concentrates on the cultural understanding of the tragic
emotions and, more specifically, on the links between pity and fear as aes-
thetic emotions to pleasure, learning, and morality. A comparison with the
Indian tradition suggests that pity and fear appear to have been selected by
Greek theorists as the essential emotions elicited by epic and tragic poetry
out of a larger number of emotions connected with ritual and drama in
Indo-European communities.
Introduction 25
According to Gorgias, poetry stirs pity and fear uniquely, unlike other
types of speeches that try to expel particularly fear, a most unpleasant
emotion.
Platos condemnation of the tragic emotions derives from his desire to
postulate a type of superior philosophical ethics, in clear contrast with
contemporary views. According to the model life of a philosopher, fear of
death or misfortunes does not have logical causes. Neither does pity for
those who seem to suffer or die. Plato often builds his case on a deliberate
confusion between fear as an aesthetic emotion and fear in the face of
vicissitudes of life, which he associates with ignorance.
An imaginative visual component of the tragic emotions, which requires
that suffering be seen with the minds eye, is preferred by Aristotle, who,
in fact, criticizes direct visual effects. Interestingly, beyond theory, visual
suggestions are essential in tragic practice. Often in Greek tragedies the
verbal emphasis on seeing suffering before the eyes becomes crucial in
eliciting the pity of the internal audiences. Characters present themselves
as spectacles and suggest how others should view and feel about them.
These verbal indicators, intended to direct the emotional responses of both
internal and external spectators, seem to be specific to Greek tragedy and
are less commonly found in the later manifestations of the genre. Tragic pity
is intimately bound up with the pleasure of mourning and memory (Plato
and Aristotle). Both memory and artistic imitation trigger similar mental
processes and may produce pleasure on account of painful emotions.
A reconsideration of Aristotles observations about the tragic emotions
(Rhetoric, de Anima, Poetics) yields interesting points about the psychol-
ogy of the audience. For example, the spectators pity, unlike any other
emotion discussed by Aristotle, requires a double type of detachment and
yet it presupposes the strongest imaginative involvement. Furthermore, my
analysis questions the degree to which the Aristotelian account of the tragic
emotions represents the cultural norm or reflects his personal taste.
ii. Discussion of individual tragedies. Internal emotional responses in
Greek tragedies are discussed from the perspectives of contemporary Athe-
nian audiences as well as from those of later ancient commentators. Pity
and fear as internal emotions, expressed within tragedies, do not invariably
correspond to the theoretical descriptions. The selection of the plays aims
to underline certain problems related to the two emotions, by examining
a variety of styles (Aeschylus, Sophocles, and Euripides).
Aeschylus Persians. In the case of this particular tragedy, the ancient
assumption regarding the correspondence between the emotional reac-
tions of the internal audience and external spectators presents the most
26 Introduction
serious difficulty, since the internal viewers who lament the Persian disaster
represent the historical enemies of the external Athenian audience.
Prometheus Bound. This play proposes an inquiry into the complicated
dynamic of emotions when suffering is visibly represented. Fear of suffering
is defined as cowardly and effeminate (Prometheus), but it is also associated
with due wise caution (Oceanus). Pity is a foolish emotion when felt for
the deserved affliction of another (Cratus). Yet, it is an emotion felt
despite the Titans guilt (Hephaestus). Above all and uniquely, Promethean
pity compels one to fight injustice, which contradicts certain Platonic
assumptions.
Sophocles Ajax. Tragic pity, as displayed by internal audiences, corre-
sponds closely to the Aristotelian expectations for the emotion, caused by
the realization of the frailty of human fate, which is universally shared. But
this play, as well as other Sophoclean tragedies, raises new questions. One
problem, not much debated by the philosophers, concerns the degree to
which one ought to associate with someone elses suffering or dissociate
from it, even when a person does feel pity for the misfortune of another.
Euripides Orestes. Euripidean heroes often manipulate the arousal of
pity, or they appeal to this emotion in vain. Orestes arouses Helens pity,
for example, in order to take Hermione as a hostage. In addition, characters
foster inane fears or are unable to detect real dangers.
Conclusion. The book ends with an evaluation of the differences
between the philosophers approaches to pity and fear as tragic emotions
and the portrayal of these emotions in Aeschylus, Sophocles, and Euripides,
as well as their possible effects on Athenian audiences.
part i

Theoretical views about pity and


fear as aesthetic emotions
chapter 1

Drama and the emotions:


an Indo-European connection?

Lart, cest lemotion sans le desir.


Art is emotion without desire.
(Muriel Barbery Lelegance du Herisson, Paris, 2006).
As dramatic representations appear to have developed from rituals in Indo-
European communities,1 they likely required the emotional participation
of those involved in ceremonies. No reconstruction of such Indo-European
drama is possible, of course. Overall, nevertheless, the vocabulary of emo-
tions in Indo-European languages suggests a common idiom, or perhaps
even some universal linguistic concepts. As West has observed in an analysis
of the Homeric diction:
Where human emotions are described, we find a good deal of common ground
in the kind of language used in different branches of the tradition, and this may
reflect to some extent Indo-European idiom. On the other hand there is little that
points to its being peculiarly Indo-European and similar phraseology appears in
Near Eastern literatures. Emotions tend to be represented as external forces that
come to one, enter one, or seize one.2
Furthermore, a shared Indo-European background seems to be probable,
for there exist striking similarities in the accounts of dramatic concepts
in such different cultures as Greek and Indian, when those concepts were
developed independently, as is made evident by the works of Aristotle and
Bharata Muni.3 Without any claim of expertise, I will venture to outline
certain features of the aesthetic emotions in ancient Indian culture, which
can provide a point of comparison for the analysis of the Greek material.
The association with cultic worship and personification of the emotions
represents an interesting aspect of both ancient Indian and Greek culture.
1 2
For some introductory points on this, see Watkins 1995, 1357. West 2007, 87.
3
Gupt 1994 compares the Indian and the Greek concepts of art and theater, including such concepts
as mimesis and catharsis (chapter 7 and chapter 12; the latter has a surprisingly brief presentation of
the emotions). Another valuable comparative study is that of Singal (1977).

29
30 Theoretical views about pity and fear
Thus, according to an Indian tradition, emotions receive specific colors
and become subordinated to specific gods: the Erotic is green, subordi-
nated to the supreme god, Vishnu; the Furious is assigned the color red,
under the wild, hunting god Rudra; the Heroic is connected with a yel-
lowish hue, under the god of war, Indra; the Terrible is black, under the
goddess of destruction and change, Kali; the Pathetic is grey, under the god
Yama, the god of the Underworld; the Marvelous receives the color yellow,
under Brahma, the god of creation, etc.4 In Greek culture, according to
Plutarch, the Spartans have sanctuaries not only of Fear (Phobos) but also
of other such emotional states (pathemata),5 and, indeed, modern scholars
confirm the existence of other temples dedicated to Shame or Modesty
(Aidos), Love (Eros), etc. Fear (Phobos) was perhaps associated with the god
Pan and worshipped as the emotion that the Lacedaemonians wanted to
cause in their foes,6 but details about the cult remain obscure.7 Moreover,
descriptions of Fear as a personification on shields occur in several pas-
sages from archaic Greek poetry, which may confirm the hypothesis that
warriors desired to arouse emotion in its more extreme varieties, terror and
panic, in their enemies.8 Thus, in the Iliad, for example, Terror (Deimos)
and Fear (Phobos) accompany the central figure of the Gorgon on the shield
of Agamemnon (Il. 11.37). The most extensive description of a personified
Fear occurs in the Shield of Heracles, ascribed to Hesiod. On this shield,
Fear occupies the central position:
En mss d dmantov hn Fbov o ti fateiv,
mpalin ssoisin pur lampomnoisi dedorkv
to ka dntwn mn plto stma leukaqentwn,
deinn, pltwn, p d blosuroo metpou
dein Eriv pepthto korssousa klnon ndrn,
scetlh, a non te ka k frnav eleto fwtn,
o tinev ntibhn plemon Div ui froien. (14450)

4
Natyasastra 6.423.
5
Plu. Cleom. 9.1; the temple of Phobos closed in times of peace and opened during war (Plu. Cleom.
89; cf. the temple of Janus in Rome).
6
Pritchett 1974, vol. 3, 1623, lists the main textual evidence regarding the cult of Phobos and discusses
earlier scholarship on the topic, besides the above mentioned passage, in Plu. (Alex. 31), Alexander
made sacrifices to Phobos; there is a fifth-century inscription, which gives credit to Phobos for the
victory of the Selinountians (SIG3 1122=IG XIV.268); a couple of passages in Paus. (3.14.9 and
3.20.2) mention sacrifices in a precinct named Phoibaion (which some think is an error for Phobeion)
at Sparta.
7
An excellent analysis of Fear as personification and other Greek personifications of abstract characters
is offered by Richer 2005.
8
Torrance 2007, 6890, provides a useful summary of the symbolism of dreadful representations on
shields, from Homer to Aeschylus, and a review of scholarship on this subject.
Indo-European drama and the emotions 31
In its center, Fear carved in adamant, unutterable,
looked backwards with eyes glowing with fire.
His mouth was full of
white glistening teeth
terrible and greedy ,
while on his horrible forehead
stood terrible Strife
who arms the throng of men
heartless she, for she took away the mind and senses
of the men who would battle Zeuss son
face to face.
In the treatise Natyasastra, ascribed to Bharata Muni (dated circa fourth to
second century bce), the emotions caused by drama occupy a privileged
place. Thus, for example, music associated with drama stirs particular
emotions. Certain types of songs, Jatis, were included in the dramatic per-
formances to evoke specific sentiments, in accordance with the theatrical
needs.9 In addition, different types of songs, Dhruvas, were used to mark
entrances and exits of characters as well as transitions in the plays. These
functioned, apparently, both as a background music, suggesting the moods
of different characters, and as a counterpoint to alter the emotional state
of the audience. For example, Prasadik Dhruvas were sung for sooth-
ing the audience after they have witnessed something which has roused
their feelings exceedingly. Aksepik Dhruva was sung on occasions, such
as someone being captured or obstructed, having fallen, being attacked by
illness, or having died.10 Now, Aristotle has little to say about the music
and dance that accompany tragedies in the Poetics.11 Nevertheless, in the
Politics (8.1340a), for example, he describes music and rhythm as the closest
to the real nature of anger and gentleness, courage and the opposite, and
to other kinds of character; and those can produce changes in the soul.12
In both Indian and Greek accounts, the connection between music and
emotions seems to pertain to emotional dispositions and character-types,
which audiences would recognize easily.
One of the most famous Indian aesthetic concepts is that of refined
emotion resulting from dramatic performances, rasa, which literally means
9
Natyasastra 29.116. The Indian treatise deals extensively with music (chapters 2836), including
various instruments and types of songs; for a recent translation and detailed commentary, see
Rangacharya 2007, 218329.
10
Natyasastra 32.37183; 42231.
11
The Poetics treats music very superficially as one of the (less essential) elements of drama, under the
category of melopoeia; on this see Halliwell 1998, 23940.
12
Cf. Pl. Lg. 7.790ce: lulling babies to sleep resembles dancing and music, which can calm the
moving of the soul.
32 Theoretical views about pity and fear
sap, or juice, and thus, by extension, flavor, taste, essence.13 The
Natyasastra develops a sophisticated system to explain the formation of this
complex aesthetic emotion, which is, no doubt, to a great extent original.14
Rasa has its basis in a Durable Psychological state, results from Determi-
nants (causes of the emotion), and manifests through Consequents (related
psycho-physiological states expressing the emotion) as well as Complemen-
tary Psychological States (secondary symptoms of psychological and phys-
iological nature). The term rasa is related to taste. Now one enquires:
What is the meaning of the word rasa? It is said in reply [that rasa] is so
called because it is capable of being tasted. How is rasa tasted? [In reply]
it is said that just as well-disposed persons while eating food cooked with
many kinds of spice, enjoy its tastes, and attain pleasure and satisfaction,
so the cultured people taste the Durable Psychological States while they
see them represented by an expression of the various Psychological States,
with Words, Gestures, etc. (6.31; Ghosh 1961, vol. i, 105). Four emotions
form the basic rasas: the Erotic, Furious, Heroic, and Odious. Each has a
complementary rasa, which makes them eight in total: the mimicry of the
Erotic is the Comic; the result of the Furious is the Pathetic; the result of
the Heroic is the Marvelous; and that which is Odious to see results in the
Terrible (6.41).
Any reader of the Natyasastra, who is familiar with Platos and Aristo-
tles observations about the tragic emotions, will notice a most surprising
absence from the list of rasas: pity. The closest emotion to it in the Indian
treatise is the Pathetic (karuna), which arises from the Durable Psycho-
logical State of Sorrow.15 It derives from Determinants (such as death,
captivity, and separation from loved ones); it is represented on stage by
Consequents (such as lamentations and shedding tears); it has Comple-
mentary Psychological States connected to it (yearning, indifference, fear,
insanity, etc). In conclusion, seeing the death of a beloved person or hear-
ing something terrible stirs the Pathetic. Now, Ghosh translates karuna
as pathetic, which suggests sadness and misery. Later on, in Buddhism,
the term signified compassion or universal sympathy.16 Thus, the idea of
13
Good introductions to the topic, with outlines of the historical development of rasa in the Indian
culture, can be found in Deutsch 1975, 123, and S. L. Schwartz 2004, who emphasizes the
importance of the rasa for dance and music; with respect to poetry and drama, Choudhary 2002,
1176, provides an elucidating analysis.
14
Sahu 2004 correctly warns against interpreting the Indian concepts through Western eyes, influ-
enced by Aristotles Poetics.
15
6.613; Ghosh 1961, 11213.
16
Ahuja 1997, 113, notes that karuna is an unexpected term in the Natyasastra. Anyone interested in
Aristotles proper pleasure will find a chapter in Choudhary 2002, 11020, on the links between
the Pathetic (karuna) and the aesthetic pleasure of poetry, quite illuminating.
Indo-European drama and the emotions 33
compassion appears to be latent in the use of karuna in the Natyasastra.
Moreover, the descriptions of the dramatic incidents that produce this rasa
resemble the kind of events that we often see enacted in Greek tragedies,
such as captivity and death. There are, however, significant differences.
Firstly, the Indian account does not explain whether this sadness is felt
for others or for the self. One may reasonably suppose that it is felt for
both, but there is nothing clearly stated. On the other hand, as we shall
see, the Greeks envision dramatic pity as sadness for others that affects
the self in certain ways. Secondly, the karuna comes with no require-
ment of innocence, whereas, in classical Greek culture, it remains essential
that pity be stirred by undeserved suffering.17 Thirdly, the Pathetic is not
central in the Indian system and is not present among the basic four,
but among the extended eight emotions, as it derives from the Furious
(raudra).18 In contrast, it is the central tragic emotion for classical Greek
thinkers. Thus, perhaps karuna approximates the Greek eleos but does not
equal it.
While pity does not receive a prominent place in the Natyasastra, fear
(phobos), an emotion that seems vaguely defined and ancillary in impor-
tance in the Poetics, receives detailed treatment in the last pair of rasas, the
Odious and the Terrible. The Odious (bbhatsa), (6.724; Ghosh 1961, vol. i,
116) has its basis in the Durable Psychological State of disgust; it is caused
by Determinants such as hearing, seeing, or the discussion of offensive or
impure things; its Consequents on the stage are immobility, spitting, trem-
bling, etc. Complementary Psychological States include epileptic fits, delu-
sion, agitation, fainting, etc. The Terrible (bhayanaka), (6.6872; Ghosh
1961, vol. i, 11516) has its basis in the Durable Psychological State of fear;
it is caused by Determinants such as the sight of ghosts, panic, anxiety due
to bad omens, death or captivity of dear ones;19 Consequents include trem-
bling, horripilation, change of color, and loss of voice; Complementary
Psychological States consist of paralysis, perspiration, etc. The presence of
the Odious, as a category of emotion related to disgust, separated from
fear in the Natyasastra, is particularly interesting when compared to certain
passages of the Poetics, which allude to the existence of an aesthetic cate-
gory that concerns the disgusting, without fully theorizing it. Thus, for

17
On this, see, for instance, Konstan 2001, 121.
18
Interestingly, this combination, including the Furious [with its basis in the Durable Psychological
State of anger, often expressed on the battlefield; 6.636; Ghosh (1961) 11314] and the Pathetic, fits
perfectly the composition of the Iliad, which centers around anger-sorrow caused by loss.
19
Note the similarity with the Determinants of the Pathetic; these two (death and captivity of dear
ones) can produce either rasa.
34 Theoretical views about pity and fear
example, the pleasure derived from imitation, mimesis, can occur even when
we contemplate in art things that appear utterly painful to see in reality,
such as obscene beasts and corpses (Po. 4.1448b419). Without a doubt,
some of the Determinants, Consequents, and Complementary states of
the Odious, as described in the Indian treatise, are easily recognizable in
classical Greek tragedies, such as accounts of impure things (e.g. incest in
Sophocles Oedipus King), madness (Orestes particularly impressive fits of
lunacy in Euripides homonymous play), and symptoms of physical illness
(Sophocles Philoctetes). This particular category, therefore the Odious
in the Indian treatise which perhaps approximates horror in modern
theory,20 appears to be well represented in Greek drama and occasion-
ally recognized by Aristotle. Thus, for instance, Aristotle complains at
times (e.g., Po. 13.1452b356) about certain dramatic scenarios that are only
morally repugnant (miaron) rather than fear-inspiring (phoberon)
but this topic certainly deserves a more extensive treatment than I can
offer in this section. At any rate, the repulsive does not receive extensive
theoretical treatment in the Poetics or elsewhere in classical Greek thought.
In the case of Aristotle, the reason may be, as I later suggest, that he
does not consider the odious, the physically or morally repugnant, to
be an appropriate reaction to tragedy, but prefers instead a different type
of fear.
Certain conclusions become obvious even after this succinct examina-
tion of the Indian system of rasa and the mainstream observations about
the tragic emotions in classical Greek culture. The Greeks (naturally, Aris-
totle in the Poetics, yet also others, such as Plato, and Gorgias) empha-
size pity as the central emotion produced by tragedy. Karuna, the Indian
approximate parallel of the Greek pity, does not seem to be regarded as
exceptionally important in the Natyasastra. Why do the Greek thinkers
emphasize pity so obsessively? Certainly, one explanation is that, unlike
the Indian theorists, the Greeks discuss the emotions more narrowly, lim-
iting them to specific literary genres, such as tragedy and epic. Yet, this
is not an absolutely convincing explanation. An epic poem such as the
Iliad could have easily fit the pattern of rasas such as the Furious and the
Pathetic, especially since the poem starts with Achilles anger and ends
with his pity, and, accordingly, should have aroused more than one emo-
tion in the listener. While ancient commentaries sometimes attempt to

20
See my introductory discussion of the varieties of fear; Roberts 2003, 199202.
Indo-European drama and the emotions 35
explain the meaning of Achilles anger,21 for example, they do not seem
to consider that the heros emotion should stir a particularly significant
emotional reaction in the audience. On the other hand, ancient Greek
commentaries carefully underscore scenes that arouse pity in the audience
or reader. Not only Plato and Aristotle but also later Greek commenta-
tors mostly praise the Homeric poem for its ability to stir pity in the
audiences which anticipates the emotional effect of the tragic genre.22 Fur-
thermore, an emotion that, in the Indian treatise, has an independent
identity, such as the Marvelous (adbhuta, 6.746; Ghosh 1961, vol. i, 116
17), appears to have been an emotional ingredient rather than an emotion
per se, in the Poetics.23 For example, in the Aristotelian treatise, the won-
drous (to thaumaston, Po. 9.1452a49) is produced when dramatic events
occur contrary to expectation, but on account of one another; this ele-
ment serves the type of plot that, ultimately, stirs best pity and fear, the
favorite pair.
A definite solution to the question of why Greek thinkers, such as
Gorgias, Plato, and most prominently Aristotle, choose to emphasize par-
ticularly pity and fear as responses to drama remains beyond the scope
of this study. Interest in specific genres, epic and tragedy, as I have sug-
gested, differentiates the Greek theorists from the author of the Natyasastra,
who discusses more broadly various types of dramatic representations
and genres, including comedy. Further focus on specific scenes of the
Homeric poems and tragedies probably led the Greek critics to view pity
as the most important reaction that a poet can produce. Later inter-
preters of the Poetics have often perceived the obsessive interest in the
two emotions in the treatise as somewhat surprising, if not as a form of
reductionism:
Not only pity and terror are to be moved as the only means to bring us to virtue,
but generally love to virtue and hatred to vice; by shewing the rewards of one,
and the punishments of the other . . . If then the encouragement of virtue and
discouragement of vice be the proper ends of Poetry in tragedy: pity and fear, tho
good means, are not the only. For all the passions in their turns are to be set in
ferment (Dryden, Heads of an Answer to Rymer, i, 213; text published by J. C. Eade,
Aristotle Atomised: The Poetics in England 16741781, Frankfurt, 1988, 55).

21
Muellner 1996, 2, for example, reviews the interpretation of Achilles anger (menis), the word that
opens the Iliad, in the commentary of Aristarchus, the Hellenistic editor of Homer. Aristarchus
interest in the word is strictly philological.
22
On this, see Richardson 1980, particularly 2701.
23
For a succinct and lucid presentation of the matter, see Frede 1992a.
36 Theoretical views about pity and fear
Indeed, within the Greek tragedies, characters display an array of emo-
tions, far beyond the two, such as anger, shame, jealousy, etc.24 Those
displays would have likely stirred other emotional reactions besides pity
and fear, a possibility of which Aristotle seems aware (e.g., Po. 17. 1455a31
3). But Aristotle does not regard those other emotions as essential responses
to tragedy, and neither does any other classical author.
24
See, for instance, on individual emotions as expressed by tragic characters, Stanford 1983, 2148.
Studies of specific emotions in ancient Greek culture have bloomed in recent years, and they all take
some examples from tragedies; thus, on shame-modesty: Cairns 1993; on envy-jealousy: Konstan
and Rutter 2003a; on anger: Most and Braund 2003.
chapter 2

Gorgias: a strange trio, the poetic emotions

Gorgias (c. 485380 bce) associates pity and fear to describe the effect of
poetry on the audience in the Encomium to Helen.1 In this piece of rhetorical
virtuosity, simultaneously designed as laudatory discourse, apology, and
intellectual joke,2 Gorgias intends to exculpate the infamous heroine of
Greek mythology and, in his attempts to do so, he describes the power of
language. Speech, a master who governs the world through its seductive
power, must have persuaded Helen to go to Troy: a perfect excuse for
the heroines behavior. Speech can persuade and move everyone; more
specifically, poetic speech arouses irresistible emotions, such as shivering
fear (frkh) and pity (leov), (Hel. 9). As scholars have remarked, this
observation, as well as a later comparison between the emotional effects
of speech and drugs (Hel. 14), seems to prefigure the Aristotelian poetic
theory.3 In fact, the treatment of the emotions in the Encomium deserves
a closer examination. Hence, I next discuss the numerous other references
to pity and fear, which reveal important information about the nature of
each emotion as well as the complex relationship that exists between them.

2.1 context (a): pity and hatred, guided reactions


for gorgias audience ( hel . 7)
Summary: Helen may have been kidnapped by Paris and taken away from her
country. In this case, shouldnt she reasonably be pitied (ektwv lehqeh)

1
Segals article (1962) remains a seminal analysis of the aesthetic views of Gorgias. Excellent reappraisals
of the Encomium have been recently provided by Ford 2002b, 17287, and Paduano 2004, 372.
2
Gorgias himself suggests that the piece be read as an apology (Hel. 2) and pastime (Hel. 21). Cole
1991, 746, discusses the place of this type of rhetorical exercise in the history of Greek oratory.
Pezzano 1993, 30, divides the discourse into: encomium (35), apology (620), and epilogue (21).
The classification of the Encomium may be important for understanding the nature of Gorgias
argument and the seriousness of his aesthetic claims. For the question of whether Gorgias work
ought to be classified as rhetoric or philosophy, see Patinella 1996, 1525.
3
Suss 1910, Segal 1962, 1302, J. Barnes 1979, 4636, Kennedy 1989, 84.

37
38 Theoretical views about pity and fear
rather than reviled? If she herself did not willingly perform a malicious act but
only suffered misfortune, it is right to pity (oktrein) her and hate (missai)
the one who has inflicted suffering upon her.

While Gorgias proposes an unusual version of the myth, he also indicates


to his readers the correct emotional reactions to this possible story. In this
scenario, Helen has suffered (paqe) undeservedly, as do (or claim) many
characters in tragedy, and therefore she ought to be pitied, whereas Paris
has performed (drase) terrible acts, and therefore he should be hated.
Two points are of interest. Firstly, pity is indicated to the audience as a
reasonably (ektwv) felt response to the fate of the heroine, since she
suffers undeservedly. The term reasonably suggests correlation between
a specific course of the narrative and the emotional reaction of the reader,
which does not differ from the emotion that a real event may arouse. If the
events of the story unfolded in such a way, then the audience should react
accordingly (i.e. feel pity). Later on, Aristotle insists on the importance
of the probable sequence of events in the tragic plot (i.e. dramatic events
should happen on account of one another), to elicit what he considers the
appropriate tragic emotions. Secondly, pity is paired with hatred, a fasci-
nating association, particularly when applied to tragedy. If the spectators
respond with pity to the undeserved suffering of a hero, should they also
feel simultaneously hatred toward those who inflict such suffering? Sim-
ply put, does the spectators pity for Antigone require hatred for Creon?
As I suggest later on, Greek tragedies often raise the problem of whether
or not suffering is deserved, which Aristotle encapsulates in his famous
concept of hamartia, error of the tragic character. Degrees of tragic cul-
pability usually pose more complex cognitive and, therefore, emotional
assessments from the audiences than simple opposites: innocentguilty
characters. Nevertheless, in many instances characters in Greek tragedy
emphasize the undeserved nature of their suffering. Indeed, it is surprising
that classical authors do not underscore more often this connection between
pity and hatred, the opposite reactions that must be considered when
assessing a spectators responses to undeserved suffering (whether fictional
or not).4

4
Hartz 1999, 557, starts his article on aesthetic emotion with a remembrance of his emotions as a
reader: I can recall vividly my adolescent encounter with John Steinbecks The Red Pony. I remember
feeling affection and pity for the pony, disappointment and anger at its death, and a consuming
hatred for the buzzard that plucks out its eye. I have underlined pity and hatred.
Gorgias: a strange trio, the poetic emotions 39
2.2 context (b): speech can stop fear and
increase pity ( hel . 8)

Summary: Speech (Lgov), a powerful ruler with the tiniest body and the greatest
deeds, can accomplish the following:
(a) stop fear (fbon pasai), (b) banish sorrow (lphn felen), (c) produce
joy (carn nergsasqai), and (d) increase pity (leon pauxsai).

The personified Logos, which possesses a minuscule body and accomplishes


great deeds, has attracted much scholarly interest.5 Yet, what exactly does
Speech do with respect to the arousal of emotions?6 Gorgias appears to
illustrate the power of the Logos through a stylistic chiasmus, a reversed
parallel between two pairs of corresponding terms.7 While removing sorrow
(lphn felen) opposes producing joy (carn nergsasqai): (b)(c),
fear and pity are inversely related, stopping fear (fbon pasai) increas-
ing pity (leon pauxsai): (a)(d). The first pair of opposites (b)(c)
testifies about the ability of the potent speech to soothe the listeners. What
is the significance of the second relationship (a)(d)? Perhaps the implica-
tion is simply that Logos can arouse as well as diminish certain emotions
and fear and pity have been arbitrarily selected. Yet, more likely the two
emotions are purposely employed, in a manner similar to another pair
of contrasting words, distress and joy. If so, the power of Logos to
assuage the soul has been strategically reinforced by decreasing fear and
augmenting pity, in which case the former emotion correlates with agi-
tated distress, whereas the latter with solace. At any rate, in this context,
the presence of one emotion seems to exclude the presence of the other
rather than to require it, as it does in the later customary expression in the
Poetics.

5
MacDowell 1982, 1213, observes that the term is used in the Encomium primarily in the sense of
speech or speaking, although logos has a variety of meanings in Greek literature. Adkins 1983,
10911, analyzes the implication of the supremacy of speech (lgov dunsthv, Hel. 8) for early
Greek rhetoric. Ford 2002b, 1767, convincingly places Gorgias description of the Logos within
the context of natural philosophy (e.g., Anaxagoras account of the Nous and Democritus finest
atoms) and ancient medical treatises. On the power of verbal persuasion to dominate the thought
of an individual, see Cole 1991, 14652, and Ford 2002b, 1745. McComiskey 2002, 3847, discusses
further negative ethical implications of Gorgias account of the dominant Speech.
6
I will use a capital s for the personified Speech, Logos, to distinguish it from its tools or categories,
the words (logoi), later mentioned in the Encomium. A similar personification of Persuasion as a
tyrant occurs in Euripides (Hec. 81418).
7
On the stylistic preference for antithesis and isocolon throughout the Encomium, see Velardi 2001,
3942.
40 Theoretical views about pity and fear
This account, separating the two emotions right before a next passage
unites them (Hel. 9), has important consequences for deciphering a Gor-
gianic theory of emotional arousal. Indeed, an examination of persuasive
speeches in Greek culture suggests that often the suppliant would appeal
to someones pity in order to escape from a situation that caused him
fear.8 While asking for refuge, for example, the suppliant tries to elicit pity
for his plight so that he might avoid an enemy that chases and fright-
ens him. Thus, in rhetorical persuasion, the arousal of one emotion in
another (pity) often presupposes the reduction of the other emotion (fear)
for the self. Conversely, when the poetic speech, so to speak, affects
the audience, the two emotions interact in a completely different way, as
follows.

2.3 context (c): poetry arouses pity, fearful shiver,


and longing ( hel . 9)
Tn pohsin pasan ka nomzw ka nomzw lgon conta mtron. Hv
tov koontav eslqe ka frkh perfobov ka leov poldakruv ka pqov
filopenqv, p llotrwn te pragmtwn ka swmtwn etucaiv ka dus-
pragaiv din ti pqhma di tn lgwn paqen yuc. (Hel. 9)
I deem and declare all poetry to be speech, having meter. And shivering fear and
tearful pity and grievous longing have come upon those who are listening to it. The
soul has experienced some peculiar emotion on account of the experiences and
physical suffering of others in both the good fortunes and bad fortunes, through
words.
Poetry, which represents a category of Speech, Logos (Hel. 8), and likely
includes tragic poetry,9 arouses the listeners pity, a type of fear, and
longing.10 I have quoted the passage in full because this is the only place
in which pity and fear, the quintessential tragic pathe in Aristotles Poetics,
appear to be directly associated in the Encomium. Suggestions of physical
symptoms accompany each emotion: a descriptive epithet abundant in
tears (poldakruv) is used for pity, and the noun shuddering (frkh)
is used to indicate a form of fear. To judge the emotion by Roberts
8
As Kim 2000, 67, notes, in Homers Iliad, to feel pity often means to take action, and specifically
to save or to heal.
9
Untersteiner 1949, vol. 2, 99, believes that Gorgias formula all poetry refers to all types of poetry,
including tragedy, and I agree. Later, in Aristotles Poetics, epic and tragedy appear to produce
similar emotional effects.
10
Romilly 1975, 43, points out Gorgias heavy emphasis on the reception of poetry (Hel. 9), while he
only mentions one formal feature of poetry: meter.
Gorgias: a strange trio, the poetic emotions 41
classification, the Gorgianic shivering relates to terror, a version of dread.11
The wording (doublet noun adjective) that describes each emotion may
be ornamental it certainly sounds playful and poetic,12 but it may
also have a deeper significance, especially in the case of fear. The phras-
ing used here for fear as reaction to poetry is fearful shivering (frkh
perfobov), which differs from the term used subsequently, the common
word for fear (fbov, Hel. 16; 17).13 Stylistic variation can certainly pro-
vide a simple explanation for the difference. Without completely excluding
this possibility of stylistic variance, another explanation ought to be con-
sidered: Gorgias implies a certain distinction between shuddering full
of fear as a response to poetry and the ordinary emotion of fear.14 Yet,
the emotional reaction described here seems to pertain more to a phys-
ical reaction than to a deep, cognitive process. This refers, perhaps, to
an immediate response to the terrible fate of the characters, the listeners
instinctive tremble while listening to a horror-story. Since there is no
further account of shuddering as an emotion, it is useless to speculate
any further. It is important to note, nevertheless, that the link between
pity and fear appears to be exceptional in the Encomium, triggered exclu-
sively by poetic speech, and that fear might be of a peculiar type in this
context.
In addition, poetry produces another mysterious reaction: grievous
longing (pqov filopenqv), alongside the first two emotions. Is this
longing an emotion sui generis? Unlike pity and fearful shudder, it seems,
longing (pothos) cannot be an immediate response to the poetic content;
rather, it describes the listeners desire for self-expression that results from
feeling for others. This sorrowful longing reminds us of the Homeric
desire for moaning,15 which represents often a consequence of feeling
pity for others. So, for example, in the Iliad, Priams appeal to pity from
Achilles is successful, but first stirs in [Achilles] the desire for grieving
(merov goio, Il. 24.507) for his own father. I would go so far as to liken the
longing in this passage in the Encomium to the Platonic description of the

11
MacDowell 1993, 33, notes that the word fearful (perfobov) normally refers to a person, but
a usage similar to that of Gorgias phrasing can be found in Aeschylus: fearful terror grips me
(perfobn m cei trbov, Supp. 736).
12
Anastaplo 1997, 2659, collects the ancient testimonies that underscore Gorgias vividness of style
and shocking vocabulary.
13
The adjective fearful (perfobov), on the other hand, links the poetic emotion to ordinary fear.
14
As suggested in the introduction, aesthetic fear seems to differ from the common feeling more than
any other type of emotion.
15
Paduano 2004, 64, has keenly pointed this out.
42 Theoretical views about pity and fear
pleasure of epic and tragic poetry in the Republic.16 The spectators pity for
the tragic characters leads to pleasure by loosening that personal part of the
soul that desires by nature to weep and mourn sufficiently (podrasqai
kanv ka poplhsqnai, fsei n toioton oon totwn piqumen,
R. 10.606a45) and thus to express personal sorrows. In Gorgias, grievous
longing may refer to the listeners desire to grieve either for others (char-
acters) or for themselves this remains unspecified. I incline toward the
latter interpretation only by using a cultural analogy. Furthermore, the
third response to poetry appears to denote neither pain nor pleasure alone
but a paradoxical combination of the two. Later on in the Encomium,
longing (pqov), used for erotic desire, is linked to pleasure.17 Yet here
such desire is pain-liking (filopenqv).
The connection between pity and fear, with the addition of long-
ing, occurs in a unique aesthetic context, which Gorgias makes clear.
However, the succinct and abstract phrasing obscures the exact mean-
ing of the aesthetic experience in this account. Audiences are driven to
some personal, peculiar experience (din ti pqhma). Yet what does
this experience, pathema, consist of exactly? Moreover, how do the previ-
ously described emotional responses contribute to it? This unique expe-
rience occurs through participating in the fictional events, on account of
the actions of others (llotrwn pragmtwn), which are conveyed
through words (di tn lgwn). Words (logoi) become thus the
instruments of poetic speech: they affect the listeners through transmitting
to them the experience of others. Are all three emotions (pity, fear, and
longing) felt for the adventures of others? If so, is this unique result that the
listener ultimately experiences emotional at all? Are pity and fear felt for
the fictional events, while longing, perhaps, as I have suggested, represents
a kind of derivative feeling that belongs to the ultimate peculiar experi-
ence (din ti pqhma) of the listener? Is this experience then somewhat
cognitive? If so, in what manner? Unfortunately, there is no explanation in
this aphoristic text. Regardless of the matters left unexplained, a point is
clear: poetry, and poetry alone, as a type of Speech, appears to produce a
combination of emotional reactions that includes pity and fear and relates
the self to others in an exceptional manner.

16
Cf. my subsequent analysis of the Republic. For a detailed discussion of other possible connections
between the account of the emotional effect of poetry in Gorgias Encomium and Platos critique
of tragic pleasure, see Heath 1987, 78.
17
The making of statues brings a pleasant disease for the sight, and certain things cause the eyes to
feel pain (lupen), others to feel desire (poqen), (Hel. 18). In this context, to desire replaces
the usual opposite for to pain used in the Encomium, which is to delight (Hel. 8; 10).
Gorgias: a strange trio, the poetic emotions 43

2.4 context (d): incantations may bring pleasure


and banish pain ( hel . 10)
Summary: Inspired incantations (pda) are inducers of pleasure (pagwgo
donv) and reducers of sorrow (pagogo lphv), through words (di lgwn).
(Hel. 10)
Magic incantations represent another species of the masterful Speech, Logos,
and can provide an additional testimony about its power. Although there
is no mention of emotions here, the incantations perform the exact same
action as the Logos (Hel. 8): bringing pleasure (there associated with increas-
ing pity) and expelling sorrow (there associated with ceasing fear). The latter
assuaging activity is performed through words (di lgwn), the same
tools that poetry has used above (C, Hel. 9), although these verbal tools
seem to be at work in a different setting and attain a different goal in this
context.

2.5 context (e): words, like medicine, can inspire fear


or courage ( hel . 14)
Summary: The power of Speech ( to lgou dnamiv) over the condition
of the soul resembles the rule of drugs (tn farmkwn) over the condition
of the body. Just as different drugs dispel different secretions of the body, some
bringing an end to disease, others to life, some words cause distress (lphsan),
others cause delight (teryan), some cause fear (fbhsan), others make the
hearers bold (qrsov katsthsan tov koontav).
Some scholars have seen in the similarity between the healing powers of
Speech and the curing power of medicine an anticipation of the Aristotelian
notion of catharsis in the Poetics.18 Nevertheless, even leaving aside the
debated medical interpretation of Aristotles catharsis, it is significant that
Gorgias returns to discussing Speech in general and not particularly poetic
speech in this passage. Furthermore, he emphasizes a recurrent idea, present
in two other contexts, (B, Hel. 8) and (D, Hel. 10), namely the ability of
Logos, or of its species, to cause opposite reactions, such as pain (here cause
pain, lphsan) and pleasure (cause delight, teryan). But this is not
the theme of the passage on poetry (C, Hel. 9). In fact, poetry, as a type
of Speech, possesses a feature that distinguishes it from all the other forms
of discourse: it does not appear to cause delight and sorrow separately.
By contrast, all the other types of Speech, such as those that persuade
18
See the appendix for the interpretations of the Aristotelian catharsis.
44 Theoretical views about pity and fear
and mesmerize the listeners as if through magic, produce opposite effects,
either sadness or joy. The Sophists may have used this idea that rhetorical
speech, like magic drugs, can cause one emotion or its contrary to claim an
ability to manipulate the emotional arousal of their audiences. Antiphon,
for example, was famed for developing an art to banish the distresses of the
mind, as physicians can provide cures for the bodily diseases, according to
pseudo-Plutarch, Lives of Ten Orators.19
In addition, poetry alone connects pity and a form of fear. If pity
was opposed to hatred as a reaction to hypothetical actions of mythical
characters (A, Hel. 7), in this comparison between Speech and medicine
(Hel. 14), fear is paired with courage. This maintains the dual effects of the
words through a natural opposition: some inspire fear (fbhsan), some
bravery in the audiences (qrsov katsthsan tov koontav). But
is the fear in this context the same emotion that poetry has previously
inspired in the listeners, the shivering fear (frkh perfobov) (C, Hel. 9)?
Although the text offers no direct answer to this question, there seems to be
a difference between poetic fright (C, Hel. 9) and regular fear (E, Hel. 14),
so to speak. The former is described together with accompanying emotions
(pity and longing) and physical symptoms, whereas the latter is mentioned
together with an antithetical feeling (courage) and no physical details.

2.6 context (f): fear and imagination ( hel . 16; 17)


The Encomium yields further interesting observations about fear within
the following narrative frame: perhaps Helen was persuaded to go to Troy
by Love (Hel. 15), that is to say, perhaps the sight of Paris has stirred love
in her soul. A digression explains the actions of the sight as follows:
Summary: When the sight (yiv) watches hostile bodies and armor, offensive
weaponry on the one hand and defensive shields on the other, it is alarmed
(tarcqh) and it alarms the soul (traxe tn ychn), so that people often run
away from future danger as if it were present (kindnou to mllontov [v]
ntov). Because of fear caused by sight (di tn fbon . . . p tv yewv),
people forget about honor and justice. (Hel. 16)
Some people seeing frightful things (dntev fober) have lost their wit
(fronmatov). Fear (fbov) extinguishes and drives away thought (t
nhma). Some have fallen into groundless distress and went mad so deeply
19
Cf. Isoc. 8.39: speech is the remedy for ignorant minds, full of vulgar desires, as drugs are remedies for
the body. Romilly 1992, 20712, argues that Prodicus and Antiphon may have developed speeches
that encouraged the audience to attain inner peace, free from personal emotions and anxieties, an
ideal that Plato later borrows and expands in his philosophy.
Gorgias: a strange trio, the poetic emotions 45
sight engraves (yiv ngrayen) on the mind (t fronmati) images of the
actions that are seen (eknav tn rwmnwn pragmtwn). (Hel. 17)
The actions and the power of sight (yiv) resemble closely those of
Speech (lgov).20 Even more than Speech, furthermore, sight appears to
be defined through its emotional effect on the soul, and especially through
its production of fear (fbov).21 The emotion has some particular char-
acteristics. Its formation depends on some kind of imaginative ability that
changes concrete sight into an abstract vision. A series of psychological pro-
cesses transforms looking at (piqeshtai) potentially harmful objects
(shields, hostile bodies) into imagining to use a modern term the threat
that they could pose and then alarming the soul. Now the imagery of the
shields carries interesting connotations in Greek culture. We have already
discussed the description of the horrifying personification of Fear on the
Shield of Heracles, an early epic poem ascribed to Hesiod. Descriptions
of terrifying images on warriors shields occur in Aeschylus Seven Against
Thebes.22 For example, Donadi has argued that Gorgias refers in this passage
to the description of the shields in Aeschylus tragedy, which was revived in
405 bce, the year in which, perhaps, the Encomium was also composed.23
Against this interpretation, MacDowell argues that Gorgias could not be
thinking of an army described in a tragedy but refers to the sight of a real
army, since he later says that people run away from danger, which cannot
mean either a chorus or an audience trying to flee the plot of the play.24 I
believe that these two divergent scholarly views come from an ambiguity
in the text of Gorgias, an ambiguity with significant consequences for our
understanding of aesthetic and regular fear. Overall, fear comes from

20
As Ford 2002b, 181, puts it: Gorgias describes the operations of visible objects on the soul in the
same terms he used for the effects of the speech.
21
The choice of fear as an emotion here instead of love is somewhat surprising. Hawthorne 1949, 88,
explains the analogy between love and fear: certain things arouse yearning (cf. S. Ant. 795) and thus
love, in the same way in which other things arouse aversion and fear. The association between love
and fear perhaps also suggests a dangerous side of the former emotion.
22
On the symbolism of the shields in Aeschylus play, the analysis provided by Zeitlin 1982, 171219,
remains essential. Zeitlin notes (1982, 185) with respect to fear: the dominant emotion which
they [the shields] arouse is fear, a terror which Eteokles assures us over and over again his stalwart
champions are able to withstand. At first, this fear is only verbally articulated but finally it emerges
fully personified at the fourth gate as Phobos. Phobos, in fact, comes into being as a reified concept
exactly at the gate where Zeus himself takes on visible reality as a figure on the blazon . . . Zeus will
defeat Typho and his companion, Phobos, but the emotive power of terror is now fully instituted
within the system as distinct and objectified form.
23
Donadi 197778, 4877. For a more recent and cautious reappraisal (based on allusions in Aristo-
phanes Frogs and Lysistrata) of the evidence for a possible revival of Aeschylus play, see Lech 2008,
with footnote 3 discussing precisely the relationship between Gorgias and Aeschylus Seven.
24
MacDowell 1982, 38.
46 Theoretical views about pity and fear
a process of imagining the harmful effects that a threatening situation
poses to us and ours. Thus, horrifying depictions on shields whether those
are real or described in a tragedy may lead us to imagining being attacked
and dying. This is true about both ordinary and aesthetic fear. After the
initial moment of imagining, however, the two types diverge: the ordi-
nary emotion receives confirmation in data-based reality (i.e. the enemy is
coming), whereas the aesthetic emotion keeps the threat as hypothetical.
What type of emotion, then, does Gorgias describe here? MacDowell cer-
tainly seems right to suggest that fear leading to action (running away) is
likely to be data-based (i.e. real army). However, Gorgias seems to present a
very general, theoretical point that may have particular consequences. The
main clause can refer to either type of fear (ordinary or aesthetic): the sight
often becomes alarmed, alarms the mind, whereas the result clause appears
to deal with the possible (extreme) consequences those of ordinary fear:
so that oftentimes (ste pollkiv) people run.
Moreover, if Diels conjecture is right, fear occurs when future danger
seems as if present (kindnou to mllontov [v] ntov, Hel. 16).25 Fear,
in general, presupposes imagining that a future peril might occur soon,
and this assumption might be wrong in the data-based fear, while it is
entirely based on an illusion in the aesthetic fear. Gorgias plays with this
temporal shift (taking a future threat as present) to suggest the devastating
psychological effects of the emotion (data-based or hypothetical?), even
when the threat might not materialize. Thus, as a result of fear, people
endure groundless troubles (mataoiv pnoiv, Hel. 17). In the case of
aesthetic fear, even if there is no data-based danger, imagination can create
the illusion of it and trigger the mental distress. Later on, Aristotle notes
that fear is caused by imagining a future harmful misfortune,26 which
should not be perceived as too remote. Furthermore, I shall later suggest,
the Aristotelian vivification, which consists of conveying the impression
of a future threat as present through speech, becomes essential in producing
tragic fear.27
In this context (F, Hel.1617), as before (E, Hel. 14), fear (phobos) is related
to undignified moral tendencies, such as disregard for honor and justice.
25
In this passage v is a conjecture by Diels, which I accept with most editors. See MacDowell
1993, 39, for a brief textual discussion. Against this reading: Donadi 197778, 71, who defends the
reading in presence of a danger proceeding from the future.
26
stw d fbov lph tiv ka tarac k fantasav mllontov kako fqartiko lupero
(Rh. 2.1382a212), let fear be a certain pain and disturbance from imagining a future destructive
of painful misfortune.
27
The term used by ancient literary criticism is enargeia; for a concise presentation of the concept,
see Zanker 1981.
Gorgias: a strange trio, the poetic emotions 47
Moreover, it causes people to lose their rational inhibitions. Whether the
emotion of fear caused by real danger and the fear felt as aesthetic response
to poetic descriptions (C, Hel. 9) are two fundamentally different emotions
does not seem to concern Gorgias, who leaves the matter unresolved here.
As I shall show, such ambiguity will later provide fuel for Platos critique of
the emotion as reaction to poetry. Another interesting point is that vision
acts on the mind as if it has written a text (yiv ngrayen, Hel. 17).
Thus it inscribes the impressions of the perceived events in such a way that
it can translate either as reality or as a product of artistic imagination.
This writing or transcribing, likely occurs in a similar manner whether
one perceives the events directly or reads about them, seeing them in the
minds eye. Further playing on the metaphor, the viewer of a theatrical
performance would rewrite the drama in his own mind and accordingly
respond to fearsome events in it.
Several significant conclusions can be drawn from the Encomium. Over-
all, pity and some form of fear appear to be directly connected only in the
passage describing the effect of poetry on the audience (C, Hel. 9). Other
types of speech can arouse or dispel one or the other emotion, sometimes
understood in opposition (B, Hel. 8), and may cause pleasure or pain (B,
D, E; Hel. 8, 10, 14). Poetry alone, as a species of logos, does not seem to
prove its power through contrary effects: delight in opposition to sorrow,
or assuaging in opposition to agitating the soul. Only in this particular
case, pity and fear are stirred together and become associated with the
mysterious notion of longing (pqov, C, Hel. 9), which may denote
some kind of painful delight rather than the customary opposition (plea-
sure or pain). In addition, various possible emotional combinations and
important features of the two emotions can be observed in other contexts.
Pity for someone who suffers undeservedly, may he or she be a fictional
character, could or perhaps should trigger hatred for the evildoer who
inflicts that suffering (A, Hel. 7). Fear becomes associated with a lack of
courage and with loss of rational thought (E, Hel. 14 and F, Hel. 1617).
The emotion of fear arises as a result of a complex psychological process,
which is initiated by vision and accelerated by imaginative anticipation
of danger.

2.7 if the spectator accepts the deception of tragedy,


are his emotions authentic?
An intriguing fragmentary text ascribed to Gorgias deals specifically with
tragedy:
48 Theoretical views about pity and fear
Hnqhse d tragda ka dieboqh, qamastn krama ka qama tn tt
nqrpwn genomnh ka parascosa tov mqoiv ka tov pqhsin pthn,
v Gorgav fhsn, n t patsav dikaiterov to m patsantov, ka
pathqev softerov to m pathqntov. O mn gr patsav dikaiterov,
ti toq poscmenov pepohken, d pathqev softerov elwton gr
f donv lgwn t m nasqhton. (fr. 23, DK)
Tragedy bloomed and was celebrated, a marvelous sound and sight for the men
of that time, and one which by means of myths and emotions produced a
deception, as Gorgias says, in which the deceiver is regarded as more just than
the non-deceiver and the deceived is wiser than the undeceived. The deceiver
is esteemed as more just because he has succeeded in what he intended and the
deceived is wiser, for a man who is not insensitive is more easily taken away by the
pleasure of words.

After briefly placing tragedy in its historical development, the beginning of


the fifth century, the author passes to the condition necessary for the genre
to produce its effect on the audience: the deception (pth). The term
has been sometimes interpreted as distortion of the subject matter, which
playwrights applied to the myth.28 Most likely, apate primarily concerns
here the relationship between the tragedian and his audience.29 Gorgias
defines this relationship in accordance with the sophistic taste for paradox:
the deceived becomes wiser, and the deceiving more righteous.30 Although
in real life deceit was considered shameful, it is praiseworthy in respect to
tragedy, because only through deception can the pleasure of words be
effected. As Wardy has noted, we should conceive of the theatrical expe-
rience as a sort of contractual deception, relying on cooperation between
the deceptive tragedian and the receptively deceived audience.31
The idea of poetic fiction as deception was not new in Greek culture.32
In Hesiods Theogony, the Muses know how to tell lies like truth (dmen
yedea poll lgein tmoisin moa, 27). Similarly, Odysseus knows
how to say many false things that resemble true things (yedea poll

28
Rosenmeyer 1955 discusses the meaning of the term in several Aeschylean fragments dealing with
the apate of Zeus. He asserts that Gorgias has used the term in the fragment on tragedy to show
that myth is changed when employed by tragedians rather than to describe the effect of tragedy
on the audience. The language of the fragment, nevertheless, repeatedly underscores the idea of
deception in the relationship between playwright and his audience.
29
Verdenius 1981, 11718.
30
Franz 1999, 1448, discusses the significance of the paradoxical association between right and
deception, which defines Gorgias conception of art.
31
Wardy 1996, 36.
32
A comprehensive review of this topic and extensive bibliography are provided by Rosler 1980 and
by Pratt 1993.
Gorgias: a strange trio, the poetic emotions 49
lgwn tmoisin moa, Od. 19.203).33 Pindar observes that the Homeric
tale about Odysseus is greater than his deeds:34
pe yedes o potan <te> macan
semnn pest ti sofa d klptei pargoisa mqoiv. (N. 7.223)
In his lies and his winged contrivance
There is something majestic; wisdom persuasive in speech deceives us.

The anonymous author of the sophistic treatise, Dissoi Logoi, written some-
time after the end of the Peloponnesian War,35 offers a good parallel to
Gorgias remarks. In a section that puts forward twofold arguments about
the just and unjust, various cases are presented, in which deceiving or dis-
honest acts seem to be justified and fair at a closer examination. One of
the examples concerns tragedy:
En gr tragdopoi ka zwgraf stiv <ka> plesta xapat moia
tov lhqinov poiwn, otov ristov. (DK 90.3.10)
The best in tragedy-making or painting is the one who produces the greatest
illusion (lit. deceives mostly) by making things as close to the truth as possible.

The tragedian aims at deceiving (xapat), which involves represent-


ing everything as plausibly as possible. This remark agrees with Gorgias
description of tragedy as apate.36 Thus, while theorizing the development
of rhetoric, Gorgias and the anonymous sophist show interest in tragedy,
an increasingly popular genre. The audiences of both tragedy and oratory
have to be persuaded and moved by the delusive power of the word.37 Gor-
gias relates to the earlier examples (Hesiod, Pindar) in comparing the tragic
action to a deception38 but, at the same time, emphasizes another signifi-
cant point. The audience of tragedy has to be aware of apate and willing

33
Indeed, Odysseus often fools his audience after arriving in Ithaca with contrived stories, as notes
Bowie 1993, 1920.
34
Ledbetter 2003, 6874, analyzes this particular passage and other Pindaric poems that assess the
relationship between poetry, truth, and falsehood.
35
Sprague 1972 emphasizes the difficulties of the text. Written in literary Doric, the treatise includes
several sections that deal with the relativity of several moral notions which are perceived as pairs of
extremes, such as good and bad, decent and shameful, just and unjust, truth and falsehood, etc.
36
Patinella 1996, 1019, notes other similarities between the fragment on tragedy and the Dissoi Logoi.
37
The association is later maintained by Isocrates (15.47) who remarks that if orators use poetic
language, their speech pleases the listeners as much as real poetry does.
38
As Foley 1985, 20558, underscores, drama is linked to Dionysus, a god able to alter consciousness
and appearance, able to cause deception. Verdenius 1981, 124, compares Parmenides description of
his cosmology as fictional (pathln, i.e. not quite representing the reality itself lgov) to
Gorgias notion of apate.
50 Theoretical views about pity and fear
to be deceived.39 This paradox is based on the spectators acceptance of the
validity of the dramatic fiction, in order to experience pleasure.
While the concept of apate as dramatic illusion has attracted schol-
arly attention, not much has been made of the role of the emotions in
this equation. Modern cognitivist theorists, such as Radford and Walton,40
start from a premise very similar to Gorgias idea: the audiences must know
that the stories presented in novels or movies are not true. They ask, there-
fore, the following question: if we willingly enter the cognitive game of
fiction, the illusion, can we feel true emotions? Gorgias fragment on
tragedy does not raise such a question precisely, but it anticipates the subject
to a degree. It uses two terms that appear to concern the emotions. Firstly,
tragedy causes its illusion through tragic stories (mqoiv)41 and emotions
(pqhsin). Now pathos is an ambiguous term that can mean anything
experienced, hence bad experience: misfortune, suffering; or it can denote
a reaction to experiences, hence emotion.42 In this context, the translations
experiences or sufferings for pathesin (understood of the dramatic char-
acters) are certainly possible, but those meanings seem somewhat pleonastic
in association with the stories or legends (mythois) about these charac-
ters. Therefore, I incline toward the meaning emotions,43 which suggests
that the tragic characters expressing their emotions in the face of (fictional)
sufferings contribute to the creation of the dramatic illusion. Secondly,
regardless of the meaning of this word, a second term appears to refer to
the emotional response of the audience more unequivocally. The willingly
deceived spectator is wiser than the undeceived, because he is more easily
taken by pleasure than the insensitive, or, perhaps, the un-emotional
(nasqhton) person. This implies, then, that the spectator who allows
the cognitive deception of tragedy will be moved and therefore pleased.
Modern theorists wonder whether the spectator is moved in this instance in
the same way in which he would be in a data-based situation, but Gorgias
does not seem to worry about this. Once the spectator accepts the illusion,
he will be easily moved and pleased in truth. The fictional deception, so
it seems, concerns only the cognitive function, not the emotional reaction

39
Audiences are often not aware that they are told lies in Homer and Hesiod. Penelope, for
example, takes Odysseus fictional tale as a true story (Od. 19).
40
Radford (1975) and Walton (1990) give details; see my introductory discussion.
41
Mythos, the story adapted by dramatists, plot, becomes a key term in Aristotles Poetics.
42
LSJ, Ic pathos=pathema, emotion. See Konstan 2006, 17, for an illuminating outline of the
ambiguities of the Greek term and the difficulties involved in finding the right English translation.
43
In this respect, I am in agreement, among others, with Freeman 1952, 138, who translates mqoiv
ka pqhsin as legends and emotions, and with Franz 1999, 146, who translates the latter term
as Leidenschaften.
Gorgias: a strange trio, the poetic emotions 51
and the pleasure that derive from it.44 Pleasure becomes the final effect of
tragedy on the deceived but clever audience. Likewise, the author of the
Dissoi Logoi notes that poets pursue pleasure not truth:
ka to poihta o t pot lqeian, ll pot tv donv tn nqrpwn
t poimata poionti. (DK 90.3.17)
And the poets do not write their poems for truth, but for peoples pleasure.
The success of a tragedy comes, therefore, from a specific relationship
between poet and audience. False, in the sense of fictional, cognitive
premises can therefore produce authentic results. The tragedian has to
produce a dramatic illusion that is so credible that the spectator can let
himself be deceived and thus emotionally moved and pleased.45
44
According to Gorgias idea of apate, poets do not claim to present the truth and audiences do not
take them as authorities in this respect, although this is suggested in some Platonic dialogues (e.g.,
Ap. 22bc).
45
Heath 1987, 162, notes that in fifth-century Athens, the main expectation for the effect of tragedy
was pleasure, through the excitation of an intense emotional response, a kind of emotive-hedonist
theory.
chapter 3

Plato: from reality to tragedy and back

3.1 the problem with ordinary fear and aesthetic fear


Whatever is unknown, ought not to be feared. Death is unknown. There-
fore, death ought not to be feared. To reject the fear of death, Socrates
adopts an agnostic position in the Apology:
t gr toi qnaton dedinai, ndrev, odn llo stn doken sofn enai
m nta. doken gr ednai stn ok oden. ode mn gr oudev tn qnaton
od e tugcnei t nqrp pntwn mgiston n tn gaqn, dedasi d
v e edtev ti mgiston tn kakn sti. (Ap. 29a5b1)
For to fear death, Athenians, is none other than to seem that one is wise when one
is not, for it means to think that one knows what he does not know. For, truly, no
one knows whether death happens to be the greatest blessing of all; but men fear
it as if they knew well that it is the greatest of misfortunes.
After receiving the verdict of the jury and discovering that Meletus had
proposed the death penalty, Socrates is allowed to propose another pun-
ishment. But he refuses to do so, and instead proposes certain rewards
for himself, dismissing exile or imprisonment as alternatives to the capital
punishment.1 In his refusal to beg the jury for mercy, Socrates further spec-
ulates on the nature of death: either it means annihilation of all senses or
migration of the soul from one body to another (Ap. 40c). In the former
case, death might resemble a dreamless sleep, which comes as a blessing (Ap.
40de).2 In the latter case, Socrates outlines no theory of the transmigration
of the souls, as we might have expected judging by the original division,

In this chapter, I am not offering an exhaustive analysis of Platos treatment of poetry but, rather,
am concentrating on his views of fear and pity.
1
For issues of historical accuracy of the Platonic presentation of the verdict, see Hackforth 1933,
13573.
2
The Epicureans developed this line of thought: death is nothing to us and, therefore, we cannot
feel pain once the atoms that form our mind and body disintegrate. A basic outline of the Epicurean
take on the fear of death is offered, for example, by Konstan 2003b, 2467.

52
Plato: from reality to tragedy and back 53
but sketches an ironic, imaginary encounter with dead heroes in Hades
(Ap. 41ac), which he fancies as an entertaining rather than a terrifying
place.3 A more assertive Socrates proposes an account of the immortality
of the soul, in the Phaedo. When Cebes notes in this dialogue that people
fear that the soul might disappear after death (Phd.70ab), a point not too
dissimilar from one of the alternatives in the Apology, Socrates does not
seem to agree with this possibility. Instead, he remembers an old story
(Phd. 70c56) about the eternity of the souls of the dead that must return
to animate the living, which forms the so-called cyclical argument, Phd.
70c72e).4
Regardless of certain inconsistencies in the manner in which the charac-
ter of Socrates discusses theories regarding the afterlife, some features of the
rejection of fear, and particularly fear of death, remain consistent through-
out the Platonic dialogues. First and foremost, fear ought to be rejected on
ethical grounds: no one should act shamefully but should remain coura-
geous in front of danger. Thus, to use an analogy that works well in the
Apology, as a soldier ought never to abandon his post in face of danger, even
if he might lose his life, so the philosopher ought never to abandon his
philosophizing.5 Beyond the military analogy, the definition of courage,
especially its relationship with fear, appears to be a more complex mat-
ter in the Laches.6 For now, courage does not simply mean withstanding
the enemy alone, as Laches proposes (La. 190e192b), because, in certain
instances, it may be more profitable to flee the foe temporarily and later
engage in combat. On a larger scale, courage is not merely a matter of
endurance (La. 191e192b) but involves a kind of knowledge. And this
knowledge is not only of things terrible and hopeful, as Nicias argues
(La. 194c195b), but of something fuller, more encompassing, as Socrates
implies, namely of all things good and evil (La. 199ad).7 Finally, courage
3
E. Austin 2010 offers a reassessment of Socrates standpoint on the fear of death in the Apology, trying
to reconcile the philosophers various scenarios about what may come in the afterlife.
4
To this, Socrates adds the recollection argument (Phd. 72e377a5): knowledge is in fact remem-
brance, and the affinity argument (Phd. 78b484b8); the soul is akin to the unchanged, eternal
Forms.
5
Reeve 1989, 10819, emphasizes the role of Socrates as the soldier of Apollo: the philosopher is a
man who obeys the oracle and the moral law inside him.
6
Hobbes 2000 offers a stimulating discussion of the Platonic approaches to the concept of courage in
various dialogues (including the Laches) and their relationship with the traditional views of bravery
in Greek culture.
7
Similarly, as Socrates concludes in another dialogue (Prt. 360cd), courage comes from knowledge
or wisdom, whereas cowardice is ignorance. As Nill 1985, 48, observes, knowledge of what is moral
serves ones self-interest. Wolfsdorf 2008, 91, offers further comments on the various definitions of
courage in the Platonic dialogues, which often result from an effort to find a unified definition of
virtue(s).
54 Theoretical views about pity and fear
depends on an understanding of what virtue is overall (La. 200a201c),8
and this understanding inevitably leads to another argument in rejection
of fear. Thus, fear ought to be dismissed on epistemological grounds, in
addition to the ethical reasons. We have already seen that what people
consider to be terrifying, ought not to be so. Hence, upon a close analysis
of Socrates arguments, we discover that the major causes for fear in Greek
culture, such as death and imminent danger that would bring harm, prove
to be no reasons at all for the arousal of the emotion. Nobody should be
afraid of death (Apology and Phaedo), and one ought to avoid harming
others rather than be afraid of being wronged (Grg. 473a475e). Indeed,
only philosophers display true bravery and moderation, because they alone
know the meaning of these virtues (Phd. 68c69d). When ordinary people
seem moderate, they refrain from certain desires in order to pursue other,
more powerful pleasures. Likewise, most human beings consider death
among the greatest evils:9

Osqa, d v, ti tn qnaton gontai pntev o lloi tn meglwn


kakn;
Ka ml fh. (Phd. 68d56).
You know, dont you, he said, that all the other people consider death to be among
the worst calamities?
Absolutely, he responded.

When they face death, then, they do so to avoid a more terrifying danger
(Phd. 68d89). Therefore, oddly, with the exception of philosophers, peo-
ple seem courageous through their fearing and fear (t dedinai ra
ka dei, Phd.68d11), and thus through their cowardice. Unlike lay peo-
ple, philosophers perceive ordinary desires as immoderate and ordinary
fears as degrading reflections of ignorance, and therefore do not foster
them.10
What does this Platonic association between knowledge and courage
(hence absence of fear) have to do with poetry? Everything. Aesthetic
fear does not arise from the perception of immediate danger nor does it
predispose to actions that can be associated with cowardice. Nevertheless,

8
W. T. Schmid 1992, 13280, examines Socrates transformation and the expansion of Nicias defi-
nition of courage as knowledge.
9
Likewise, people consider death to be the greatest misfortune (Ap. 29ab).
10
As Bostock 1986, 32, observes, the Socratic reasoning could, in fact, apply to the philosopher as
well: he wants the pleasure of reasoning and fears to be deprived of it. But Socrates would not like
us to conclude that he is therefore intemperate and cowardly.
Plato: from reality to tragedy and back 55
myths and imagery, as used in epic and tragedy,11 can stir an emotion that is
no less despicable than ordinary fear. They often depict a gloomy picture of
immoral gods, based on an ignorant, un-philosophical view of the world.
These distorted poetical creations, therefore, ought not to be served to
children in their early education:
Mhd a p totwn napeiqmenai a mhtrev t paida kdeimatontwn,
lgousai tov mqouv kakv, v ra qeo tinev perircontai nktwr pollov
xnoiv ka pantodapov ndallmenoi, na m ma mn ev qeov blasfhmsin,
ma d tov padav pergzwntai deilotrouv. (R. 2.381e16)
Let us again not have mothers, convinced by these [poets], terrify their children,
by telling the stories in a wrong way, as supposedly some gods wander at night
in the shape of various strangers from foreign lands, so that they might neither
blaspheme the gods nor make their children more cowardly.
A strong emphasis is placed in the second book, as elsewhere in the Repub-
lic, on the falsity of the poetic subjects. Let no poet entirely lie to us
(katayeudsqw mhdev, R. 2.381d4), let the tragedians not lie to us (m
mn yeudsqwn, R. 2.381e1). Indeed, in this respect, Plato and the Sophists
appear to share the belief that poetry does not present the truth, but have
different concerns about its effects upon the audience. While Gorgias noted
that tragedy produces an illusion, he hoped that the spectator would be
able to go along with it (i.e. let himself be deceived) in order to experi-
ence true pleasure and emotions (we infer), which he seemed to consider
desirable results. Plato, on the other hand, worries that the spectator will be
duped by the poets and enticed into pleasure and emotions derived from
the fanciful stories, which, we shall see, may seem desirable but are in fact
undesirable.12
Most of all, the terrifying descriptions of the underworld in poetry
encourage fear of death, which philosophers should expel from their lives.
Indeed, as we have seen, the philosopher envisions death as either a neutral
event (Apology) or as a blessing that frees the immortal soul from the
captivity of the body (Phaedo). By contrast, Homer and the tragedians
describe heroes who do not want to die, in a gloomy underworld (R. 3.386
8), and such scenes do not inspire courage; but tales should be uplifting:

11
Homer and the tragedians will be discussed together, since Plato groups them habitually (R. 2, 3).
Most examples of fear-inspiring poetry analyzed subsequently are taken from the Homeric poems
(R. 3). Nonetheless, the arguments pertain to tragedies as well, and the conclusion concerns Homer
and the other poets that write in a similar way (R. 3.387b12).
12
An acknowledgment that sad, terrifying stories do provide pleasure occurs, for instance, in R. 3.387a
b.
56 Theoretical views about pity and fear
e mllousin enai ndreoi, ra o tat te lekton ka oa atov poisai
kista tn qnaton dedinai; (R. 3.386a67)
If they [the guardians] are going to be courageous, shouldnt they be told stories
of the sort that can make them fear death least?
Socrates thus asks rhetorically: who do you think will not be afraid of
death (oei tin qantou de sesqai, R. 3.386b45), if he imagines
the traditional, poetic afterworld? Objections to the poetic descriptions of
the gods were not new in Greek culture. Xenophanes of Colophon and
Heraclitus of Ephesus had already raised ethical objections to the way in
which poets describe the behavior of heroes, or gods, which Plato reinforces
(R. 3.386).13 But Plato offers clear alternatives to the poetic myths. Perhaps
most disturbingly, the traditional Homeric and tragic depictions of the
underworld offer no clear hierarchy of souls, based on the virtue of a warrior
or on his wisdom. Thus, the first example quoted by Socrates (R. 3.386c) to
illustrate the desolation of the Homeric Hades is the complaint of the dead
Achilles,14 who tells Odysseus that he would rather labor as a poor worker to
a landless man than be king over the dead. By contrast, if the philosopher
presents a myth of the afterlife, such as the myth of Er (R. 10.61421),
the pursuit of virtue in life brings rewards to ones soul after death. The
pessimistic vision of the underworld of the poet contradicts the optimistic
view of the philosopher,15 and represents the key to understanding Platos
rejection of fear and, by extension, we shall see, pity as aesthetic
emotion. Tragic fear is dangerous because it may be reminiscent of what
we might call data-based fear. The heros lamenting his imminent death
or his life in Hades will remind the spectator of his own mortality and only
serve to frighten him for no good reason.
On closer examination, however, Platos references to epic and tragic
characters are not consistently critical.16 Tragic heroes do not always com-
plain about their fate, and not all tragic models need to be rejected at all

13
Greek philosophers were not the only ones sustaining that traditional, mythological ideas about
gods are impious and mistaken. Challenges to the mythological conception of deity appear in Greek
tragedies as well (most prominently, E. Her. 13416); on the topic, see Mikalson 1991, 22536.
14
West 2007, 4024, discusses Achilles as a reflection of an Indo-European model of a hero who
values fame above his life. On Achilles as a hero whose courage ought not be considered a model
of virtue according to Plato, see Hobbes 2000, 199209. Blondell 2002, 87 and note 173, has noted
Platos emphasis on the superiority of the virtue of Socrates over that of Achilles.
15
Naddaff 2002, 3753, underlines the contrast between the terrifying poetic myths and the philoso-
phers ideals in the Republic.
16
Similarly, Platos use of the concept of mimesis is not univocal throughout his dialogues, as Halliwell
2002, 38, warns, neither is his critique of the concept of poetic enthusiasm, which might be
sometimes viewed positively, as Buttner 2000 has shown.
Plato: from reality to tragedy and back 57
times. In fact, in the Apology, for example, Socrates invites the audience to
follow a playful comparison between himself and other traditional heroes.17
Socrates considers Achilles to be a model of bravery, since he freely chose
to fight Hector after the death of Patroclus, even though he knew that he
himself was sure to perish (Ap. 28cd). Likewise, Socrates is willing to face
his death for the sake of philosophy.18 If a type of Homeric Hades exists,
Socrates speculates, he would gladly die several times (Ap. 41a). He even
imagines how pleasant it would be to meet with heroes who have died
unjustly, such as Palamedes and Ajax:19
Epe moige ka at qaumast n eh diatrib atqi, pte ntcoimi
Palamdei ka Aanti t Telamnov ka e tiv llov tn palain di krsin
dikon tqnhken, ntiparabllonti t mauto pqh prv t kenwn. (Ap.
41b14)
For this way of spending time would be marvelous there [in Hades] for me, when
I met Palamedes and Ajax, son of Telamon, and any other of the heroes of old,
who died because of an unjust trial, comparing my experiences with theirs.
Through this direct comparison between experiences or sufferings
(pqh), we can notice some fundamental similarities between the tragic
heroes and the philosopher. Both the literary hero and the philosopher have
to endure unjust suffering (specifically, in this passage they endure an
unjust verdict, krsin dikon), which is usually a fundamental condition
for arousing tragic pity. Both Socrates and a hero such as Achilles may face
death bravely, although this is not always the case in epic or tragedy. Indeed,
the fate of Socrates is reminiscent of a tragic plot,20 best sketched in the
Phaedo: undeserved suffering, wrongful conviction, and death.21 Despite
the tragic premise, nevertheless, no one ought to feel pity for the philoso-
pher about to die nor should he fear his own death, since death, freeing the

17
Cf. Phd. 115a56.
18
To a careful observer, Socrates is more courageous than Achilles, for the Homeric hero faces death,
while fearing much more (pol d mllon desav, Ap. 28c10) fearing to live cowardly and
not to avenge his friend. Yet, this is the prototype of the ordinary courage, caused by a greater
fear, which is criticized elsewhere (Phd. 68d69). On Platos intention to replace Achilles with the
new model of the virtuous philosopher, see, for example, Halliwell (1984); Nussbaum 1986, 138; P.
Murray 2003, 810.
19
On Platos appropriation of the tragedy of Palamedes in other dialogues, see Nightingale 1996,
1524.
20
Socrates, whom Plato presents as prominent in virtue and entirely innocent, however, does not
meet Aristotles criteria for the right type of character in a tragic plot (cf. Po. 13.1453a89); I thank
one of the anonymous referees for this point.
21
Several studies have well underscored the dramatic setting of Phaedo, which is reminiscent of
tragedy, yet proposing a new ethical model of life for example, Nussbaum 1986, 87233 and
37894; for a different perspective, see Gilead 1994, 10928, and Halliwell 2002, 1068.
58 Theoretical views about pity and fear
soul from the bodily chains, may prove to be the greatest blessing. Exam-
ples of courage are, therefore, incidental and not intrinsic to tragedy and
epic. On the other hand, truly brave is Socrates, the philosophical hero.
Overall, even if the heroes of traditional myth face death with courage,
they still deplore it; indeed, even the gods lament the impending death of
their mortal sons.22 Socrates courage comes from wisdom: there is nothing
to fear in reality. Thus, the conclusion is simple. People fear many things,
and particularly death, as the Platonic Socrates confirms: this is the norm.
But they ought not to because the emotion emerges from ignorance. As
the philosopher insists, there must be no reason for feeling fear at all
mind this, modern psychologists much less a reason for experiencing the
aesthetic fear inspired by poetic descriptions.

3.2 aesthetic emotions: impure pleasures,


false knowledge
A critique of the sophistic views of tragedy as a type of rhetoric is sketched
in the Gorgias, a dialogue composed around 385 bce.23 In a digression
(501d502), Socrates argues that all musical and dramatic performances,
such as flute-playing, cithara-singing, dithyrambic choruses, and tragedy,
are designed only to please the audience. Callicles, the interlocutor, assents
promptly, as Socrates uses conventional ideas about the audience response
to tragedy.24 The composition of tragedy has one main purpose: to gratify
the mass of spectators, without being concerned with what would be
(morally) useful:
SW. T d d semn ath ka qaumast, tv tragdav pohsiv, f
spodaken; ptern stin atv t picerhma ka spoud, v so doke,
carzesqai tov qeatav mnon, ka diamcesqai, n ti atov d mn ka
kecarismnon, ponhrn d, pwv toto mn m re, e d ti tugcnei hdv ka
flimon, toto d ka lxei ka
setai, nte carwsin, nte m; potrwv
soi doke pareskeusqai tn tragdin pohsiv;
KA. Dlon d toto ge, Skratev, ti prv tn donn mllon rmhtai
ka t carzesqai tov qeatav. (502b1c1)
So. Then what about this superb and marvelous pursuit, the composition of
tragedy, and its concern? Is it its undertaking and its concern, in your opinion, just
to gratify the spectators? Or does it struggle, if anything is pleasant and satisfying to
them [spectators], but ignoble, to avoid saying it; and if something is unpleasant,

22 23
R. 3.388cd. Dodds 1990, 1827, remains a great introduction to the text.
24
Irwin 1979, 21119, links the excursus on tragedy in the Gorgias to other passages expressing Platos
views about poetry.
Plato: from reality to tragedy and back 59
yet advantageous, to say and sing this, whether they enjoy it or not? Which of these
two purposes do you think that the composition of tragedies is prepared to serve?
Ca. This is quite obvious, Socrates, that it concentrates on pleasure and on grati-
fying the spectators.
Therefore, tragedy is a species of flattery and, furthermore, a type of popular
rhetoric:25
SW. okon htorik dhmhgora n eh o htoreein dokosi soi o
poihta n tov qetroiv; (502d23)
Then [tragedy] should be popular rhetoric. Dont the poets, after all, seem to you
to deliver speeches in theaters?
Poetry was commonly expected to delight the listener, but the Sophists seem
to have drawn attention to the association between pleasure and tragedy.
Gorgias declared the pleasure, hedone, of the audience the ultimate goal
of tragic illusion, apate, (fr. 23 DK) and talked about the power of the
Logos, which included both poetry and oratory in the Encomium to Helen.
Similarly, the anonymous Sophist writer, a contemporary of Gorgias, noted
that the tragedian was primarily concerned with pleasure, not with truth
(Diss. Log. 90.3.17). Plato launches an attack against these views, firstly
by restating them: tragic genre aims at pleasing the spectators, not at
expressing what is good; and, secondly, by dissociating the pleasurable
from the morally good.26 Platos criticism can be thus summarized: tragic
performances are judged by the pleasures they produce; yet, pleasure does
not derive from the principles of truth and, in fact, tragedies reflect no
skill.27 Plato refers to the expectations for the genre as a way to rebuke
poets in general. Moreover, he implies that tragic pleasure, felt by the mob
of spectators, comes from vulgar instinct, which is divorced from reason.
In another dialogue, the Philebus, Plato uses a different argument to
dismiss tragic pleasure. Among other topics, this dialogue treats the concept
of pleasure, whose definition appears to have preoccupied the philosophers
of the time.28 Generally, when the natural balance of a living organism is
destroyed, the restoration of the balance is called pleasure:

25
Kahn 1983.
26
Kamtekar 2008 offers a reappraisal of the differences between Plato and the Sophists with respect
to the function of poetry and the other arts in the education of the young.
27
Janaway 1995, 4351.
28
The question of whether pleasure can be regarded as good was of importance in the Academy,
and was raised again in Aristotles ethical works. A rigid, anti-hedonist position was adopted by
Speusippus, while the opposite view was sustained by Eudoxus. Overall discussions on the subject
can be found, for example, in Guthrie 1978, 44768, and Gosling and Taylor 1982.
60 Theoretical views about pity and fear
Otan mn toto fqerhtai, tn mn fqorn lphn enai, tn d ev tn atn
osan dn, tathn d a plin tn nacrhsin pntwn donn. (32b24)
When this [the balance of an organism] is destroyed, [we say that] the destruction
is pain, while the return of things towards their own nature, the restoration of all
things, is pleasure.
Reparation (nacrhsiv, 32b4) and refilling (plrwsiv plin, 31e8)
characterize pleasure,29 but the definition concludes with a complicated
psychological addendum. Pain constitutes the condition sine qua non for
pleasure, inasmuch as emptiness precedes fulfillment. Nevertheless, the
two pairs are not exactly alike. While no living being can do without
ongoing lack and replenishment, distress and pleasure are felt only at
irregular intervals and only if the lack and replenishment are experienced
to extremes.30 According to this description, pleasure appears to be mixed,
because it includes both satisfaction and pain.31
Mixed pleasures (46c50e) could pertain to the body alone, to a combi-
nation of body and soul, and, finally, to the soul alone. Socrates convinces
Protagoras that anger and emulation enter in the last category (Phlb. 47e),32
together with dirges and longing in which pleasures mingle with pains
(ka tv n tov qrnoiv ka pqoiv donv n lpaiv osav namemigm-
nav, Phlb. 48a12) and watching tragedy. Spectators of tragic performances
feel joy and distress simultaneously:
SW. Ka mn ka tv ge tragikv qewrseiv, tan ma carontev klwsi,
mmnhsai; (Phlb. 48a56)
And do you remember tragic performances, when people weep at the same time
as they rejoice?
After the example of tragedy, a much more extended account of comedy
follows (Phlb. 48a850a). Similarly, comedy induces both pleasure and pain
in its spectators, and the discussion ends with a strange conclusion:

29
Cf. Ti. 64cd, in which the nature of pain and pleasure is conceived as an affection (pqov)
that suddenly disturbs the balanced state, thus producing pain, or restores it, thus producing
pleasure.
30
Riel (2000a) examines various Platonic definitions of pleasure as well as the Aristotelian criticism
of them in the EN.
31
When someone refills his lack by drinking, for example, that person still feels the pain of being
thirsty (35ab). Pleasure is also false (42c44a), in the sense that it exceeds the neutral, normal state,
in which lack and replenishment coexist, without producing pain and pleasure, the excessive states.
Riel 1999 has shown that the description of false and mixed pleasures is both derived from and
consistent with the main definition of pleasure.
32
R. G. Bury 1897, 107, compares the definition of anger in this dialogue, a combination of pleasure
and pain, to Aristotles definition of anger (Rh. 2.1378a302).
Plato: from reality to tragedy and back 61
SW. Mhnei d nn lgov mn n qrnoiv te ka n tragdaiv <ka
kwmdaiv>, m tov drmasi mnon ll ka t to bou sumps
tragd ka kwmd, lpav donav ma kernnusqai, ka n lloiv d
muroiv. (Phlb. 50b14)
So the account now reveals to us that in dirges and in tragedies <and in
comedies>,33 not only in dramas, but also in the entire tragedy and comedy of
life, as well as in countless of different instances, pains are blended with pleasures.
Socrates denouement contains the bizarre suggestion that the aesthetic
delight experienced by the audience of tragedies coincides with common
pleasure in real life and, therefore, it is undesirably mixed with suffering.34
Conversely, the dialogue proposes a different type of pleasure, which does
not involve any deficiency or pain.35 In fact, this category stands above the
restoration of lack discussed above, for it includes the pure pleasures
(kaqara dona, Phlb. 52c2) of learning and consists of contemplation
of sheer beauty, such as the intellectual pleasure of admiring a geometrical
form (Phlb. 51c).36 Thus, the dialogue lists the delight felt by the audience
of tragedy among common, false, and impure pleasures. Tragic pleasure is
predetermined by distress, and to this Plato opposes the exceptional, true,
and pure pleasures of the philosophizing intellect.
Plato originally develops the concept of imitation, mimesis, in art, espe-
cially in the Republic.37 My following analysis will mainly focus on Platos
critique of tragic pity and will not deal with the nuances of the philoso-
phers arguments about the nature and functions of poetry in his ideal
city, which I present only very schematically, to the extent to which the
topic serves my argument.38 Generally, in Book Ten, imitative poetry and
painting are seen as third-rate copies of reality.39 The Forms constitute the

33
The text is corrupt and most editors accept the suggestion of Hermann (1952) and in comedies,
but the text sounds somewhat tautological with the addition.
34
Benardete 1993, 60, remarks that the passage conveys a unique imagery: This is the first known
instance of such an expression, whereby tragedy and comedy characterize life itself. Such a privilege
was never extended, as far as I know, to any other poetic form.
35
On the distinction between authentic and counterfeit pleasures in the Phlb., see Frede 1985 and
Hampton 1987. Hampton 1990, 5179, provides further comments on Platos classification of
pleasures according to knowledge.
36
Blondell (2002) 80112, contrasts the mimetic pedagogy offered by philosophy with the inferior
pedagogy of poetry.
37
Else 1958.
38
A useful summary of the complex problems surrounding poetic imitation in the Republic, as well
as the scholarly debates that they have stirred, is offered, for example, by Belfiore 2006, 879.
39
Yet, Plato allows some forms of poetry in his city, such as hymns and encomia (R. 10.607a). But
are these types of poetry mimetic in the same sense in which tragedy and epic are? On this
question, see, for instance Belfiore 2006, 87, with note 2. Keuls 1978, 3347, has examined the
analogy between poetry and painting in the Platonic dialogues; for the association between the two
62 Theoretical views about pity and fear
true reality, the sensible world represents a copy. Poetry and painting imi-
tate things belonging to the sensible world, so that they are imitations of
imitations.40 Consequently, artists and poets know nothing of the essence,
but only of the appearance.41 Book Ten of the Republic presents several psy-
chological arguments that give further reasons to dismiss the enchantment
of tragedy. In earlier passages (R. 4.434d444e), Plato claimed that human
beings may be exposed to conflicts, due to the complex composition of the
soul. A reasoning part of the soul is devoted to rationality and knowledge,
a second part to appetites, and a third, the emotional part, to anger and
the desire for honor. He restates the theme of the contradictory aspects
of the self, in a simpler, binary manner in Book Ten.42 On the one hand,
the better part of us resides in the rational (logistikn) division of the
soul (R. 10.602d603a5); its function is to correct our beliefs in accordance
with the criteria of calculation. On the other hand, an inferior part of us is
prone to accepting illusions, such as poetic works (R. 10.603a7b5).43 Thus,
the subject of mimetic arts is merely illusion, but the emotional participa-
tion of the audience presents a real threat for the soul. The analogy with
painting, for instance, often present when poetry is described as illusion, is
abandoned when Plato discusses the emotional dangers of epic and tragedy.
Moreover, the internal turmoil of the soul is caused by the so-perceived
vicissitudes of life. If someones child dies, for example, that parent wishes
he could abandon himself to endless lament; the rational part of the soul,
nevertheless, pondering the fragility of human matters, and, as we may
remember, the fact that death should not be feared, urges us to adopt an
apathetic attitude toward death (R. 10.604bd). Most importantly, one has
to subdue his desire to grieve, especially in public, rather than yield to it
(R. 10.604c). While the rational soul measures our acts, advocating con-
trol, the other petulant (ganakthtikv) part conducts itself childishly,
wanting to yield to emotion. Finally, Socrates asserts, we have brought the
greatest charge (mgiston kathgorkamen, R. 10.605c5) against poetry:

arts particularly in the Republic, see also Halliwell 2002, 5861, and, generally, comparing Plato and
Aristotle, Halliwell 1998, 535.
40
Again, I am presenting here a simplified version of the complex problems related to mimetic
painting and poetry in Plato; for a more detailed discussion, see, for example, Benediktson 2000,
4153.
41
R. 10.597601b. Essential treatments of the Platonic mimesis can be found in Tate 1932, Golden
1975, Belfiore 1984 (=2006, with additions), Osborne 1987, and Halliwell 2002, 37150.
42
There is a basic distinction between the rational soul and the other parts of the soul (R. 4). This
distinction is still maintained in R. 10 but in a simplified version, in which the rational part ought
to continue to govern us, as pointed out by Annas 1981, 1426.
43
As Halliwell 1988, 1369, notes, a transition is made from the intellectual to the psychological
problems of mimetic poetry.
Plato: from reality to tragedy and back 63
O gr pou bltistoi mn kromenoi Omrou llou tinv trag-
dopoin mimoumnou tin tn rwn n pnqei nta ka makrn sin
potenonta n tov durmov ka
dontv te ka koptomnouv, osq ti
caromn te ka ndntev mv atov pmeqa sumpscontev, ka spoud-
zontev painomen v gaqn poihtn, v n mv ti mlista otw diaq.
(R. 10.605c9d5)
Therefore, the best of us, I think, when we listen to a passage of Homer, or of one
of the tragedians, in which the poet imitates one of the pitiful heroes in distress and
expressing his sorrows in a long oration, or imitates people weeping and beating
their breast the best of us, you know, rejoice and giving way we follow these
characters, suffering along with them, and eagerly we praise as a good poet the one
who mostly affects us thus.
A first description of aesthetic pleasure is thus outlined: audiences of both
genres (epic and tragedy) take delight in performances, because they can
express sympathy for the fictional suffering. We, spectators, follow in
experiencing/suffering along with the characters (pmeqa sumpscon-
tev, R. 605d34), and, therefore, it is our emotional participation in fic-
tional suffering that leads to enjoyment. Plato uses here a formula rem-
iniscent of Gorgias wording, which concerned the poetic events, the
actions of others (llotrwn pragmtwn, Hel. 9).44 In this book
of the Republic, the expression anothers experience/misfortune, the
experiences/misfortunes of others appears twice (lltriou . . . pqouv,
R. 10.604e56) as well as in a subsequent passage, (lltria pqh,
R. 10.606b1). While Gorgias simply notes that the adventures of others
can arouse the listeners emotions, Plato argues here that our participation
in these foreign affairs allows a kind of subconscious expression of emo-
tions for others that we in fact feel for ourselves. Although Plato recognizes
the process by which poets are able to enrapture their audiences, he argues,
nevertheless, that painful emotions should be restrained in everyday life,
since they belong to the weaker side of ones self.45 Spectators enjoy show-
ing commiseration with the misfortunes of others, without realizing that,
by doing so, they become more inclined to emotional outbursts when
misfortunes befall them in life:
E nqumoo ti t b katecmenon tte n tav okeaiv sumforav ka
pepeinhkv to dakrsa te ka podrasqai kanv ka poplhsqnai,

44
For a brief comparison between Plato and Gorgias on this subject, see Janaway 1995, 148, and
Belfiore 1983, 59.
45
Platos ethics determine to a large extent the critique of aesthetic pleasure and emotions as perilous
for the audience in the R. 10, as Nussbaum 1986, 12257, argues. Nehamas 1988 compares Platos
critique of poetry to modern criticism of television.
64 Theoretical views about pity and fear
fsei n toioton oon totwn piqumen, tt stn toto t p tn poi-
htn pimplmenon ka caron t d fsei bltiston mn, te oc kanv
pepaideumnon lg od qei, nhsin tn fulakn to qrhndouv to-
tou, te lltria pqh qewron ka aut odn ascrn n, e llov
nr gaqv fskwn enai karwv penqe, toton painen ka leen, ll
keno kerdanein getai, tn donn, ka ok n dxaito atv sterhqnai
katafronsav lou to poimatov. Logzesqai gr, omai, lgoiv tisn
mtestin ti polaein ngkh p tn llotrwn ev t okea. Qryanta
gr n kenoiv scurn t leinn o r dion n tov ato pqesi katcein.
(R. 10.606a3b8)
If you consider that the part (of the soul) that is barely controlled in our personal
misfortunes and has been anxious to weep and to lament sufficiently, as it is, by
nature, desirous of this, is the very part that receives fulfillment from poets and
enjoys it; the part which is best in us, if not educated through rationality and
habit, relaxes its guard over this mourning, because it watches over the sufferings
of another, and it is no shame for itself if it praises and pities another man, if
he, saying that he is good, grieves excessively. Furthermore, there is, one thinks,
a certain gain, namely pleasure, and one would not like being deprived of it, by
despising the whole drama. Only a few reflect, I think, that this enjoyment must
affect us, transferring from the spectacle of anothers suffering to ones own, and
the one who has nurtured and strengthened the part of him that feels pity at those
[dramas] will not find it easy to refrain from it at the time of his own misfortune.
Pity is regarded here as one of the essential emotions that the audi-
ence experiences in response to tragedy (to feel pity, leen, 606b3; the
pitiable, leinn, 606b8) and is described as fundamentally connected with
tragic pleasure. Remarkably, the spectators pity not only depends on the
misfortunes represented within the drama, but is especially elicited when
the hero declares that he is good and that he suffers untimely (karwv,
606b2).46 To some extent, this idea corresponds to later Aristotelian state-
ments about pity being elicited at the sight of noble tragic characters,
who suffer undeservedly. As in the Philebus, Plato here associates tragic
emotion with mourning and, more specifically, with a secret pleasure of
expressing sorrow for oneself. Moreover, he goes a step further and suggests
that audiences of tragedies unleash their inclination to lament and relax
the watch over the grieving part (to qrhndouv, R. 10.606b1) of the
soul, by sympathizing with the fictional characters in misfortune. As Ferrari
has remarked, Plato is not unaware of the idea of aesthetic distance, but he

46
Plato does not say that the tragic hero is good, but that he asserts that he is so. Janaway 1995, 150,
for example, translates karwv with excessively, which I have adopted in my translation, but
I believe that the adverb still maintains its initial meaning, untimely, which may also suggest
undeservedly.
Plato: from reality to tragedy and back 65
launches an attack upon such a phenomenon.47 He claims that people do
not realize when they are involved in tragic fiction and that expressing sym-
pathy for characters could affect their own emotional state in everyday life,
and, therefore, they embrace tragic pleasure. It happens that few ponder
(lgizesqai . . . lgoiv, R. 10.606b56) the danger that lurks behind the
supposed aesthetic detachment. Thus, because of the tragic pleasure of
sympathizing with the suffering of others, the tragic heroes, the spectators
become unable to refrain from lamentations and public mourning in their
own lives.
But why is it shameful (ascrn, R. 10.606b2) to lament in public,
after all? Interestingly, Socrates does not admonish against feeling sorrow
quietly and privately when one is faced with personal loss (R. 10.603e604).
In this book of the Republic, there is no direct reiteration of the argument
that death ought not to be feared at all, and thus no rational basis to
feel pity and sorrow for someone dying. Nevertheless, the myth of Er that
follows shortly proposes a happy exit from life for the follower of philos-
ophy. As shown above, Plato suggests that fear of mortality be considered
unfounded, although it was seen as data-based by his contemporaries,
since there is no reason to be afraid of the end of life. But again, fear of
death seems to be instinctive, ingrained in the inferior part of the soul
and therefore must be restrained with the help of philosophy. Pity for the
tragic characters who lament their fate feeds our own desire to lament the
death of our loved ones, which we fear instinctively, but irrationally.
In conclusion, Plato starts from general expectations about tragedy, to
impugn the effect of the genre on the audience. In spite of his opposition
to some Sophistic ideas on moral grounds, his account of the specta-
tors response to tragedy recognizes tragic pleasure and grievous emotions,
notions already present in Gorgias remarks. Some discrepancies can be
observed in the Platonic treatment of the emotional response to tragedy. In
the Gorgias, he implies that tragedy is a popular genre, enjoyed by crowds,
yet disparaged by the elite. In the Republic, nevertheless, he admits that
even the best of us, the elite, takes delight in watching tragedies. The
Philebus propounds the view that spectators feel base, mixed pleasure,
and suggests as an alternative pure, intellectual pleasure. By contrast, the
Republic does not condemn tragic pleasure per se, but the pernicious corre-
lation between pleasure and tragic emotions. Despite the differences and
inconsistencies, many common features recur in Platos critique of tragedy.
Throughout his works, it is assumed that tragedians want to please their
47
Ferrari 1989.
66 Theoretical views about pity and fear
audiences and that spectators experience pleasure when attending tragic
performances. In addition, tragic pleasure is accompanied by grievous
emotions. As aesthetic pleasure resembles the inferior type of pleasures,
corrupted by pain in real life (Philebus),48 real life emotions are likewise
influenced by aesthetic pity, in which spectators indulge while watching
tragedies (Republic). Correspondingly, there is a blurred boundary between
real and aesthetic experiences, which Plato considers morally dangerous
for the Athenian audience. The major problem with aesthetic pity, there-
fore, derives from the fact that it cannot remain an emotion for another,
confined to the realm of drama; it ultimately pertains to the spectators
own self and to his fear of loss and death in real life. And, aesthetic or not,
fear implies cowardice.

3.3 philosophical drama and the transformed


tragic emotions
Platos equivocal treatment of poetic inspiration has been often noted.49
The poet may be inspired, and yet, he himself has no knowledge and,
therefore, cannot transmit any knowledge to the audience.50 While criti-
cizing poetry, however, Plato does not hesitate to choose examples from
tragedy to sustain his arguments51 and to appropriate poetic imagery.52
The Phaedo and the end of the Republic endorse myths that are essen-
tially tragic.53 Platos model citizens in the Laws make the most astonishing
announcement to the tragedians, who ask for permission to enter the city:
W ristoi, fnai, tn xnwn, mev smn tragdav ato poihta kat
dnamin ti kallsthv ma ka rsthv. Psa on mn politea sunsthke
mmhsiv to kallstou ka rstou bou, d famen mev ge ntwv enai
tragdan tn lhqestthn. Poihta mn on mev, poihta d ka mev
smn tn atn, mn nttecno te ka ntagwnista to kallstou dr-
matov. (Lg. 7.817b18)
Most honored citizens, we are tragedians ourselves, and our tragedy is the finest
and the greatest, to the best of our ability. However, our whole state has been
established so as to be a mimesis of the finest and noblest life the very thing we

48
Nummenmaa 1998, 106112, discusses Platos account of emotions in the context of modern
psychological and aesthetic theories of emotions.
49 50
Velardi 1989 and Buttner 2000, 255365. Cf. Ap. 22bc, Lg. 4.719c, and Ion 534b.
51
T. Gould 1990, 1518, analyzes several instances of quotations of tragedy and the significance of
tragic characters in the Platonic dialogues (e.g., Oedipus and Orestes exemplify the consequences
of the leading desirous part of the soul R. 9.571bd). See further on the dialogues as dramas Arieti
1991 and J. Gordon 1999, 6492.
52 53
Nightingale 1996, 13372. Halliwell 1984.
Plato: from reality to tragedy and back 67
maintain is the truest tragedy. Then, you are poets, we ourselves are poets too,
composing in the same genre, and your competitors as artists and actors in the
finest drama.
The passage provides the best example of how Platonic philosophy usurps
the function of poetry in Greek culture. Though relegating tragedy, Plato
implicitly recognizes its merits. The Platonic philosophy itself is implicitly
defined here as imitation, mimesis of the finest and noblest life (mmhsiv
to kallstou ka rstou bou), a phrase that almost anticipates the
Aristotelian definition of tragedy as mimesis of a noble action (mmhsiv
prxewv spoudaav, Po. 6.1449b24). Yet, Plato transfers his philosoph-
ical tragedy to the civic life and the pursuit of justice. By implying that
philosophy becomes the only true art and the highest form of art, Platos
philosopher becomes a spectator of a superior performance, but his expe-
rience nevertheless resembles that of the spectator of tragedy.54
What are the appropriate emotions in response to philosophy that
replaces art? Phaedo, the character in Platos homonymous dialogue, pro-
vides us with a fascinating answer, as he becomes a spectator of Socrates
death. The stage of the dialogue resembles the premise of a tragic plot: the
condemnation of a man who seems to be innocent and righteous. Phaedo
recalls his reactions to the death of Socrates as follows:
Ka mn gwge qaumsia paqon paragenmenov ote gr v qant
parnta me ndrv pithdeou leov es ei (Phd. 58e13)
I have experienced something amazing, while being present there with Socrates
for no pity came over me, as [it should have come] over a man present at the death
of a friend.
This denial of pity has an immediate explanation. Unlike the typical
tragic character who laments his fate in long speeches and beats his chest
(R. 10.605cd), Socrates seemed peacefully happy (edamwn, Phd. 58e3)
when he had to face his death, with respect to both his behavior and
language (ka to trpou ka tn lgwn, Phd. 58e4). Furthermore,
the absence of pity relates to an absence of fear on two levels. Firstly,
Phaedo observed no fear in Socrates, the transformed tragic character:
so fearlessly and nobly did he meet his death (v dev ka gennawv
teleta, Phd. 58e45). Secondly, he felt no fear for Socrates, as he rea-
soned that the philosopher would fare well in Hades (Phd. 58e559a1). In
conclusion, Phaedo reinforces the point that no ordinary feeling of pity

54
The audience of Socrates, such as Alcibiades (Smp. 215e), often experiences a type of philosophic
rapture that resembles the poetic one; on this, see Belfiore 1992, 2201.
68 Theoretical views about pity and fear
entered his mind (di d tata odn pnu moi leinn es ei, Phd.
59a12).55 If culturally pity is to be defined as a response to the undeserved
suffering of another, the emotion cannot form, it seems, if the other (i.e.
Socrates) does not perceive his experience as suffering. What does Phaedo
feel after all? If he does not feel the common tragic pity, he does not feel
the pure pleasure of philosophy, which is recommended in the Philebus,
either. Instead, he experiences an uncanny mixture of pleasure mingled
with pain (krsiv p te tv donv sugkekramnh mo ka p tv
lphv, Phd. 59a67): pain at the thought that Socrates soon had to die.
But isnt this the type of mixed feeling that we see criticized in the Philebus
and the Republic? Not quite. Phaedo seems to feel a certain amount of grief
when he realizes that he would lose Socrates. Yet, this grief is devoid of the
common tragic emotions. Socrates is not afraid of death, his disciple does
not fear for Socrates, and learns from the master-philosopher not to fear
death for himself. And pity cannot form in the absence of fear. Thus, even
though the disciple cannot experience the pure pleasure of philosophy at
the time of the death of Socrates, he, as a follower of the new philosophical
art, has the means to attain it eventually.
As Phaedo describes a personal model of emotional experience that tran-
scends tragic pity, the Athenian Stranger prescribes to an ideal community
a type of emotion that refines and completely transforms the common
fear. Under the influence of wine, when people become carelessly bold,
they should practice diminishing their shamelessness to such a low level
that they would become terrified of venturing to say, experience, or do
anything shameful (foberov d ev t ti tolmn kstote lgein
pscein ka drn ascrn tion, Lg. 1.649d12).56 Dionysus (Lg.
2.672), his festival, and the enthusiastic intoxication with wine ought to
stir not the fear of tragedy but a kind of divine fear that we have called
modesty and shame (n ad te ka acnhn qeon fbon nomkamen,
Lg. 2.671d23). This philosophical type of fear-reverence is, therefore, a
type of emotion opposite to the common fear.57 While regular fear rep-
resents a response to a perceived imminent danger or injustice that could
harm the subject, fear-reverence represents an emotional attitude that is
55
Rowe 1993, 112, argues in his commentary that we should understand: odn pnu . . . leinn to
mean almost no pity rather than absolutely no pity. The important point, I think, is that pity,
in its usual cultural sense, does not fit Phaedos emotional experience.
56
Belfiore 1986 discusses the prescriptions about wine-drinking, a Dionysian activity (Lg. 1 and 2),
for Platos psychology of the emotions and his aesthetic views. Kuhns article (1941) contains great
insights into Platos critique of the tragic emotions see especially 33 for some illuminating remarks
on the nature of fear in the Laws.
57
Palumbo 2001, 87101, well emphasizes several unusual connotations of fear in Platos Laws.
Plato: from reality to tragedy and back 69
designed to prevent anything that could cause harm and injustice to oth-
ers. If tragedy ultimately stirs regular fear, particularly fear of death, and
thus makes the citizens more cowardly than before, the philosophical fear-
reverence of doing wrong never leads to cowardice (Lg. 3.699cd). The
performance of philosophy teaches and gladdens the spectator better than
the drama of weak and unreasonable emotions. The follower of Socrates
becomes a spectator who knows that fear, especially fear of death, has no
rational cause. And, since there is no data-based fear, there cannot be any
pity, but only pure pleasure and the enthusiastic discovery of higher truth.
chapter 4

Aristotle: the first theorist of the aesthetic emotions

4.1 pity and fear as responses of the audience


in the poetics : an impasse

After a pause, Stephen began: Aristotle has not defined pity and terror. I have.
(J. Joyce, A Portrait of an Artist as a Young Man, New York, 1922 [first published,
1916] 239)
Stephen Dedalus works out a definition of pity and terror, deploring the fact that
Aristotle had not provided one in the Poetics and ignoring the fact that he had
done so in the Rhetoric. (Umberto Eco, The Poetics and Us, in Umberto Eco On
Literature, transl. M. McLaughlin, Orlando: Harcourt, 2004, 238)
It is difficult to understand from the Poetics how pity and fear might affect
the audience of tragedy, psychologically, morally, or otherwise.1 Although
Aristotle repeatedly mentions the two emotions in the treatise, he does
so without specifying their ethical influence on the spectator. This aspect
of the Poetics continues to puzzle scholars, especially after Platos con-
demnation of tragic pity as disabling the moral strength of the audience.
Furthermore, the brief references to tragic emotions do not pertain to
the audience straightforwardly, but rather emphasize the conditions under
which plot and characters bring about fear and pity. Besides occurring in
the controversial context of the definition (Po. 6.1449b27),2 pity and fear
can be evoked by the events of the play: [tragedy] is not only an imitation
of complete action, but also of the fearful and pitiable (o mnon teleav
st prxewv mmhsiv, ll ka fobern ka leeinn, Po. 9.1452a2
3). Later on, Aristotle describes what sort of characters can make the tragic

1
Belfiore 1992, 181246 and 25778, offers the best summary of the scholarly debate over the meaning
of pity and fear in the Poetics, as well as an outline of the two emotions in other Aristotelian works.
2
Subsequently, I discuss in an appendix Aristotles definition of tragedy in the Poetics, and the major
interpretations of catharsis, which sometimes take into consideration possible Aristotelian answers
to Platos criticism of tragedy. No doubt, this is an important scholarly issue, and yet it does not
facilitate our understanding of the psychological formation of the tragic emotions in the Poetics.

70
Aristotle: the first theorist of emotions 71
action fearful and pitiable (e.g. Po. 13.1452b32, 36; 13.1453a1, 34) and insists
that playwrights ought to contrive the pleasure from pity and fear (tn
p lou ka fbou di mimsewv de donn paraskeuzein tn poi-
htn, Po. 14.1453b1213). And this should be built into events, which are
further discussed as the sort of things that seem terrible and pitiable
(poa on dein poa oktr fanetai, Po. 14.1453b14).
When Aristotle insists that the structural elements of a play convey the
two tragic emotions, he implies that they should do so for the sake of
the audience. On one level, pity and fear are embedded into the internal
structure of tragedy, on another, they are felt by the spectator. And yet,
the effect of the tragic emotions on the spectator remains unspecified.
Aristotle offers almost no elucidation about the psychology of the audience
experiencing the emotions, in the manner in which Gorgias and Plato
did. Moreover, Aristotle does not seem interested in discussing the moral
and political implications of feeling pity and fear in this treatise. When he
does refer to psychology, he uses very general terms, in order to distinguish
between the emotions appropriate for the viewer of tragedy and other
possible emotional reactions. For example, a prescription (that tragedy
should not depict a very wicked person falling from prosperity to adversity,
because this may elicit a fellow-feeling, but not the appropriate tragic pity)
is followed by an impersonal parenthesis: pity is felt for the undeserving,
fear for the one alike (Po. 13.1453a46). Therefore, Aristotle appears to have
a different theoretical focus than a discussion of the emotional psychology
of the audience in the Poetics, namely an interest in the dramatic techniques
that can elicit the correct aesthetic emotions, the right varieties of pity and
fear that ought to be distinguished from other emotional responses.
This lack of explanation raises additional questions. Is there a direct
correspondence between the emotions expressed in a play and those felt
by the audience? What is the link between the spectators emotion as an
aesthetic experience during the tragic performance and his emotions in
real life? Scholars have fiercely disputed these problems. As I have already
suggested in the introduction, the most prominent Aristotelian scholars of
our time deliberate the meaning of pity and fear in the Poetics. Lear, in an
essay that argues for connections between Aristotles poetic and political
theory, states that pity allows the audience of tragedy to disengage from
the action that takes place on the stage and, thereafter, to observe the logic
behind tragic events that happen in the polis.3 Halliwell argues against
Lears claim that pity leads to detachment from involvement in tragedy
3
Lear 1995a, for pity especially 7680.
72 Theoretical views about pity and fear
and notes that pity is not voluntary, and that it may redefine an audiences
moral identity.4 In his turn, Lear objects to Halliwells point once more:
no direct statement in this Aristotelian treatise confirms the redemptive,
imaginative power of pity, and, therefore, such attributes of the emotions
remain purely speculative.5
Thus, Lear believes that pity in the Poetics leads the spectator to dis-
engagement from the dramatic action and to a kind of avant-garde Stoic
indifference toward the hardships of life in the community. Halliwell holds
the opposite view: the emotion compels the spectator to become ethically
involved not only in the play but also in real-life situations. Regardless of
their differences, both opinions start from the Platonic assumption that
audiences experience in the theater emotions that later transform civic
behavior in real life situations. This idea, however, never explicitly occurs
in the Poetics.6 I think that Lear is right when asking how would we ever
know. And yet, this question applies to his own argument as well as to his
opponents. The reason is that the remarks about pity in the Poetics do not
support one view or another. The succinct references simply suggest that
pity should be an essential component of the plot, and, consequently, of
the audiences response to tragedy, but they do not clarify the effects of pity
on the audience.
Similarly, Konstan and Halliwell disagree about the meaning of fear.
Halliwell sees fear as ancillary to pity and referring mainly to fear for
others, for the tragic characters, whereas Konstan thinks that it means fear
for oneself, for the spectator himself.7 I agree mostly with Konstan here, for
reasons that I shall later explain in the treatment of fear, although some form
of fear for the characters also seems, indeed, necessary for the Aristotelian
ideal response to drama. Despite these ambiguities in the Poetics, I suggest,
there is a way to learn more about the psychological and philosophical
structure of pity and fear as responses to tragedy in Aristotles thought.

4.2 pity and fear as responses of the audience:


rhetoric and drama
My reconsideration of the Aristotelian theory of poetic pathe will start with
the Rhetoric, which discusses emotions in connection with the listeners
4 5
Halliwell 1995, 94. Lear 1995b, 96.
6
Hall (1996a) has concluded with surprise that civic problems fall outside the scope of the Poetics.
Heath (2009c) offers several compelling explanations regarding this problem and the autonomy of
Aristotles aesthetic views.
7
See my introduction, footnote 48.
Aristotle: the first theorist of emotions 73
psychology.8 Then I will review the relationship between the discussion
concerning pity and fear in the Poetics and the presentation of the two
emotions in the Rhetoric as well as in the larger context of Aristotelian
works.9 In my analysis, I shall concentrate on the imaginative involve-
ment of pity and the detachment, coming from contemplating the human
condition, which seem essential for Aristotle. Further, I will examine how
emotions, pleasure, and cognition interact in the response to tragedy. Fear
and pity (in particular) involve a temporal distancing that links them to
aesthetic pleasure. In order to experience pity, one has to either explore
ones past, or anticipate future suffering. Finally, I suggest, tragic pleasure,
derived from pity and fear, resembles a certain type of pleasure that comes
from memory and mourning.
The treatment of emotions in the Rhetoric itself raises problems. A
question that dominated the scholarship of the last century was whether
Aristotle presented the popular beliefs of his time or his own philosoph-
ical ideas, when he characterized different kinds of pathe. The argument
that Book Two of the Rhetoric reflects a popular treatment of emotions,
lacking philosophical exactitude, has been based on certain differences in
the definitions given in the Rhetoric and other Aristotelian works. For
example, the definition of pleasure offered in this treatise, a subject to
which I will return, is rejected in the Topics and the Nicomachean Ethics.
In addition, accounts of individual emotions in the Rhetoric start with the
invitation: let such and such pathos be, which seems to be a concession
to the general opinion rather than a personal conviction.10 As Fortenbaugh
has convincingly shown, however, the analysis of emotions in the Rhetoric
cannot be dismissed as common opinion but corresponds to Aristo-
tles philosophical system.11 I agree with Fortenbaughs observations and

8
Konstan 2006, 12953, and, respectively, 20118, offers the most detailed treatment of the two
emotions in Aristotles Rhetoric, but he is mostly interested in the cultural aspects of the emotions
and not in analyzing connections between emotions aroused by oratory and drama, on which I
focus.
9
Nehamas 1994 makes an important effort to link the tragic emotions in Aristotles Rhetoric to the
Poetics. He cogently observes that the emotions are induced by reason (in both Rh. and EN), a
subtle retort to Plato, but discusses the implications of his interesting observations only briefly.
Instead, at 279, he shifts his analysis to an old problem, the meaning of catharsis, which he (like
Else) considers to be the resolution or denouement of the tragic plot. But this is puzzling, after
Nehamas himself has noted at 273, that although we have a clearer picture of pity and fear by
looking at the Rhetoric, this picture paradoxically, actually obscures our minimal understanding of
the katharsis clause in the definition of tragedy in the Poetics (6.1449b278) even further.
10
Brandis 1849, 27, Dufour 1932, 201, Hunt 1962, 578.
11
Fortenbaugh 1970 convincingly demonstrates that differences in the definitions between Aristotles
Rh., EN, and Top. may reflect the debates in the Academy or different stages of Aristotelian thought.
The definitions of emotions start with stw, but this fact indicates only a stylistic preference
74 Theoretical views about pity and fear
conclusion that the account of emotions in the Rhetoric should be taken
seriously. Furthermore, the problem Aristotle versus popular opinion
seems to me somewhat artificial. We know very little about common opin-
ion concerning emotions in fifth- and fourth-century Athens. Thus, even
if Aristotle starts from certain cultural beliefs in his treatment of emotions,
which seems to be the case, it would be impossible for us to detect the
degree to which he does so. It is certain, nevertheless, that in his presenta-
tion Aristotle is not in opposition with some general belief.12 If he were, he
would most likely highlight his own ideas by disagreeing with the many,
as he often does in his works.
More recently, several scholars have been preoccupied with the contrast
between the moral attitude expressed in the introduction of the Rhetoric,
in Book One, and the account of emotions in Book Two. At first Aristotle
states:
o gr de tn dikastn diastrfein ev rgn progontav fqnon leon.
(Rh. 1.1354a245)
It is not right to twist the juryman by manipulating him into anger or envy or
pity.
Book Two, nevertheless, contains an account of emotions as means of
exhortation. If persuasion ought not to depend on emotional states, why
is Aristotle later recommending orators to arouse various emotions in the
audience? One answer could be that the two books were composed at differ-
ent times13 and, consequently, they mirrored different stages in Aristotles
thought. Platos criticism of rhetorical practices would have influenced
Aristotle initially, but afterwards such influence may have dissipated.14
Another explanation may be that Aristotelian psychology connects pathos
with rationality and considers it as part of the logical proof (nqmhma),
which makes emotion acceptable in the orators argumentation.15 Walker,
and not a simplistic treatment of emotions. More importantly, Fortenbaugh 1975, 918, shows that
the treatment of emotions in the Rhetoric suits Aristotelian philosophy very well; most typical, for
example, is the analysis of the conditions arousing emotion, categories of people prone to certain
emotions, and grounds for feeling emotion: this type of classification (Rh.) matches that of the four
causes (Ph.).
12
Plato certainly is in opposition with his contemporaries when he denies the validity of common
causes that produce fear, for example.
13
General discussions on the composition of the Rhetoric are provided by Grimaldi (1972), who opts
for unitary composition, and Rist (1989), who emphasizes discrepancies between parts of the treatise
and therefore proposes different times of composition.
14
Brandes 1989, 19, Kennedy 1991, 299309.
15
Conley 1982. Objections to this view have been raised by Wisse 1989, 209, and Kennedy 1991, 123.
Both scholars note that enthymema and emotion are not necessarily connected. In fact, they are
sometimes even dissociated (Rh. 3.1418a).
Aristotle: the first theorist of emotions 75
who regards the second Book of the Rhetoric as strikingly innovative,
almost neo-Aristotelian, has made an interesting suggestion.16 The atti-
tude toward the arousal of the emotions is conflicted in the treatise. The
rhetor must include emotions in his style and delivery, but Aristotle seems
to wish it were not so. He appears to recognize the importance of emo-
tions only reluctantly. Thus Aristotle would anticipate, Walker argues,
rather unwillingly, later developments of Peripatetic rhetoric that focused
primarily on style and delivery, and fully accepted the role of emotions.
According to this view, Aristotle hesitates because he returns to the Greek
Sophistic tradition, recognizing the emotional power of speech, as Gor-
gias does in the Helen, and thus he departs from the Platonic critique of
rhetorical practice.17 A possible objection to this is that the contradiction
between emotional and logical persuasion may have preceded Plato. Even
in Gorgias Helen, the psychological effects of emotion (e.g. fear) are not
compatible with reason. Moreover, in Gorgias Palamedes, the hero already
distinguishes between rational persuasion, which he wants to use in order
to convince the jury, and emotional persuasion:
o flwn bohqeav, od litav od oktoiv de peqein mv, ll t
safestt dika, didxanta tlhqv ok patsant me de diafugen
tn atan tathn. (Pal. 33)
I have to persuade you not with the help of my friends, not with entreaties, not
with words that inspire pity, but with the clearest just speech, I have to flee this
accusation after having taught you the truth and not deceived you.
Another scholarly trend, toward which I incline, is to integrate the
Rhetoric, with its contradictions, into a larger, comprehensive picture of
the Aristotelian theory of the emotions.18 Even if emotions are not entirely
rational, they often arise through a process of reasoning. Thus the arousal
of pathe does not contradict logical demonstration but complements it.
Therefore, Aristotle may oppose the unreasonable use of emotion to influ-
ence the jury at the beginning of Book One, whereas he encourages the
justified appeal to the listeners emotion in Book Two. Regardless of the
interpretation we adopt in this matter, the second book of the Rhetoric
carefully discusses individual pathe. The analysis includes the cause for the
emotion, the category of persons toward which it is directed, and the state
of mind of the individual who experiences it. This type of information
16 17
Walker 2000. Walker 2000, 81.
18
Best representative for this is Striker 1996; cf. also Nussbaum 1996, noting that emotions can
convey beliefs, and that emotional phantasia resembles opinion (doxa), which implies compatibility
between emotion and logical thought.
76 Theoretical views about pity and fear
that evaluates the pathos of the listener is missing in the Poetics and can
provide us with a better understanding of the nature of pity and fear, as
experienced by the audience.

4.3 aesthetic pity: creating a vision of


suffering through speech
Book Two of the Rhetoric is designed to advise orators on how to stir
emotions through their speeches. Doubtlessly, as audiences do not respond
directly to events, speakers need to present relevant reasons for stirring in
their listeners various emotions in general. Yet, in no other instance does
Aristotle highlight the importance of creating a verbal vision of the events
that inspire the emotion, as he does in the case of pity. And this account
yields observations of great importance for understanding the emotion as
response to tragedy. In the Rhetoric, pity is defined as follows:
Estw d leov lph tiv p fainomn kak fqartik luper to naxou
tugcnein, kn atv prosdoksein n paqen tn ato tina, ka toto
tan pleson fanhtai. (Rh. 2.1385b1316)
Let pity be certain pain (lph tiv) at an apparently destructive or painful evil19
happening to one who does not deserve it and which a person might expect
(prosdokseien) himself or one of his own to suffer and which seems close at
hand.
A further remark explains more precisely the conditions under which
someone feels pity:
ka lwv d tan c otwv st namnhsqnai toiata sumbebhkta
at <t> tn ato, lpsai gensqai at t tn ato.
(Rh. 2.1386a13)
And, in general, [someone feels pity] when his state of mind is such that he
remembers such things having happened to himself or his own or expects them to
happen to himself or to one of his own.
Thus, the emotion presupposes either anticipation or recognition in the
past of some misfortune for the pitier.20 Pity occupies a unique position
19
For connection between certain emotions, pleasure, and pain, see Modrak 1987, 1401, and Leighton
1996, 20637.
20
Certainly the pitier feels the emotion for the present misfortune of another, but cannot think
of his/her own present misfortune (this needs to be projected in the future or past). Recollection
(nmnhsiv) is defined as a superior form of remembrance in (Mem. 449b16). A useful introduction
to the Aristotelian psychology of recollection is offered by Kahn 1966. The superiority of recollect-
ing (namimnskesqai) over remembering (mnhmoneein), as well as possible connections with
the Platonic doctrine of recollection, are discussed by Sorabji 1972, 3546 and 645.
Aristotle: the first theorist of emotions 77
in Aristotles theory for two reasons. Firstly, it is a pathos caused by the
sufferings of others. Secondly, it can be reached only by contemplating
the future or the past. Different kinds of emotions can be provoked by
what other people experience, such as indignation (nmesiv) and envy
(fqnov), which are the opposites of pity. Although they resemble pity
because they are oriented toward others and not toward the self, neither
requires, however, a temporal detachment. Indignation and envy concern
being pained at the good fortune of another, but there is no specific
emphasis on the time frame, no particular restriction regarding the past or
future (as one can feel these emotions when another achieves good fortune
in the present, as well as, perhaps, when one imagines that another will
achieve it in the future or realizes that one has achieved it). By contrast, the
temporal detachment is absolutely mandatory for Aristotelian pity. One
can feel the emotion only when one imagines or remembers that one might
suffer/ have suffered in a similar way and never could the pitier suffer in
present a similar misfortune, for in that case one could not focus on another:
t d m ti at ti sumbsetai teron, ll di atn tn plhson, pasin
mowv de prcein o gr ti stai t mn fqnov, t d nmesiv, ll fbov,
n di toto lph prc ka tarac, ti at ti stai falon p
tv kenou epraxav. (Rh. 2.1386b205)
Being indignant or envious is not the feeling that some unpleasant change will
befall a person himself, but [a feeling of pain] because of what [good] befalls his
neighbor; for it will be neither envy nor indignation, but fear if the pain and
disturbance are present because something bad will come to him as a result of
another persons success.
On the other hand, anger (rg), for example, comes from a past outrage
and anticipates the pleasure of retaliation, thus, like pity, it involves a
temporal perspective.21 Nevertheless, it regards self-suffering or desire, not
the pathos of another. Thus, eleos stands out as the most remote, or least
personal emotion in the Rhetoric. It is felt at the suffering of another
and only if we construct a temporal perspective: something similar might
happen to us in the future or it has happened in the past.22

21
The definition of anger is provided at Rh. 2.1378a302. Frede 1996 examines anger as one of the best
examples of mixed emotion. Anger consists of a painful desire to remedy an injury or disturbance
combined with the pleasant expectation of restoration. Thus, anger is a sort of pain, felt when
someone is wronged, but it includes the anticipated pleasure of revenge.
22
The example of Amasis, which Aristotle offers (Rh. 2.1386a1922), is relevant in this sense. On the
one hand, Amasis did not weep and feel pity when his son was led to death. The event was too
personal and concerned one of his own directly. On the other hand, he wept when he saw his friend
begging. Thus, he felt pity for another, by comparing his friends misfortune to his own.
78 Theoretical views about pity and fear
Another feature that distinguishes pity from all the other emotions
consists of a very specific visual component. There is a certain tension
between temporal aloofness and the necessity that pitiable events should
appear near at hand:
pe d ggv fainmena t pqh leein stin, t d muriostn tov genmena
smena ot lpzontev ote memnhmnoi lwv ok leosin oc mowv,
ngkh tov sunapergazomnouv scmati ka fwnav ka sqsi ka lwv
pokrsei leeinotrouv enai (ggv gr poiosi fanesqai t kakn, pr
mmtwn poiontev v mllon v gegonv),23 ka t gegonta rti
mllonta di tacwn leeintera. (Rh. 2.1386a291386b1)
And since sufferings are pitiable when they appear near at hand and since people
do not feel pity at all, or not in the same way about things that happened or
will happen ten thousand years in the past or future, neither anticipating nor
remembering them, it is necessary that those producing the effect by gesture,
words, and attire and generally in their acting should become more pitiable, for
they make the misfortune seem near by making it appear before the eyes, either as
something about to happen or as something that has happened; and events that
have just happened or are about to happen are more pitiable [than events that are
remote].
This passage, though baffling in some respects, offers fascinating insights
into the Aristotelian view of pity. Clearly Aristotle refers here to the skills
through which an orator should create the representation of the pitiable
in the mind of the audience, through gestures, voice, and attire, in a
word through acting (pokrsei). An interesting observation is that
neither those things having happened thousands of years ago nor those
things to occur in the remote future could stir pity (or not with the
same intensity). Greek drama rather, unlike rhetoric, deals generally with
events that have taken place once upon a time, in the myth, so that
the recommendation to try to present events close at hand24 may better
apply to a tragedian rather than to a rhetor. Strangely, in this section of
the Rhetoric, acting (pkrisiv) is believed to be able to increase the
effects of pity, while elsewhere in the treatise Aristotle seems to be rather

23
I am keeping the manuscript reading mllon v gegonv here, rather than the text published in
Ross edition mllonta v gegonta (which would not change my argument).
24
Belfiore 1992, 136, comments only briefly: Several passages in the Rhetoric and the Poetics support
the view that in the open means before the eyes, vivid, in a primarily rhetorical rather than
literal, sense. She connects this passage (Rh. 2.1386a28ff) with another one, dealing with metaphors
(Rh. 3.1411a226). I suggest next that the expression bringing before the eyes (pr mmtwn)
deserves close scholarly attention, as it is the conceptual bridge by which Aristotle connects the
emotion of the listener with that expressed by the actor/orator, who translates the pathos of the
speech.
Aristotle: the first theorist of emotions 79
annoyed by the importance that both orators and audiences grant to the
art of delivery. He asserts, for instance, that delivery (pkrisiv) ought
to be considered only after proofs (psteiv) and speech composition
(lxiv).25 Even in tragedy, he adds, acting was a late element, since, at
first, the poets themselves used to present their creations to the public.
Nowadays, however, Aristotle observes with regret, it is unfortunate that
those who pay attention to acting gain popularity:
t mn on qla scedn k tn gnwn otoi lambnousin, ka kaqper ke
mezon dnantai nn tn poihtn o pokrita, ka kat tov politikov
gnav di tn mocqhran tn politein. (Rh. 3.1403b325)26
Those performers [who give attention to the delivery elements] are usually the
ones who win poetic contests, and as actors are now more important than poets,
so it is in political contests because of the corruption of the political institutions.27
Why does he concede to the actors art in the Rhetoric, Book Two? Indeed,
he not only concedes, but also argues that delivery becomes essential,
particularly when one has to express pity. Perhaps this is so because pity
relates by nature to a dramatic disposition. The speakers (actors) become
more pitiable (leeinteroi) themselves, through their acting! A similar
phrasing occurs in the Poetics. After describing how a play of Carcinus28
was rejected by the spectators, because of a blunder in visualizing a scene,29
Aristotle prescribes the following:
sa d dunatn ka tov scmasin sunapergazmenon piqantatoi gr p
tv atv fsewv o n tov pqesn esin, ka ceimanei ceimazmenov ka
calepanei rgizmenov lhqintata. (Po. 17.1455a2932)

25
Rh. 3.1403b1824.
26
Cf. Rh. 3.1404a78, in which delivery is said to be powerful because of the corruption of the
audience (ll mwv mga dnatai, kaqper erhtai, di tn to kroato mocqeran).
27
Goldhill 2000 characterizes the Athenian citizen as a viewer of performances of oratory and drama
and draws attention to both positive and negative aspects of this feature of Athenian democracy. A
famous grim example is provided by the listeners to the speech of Cleon (Th. 3.38) who become
spectators of speeches, carried away by rhetorical display.
28
Carcinus was probably a fourth-century tragedian, see (OCD s.v. 2). The name seems to have been
ascribed to both an author of comedy and tragedy by Greek literary and epigraphic evidence; on
this see Olson 2000.
29
The Greek (Po. 17.1455a269) reads: shmeon d totou petimto Karkn. O gr Amfiraov
x ero n ei, m rnta [tn qeatn] lnqanen, p d tv skhnv xpesen dusceranntwn
toto tn qeatn. (The proof of this is the criticism brought against Carcinus; for Amphiaraus
came back out of a temple, a fact that escaped his notice because he was not seeing it, but on the stage
it was a failure, since the spectators objected against it.) This passage has been notoriously hard to
interpret, because both the play and the dramatic incident to which it refers are unknown. Green
1990 argues that the poet must have made a mistake in staging the play. For further suggestions,
see Edmunds 1992 and Davidson 2003.
80 Theoretical views about pity and fear
One should, as much as possible, also work out the plot in gestures, since, by
nature, those in the grip of emotions are the most convincing, and the one who
is afflicted [lit. stormed] by misfortune makes others feel his affliction, and the
one enraged makes others feel his anger most truthfully.
Good poets, therefore, ought to think about acting,30 which seems to denote
in this case partaking in the emotion. It is noteworthy that the ones in
the grip of emotions (o n tov pqesin) could refer to the tragic poets
themselves, who envision how their play should be acted, to the actors, who
give expression to the pathos through their gestures, or, generally, to people
who express emotions.31 By whichever means, the passage displays a certain
unity between the way in which a tragedian envisions emotion for his plot
and the emotion expressed through acting, so that the emotional state may
be transmitted to the spectators. A constant feature of Aristotles thought
emerges here. Acting is despised when divorced from the content of both
oratorical speech and tragic discourse but considered important when it
truly conveys emotions to the audience. As shown, hypocrisis, if it is acting
just for the sake of acting, is criticized in Book Three of the Rhetoric, but,
if it is a tool for expressing emotion, it is praised in Book Two. Likewise,
in the Poetics, tragedy is quite independent from the performance of the
actors (Po. 6.1450b1820), yet acting becomes essential when conveying
pathos (Po. 17.1455a2932).

4.3.1 Seeing emotion: visual versus vision


The similarities between Rhetoric and Poetics can be further explored.32 In
both works Aristotle insists that actors and orators should convey emotions
by emotionally involving themselves. On the other hand, he despises gra-
tuitous performance and concrete visual effects, opsis.33 In the Poetics, for
example, Aristotle relegates the spectacle to the fifth element (after plot,
character, diction, and thought), while listing the components of tragedy
in order of their importance.34 Later, opsis is characterized in the following
terms:
30
Note the emphasis on gestures (scmasin) in this passage (Po. 17.1455a29), which recalls the passage
on pity (Rh. 2.1386a32): the speakers should express emotions through gesture (scmati).
31
The last suggestion has been recently supported by Sifakis 2009.
32
I have published an earlier version of my ideas on this topic in an article (2003).
33
On the difficulty of translating opsis, Halliwells discussion (1998, 337) is very handy. The term,
conventionally translated as spectacle, has been understood to mean the apparatus of a play, or,
more extensively, the masks, costumes, and even the performance of actors and chorus on the stage.
I take the extensive meaning to be the most probable, since another passage (Po. 6.1450b) appears
to explain opsis by alluding to both the costumiers art and the actors appearance on the stage.
34
Po. 6.1450a810.
Aristotle: the first theorist of emotions 81
H d yiv yucagwgikn mn, tecntaton d ka kista okeon tv poihtikv
gr tv tragdav dnamiv ka neu gnov ka pokritn stin, ti d
kuriwtra per tn pergasan tn yewn to skeuopoio tcnh tv
tn poihtn stin. (Po. 6.1450b1620)
While spectacle can carry away the soul [psychagogikos], it is the least artistic
element and it is least integral to poetry. The power of tragedy exists even without
the performance of the actors, and, in addition, the costumiers art has more scope
than the poets for conveying effects of spectacle.

Many scholars have remarked with indignation that Aristotle here dispar-
ages tragic performances. Walton, for example, has maintained that staging
practice and the performance of actors were essential for the ancient theater,
but not recognized as such in the Aristotelian theory: Aristotle notably
fails here to make necessary distinction between production externals and
the manner in which a playwright employs them. For all Aristotle must be
assumed to have attended the dramatic festivals in Athens, he never writes
like a theater-goer . . . Indeed, he confesses that as far as he is concerned, it
is quite possible to get as much from a tragedy by reading it as by seeing
it.35 Similarly, Taplin and Seale think that Aristotle fails to understand
the importance of scenography in Greek drama.36 Others have well noted
that Aristotle did not completely deny the role of the spectacle in dramatic
performances, but subordinated it to the poetic art.37 A subsequent passage
in the Poetics appears to sustain this view:
Estin mn on t fobern ka leeinn k tv yewv ggnesqai, stin d ka
x atv tv sustsewv tn pragmtwn, per st prteron ka poihto
menonov. De gr ka neu to rn otw sunestnai tn mqon ste tn
koonta t prgmata ginmena ka frttein ka leen . . . t d di tv
yewv toto paraskeuzein tecnteron ka corhgav demenn stin. O de
m t fobern di tv yewv ll t teratdev mnon paraskeuzontev
odn tragd koinwnosin. (Po. 14.1453b15; 710)
There is something fearful and pitiable that can result from spectacle, but also
from the actual structure of events, which is of higher importance and proper to
a superior poet. For the plot should be so structured that, even without seeing

35
J. M. Walton 1996, 17.
36
Taplin 1977, 4779; Seale 1982, 13, notes: There is, then, an unmistakable impression in Aristotles
Poetics that spectacle is insignificant and liable to vulgar exploitation. The consequent interpretation
of Aristotle has accepted this austerity.
37
Janko 1984, 229, and Halliwell 1998, 33743. Bonanno 1997, 123, interestingly suggests that opsis
is the most ephemeral element of tragedy, since it is limited in time and space, and created for
the occasion. Thus, opsis pertains to the particular (kaq kaston) and becomes inferior to poetic
composition, which should deal with the universal (kaqlou).
82 Theoretical views about pity and fear
it performed, the person who hears the events that occur should shudder with
fear and pity . . . To create this effect through spectacle has little to do with the
poets art, and requires a fancy production (choregia). Those who use spectacle to
create an effect not of the fearful but only of the sensational have nothing at all in
common with tragedy.

Aristotle does not say that tragic performances are worthless. He sim-
ply expresses his preference for the literary text, which should arouse
pity and fear in the listener even without being directly seen (ka neu
to rn) but only imagined. In both cases, the external visual com-
ponent of tragedy receives some credit, for it is called soul-enchanting
(yucagwgikn, Po. 6.1450b1617), and leading to the fearful and the
pitiable (fobern . . . leeinn, Po. 14.1453b1). And yet, in both, this emo-
tional power of the opsis is contrasted with the internal composition of
tragedy, and regarded as inferior to it.38
It is, perhaps, legitimate to wonder why Aristotle separates opsis so sharply
from the content of tragedy. I believe that this is more than a personal
predilection, and it may reflect a response to a cultural phenomenon. In the
Poetics, through the repeated statement that the poetic composition should
prevail over visual apparatus and actors show, Aristotle likely presents a
point of view that may not have been universally accepted. Moreover, as
stated in the Rhetoric, delivery ought to occupy a marginal place in oratory.
It was also late in coming to be considered in rhapsody and tragedy,
since originally poets themselves acted.39 However, delivery has gained
tremendous power, because of the corruption of the audience (ll mwv
mga dnatai . . . di tn to kroato mocqhran (Rh. 3.1404a78).
These comments, whose content reminds us of the power of tragedy not
being dependent on stage apparatus and actors (Po. 6.1450b1820), clearly
mark Aristotles position as opposed to that of the majority. Therefore,
a first explanation for Aristotles favoring plots over props could be that

38
It is hard to see why this Aristotelian idea seems so outrageous to modern scholarship, since visual
effects alone, without a good plot, cannot please in modern performances of drama or movies.
Seale 1982 emphasizes stagecraft as essential for Greek tragedy and argues that Sophocles, whose
plays were models of Aristotelian construction, made use of spectacular devices that Aristotle fails
to appreciate. Seale cites several Sophoclean passages to prove his point. Among those, there is
Orestes first address in the Electra (lines 234): How clear to me Electra are these tokens which
you make manifest, on which Seale comments, at 56: The entry is not just an artifice to start
proceedings, it embodies a vision, the return of the avenging son. I believe that Seale agrees here
with Aristotle, though without realizing it; for he has a vision while reading the text of Sophocles,
and, therefore, can imagine the stagecraft even without seeing it.
39
Ka gr ev tn tragikn ka aydan y parlqen Upekrnonto gr ato tv tragdav
o poihta t prton (Rh. 3.1403b224).
Aristotle: the first theorist of emotions 83
he displays here an elitist point of view.40 Further, as tragedy was an
increasingly popular genre in the fourth century, the productions were most
likely becoming more extravagant. When the choregoi thus dedicated more
attention to actors and staging details, the audiences and judges may have
preferred high-budget plays, sometimes to the detriment of good poetic
content.41 There is, I suspect, an additional, deeper cause for Aristotles
reaction against opsis, which can be inferred from a passage dealing with a
comparison between epic and tragedy in the Poetics:
Tn mn on prv qeatv pieikev fasin enai <o> odn dontai tn
schmtwn, tn d tragikn prv falouv e on fortik, cerwn dlon
ti n eh. prton mn o tv poihtikv kathgora ll tv pokritikv,
pe sti periergzesqai tov shmeoiv ka aydonta. (Po. 26.1462a26)
Some say that (epic genre) is directed toward decent spectators, who do not need
gestures, whereas the tragic genre is directed toward the vulgar ones. If then it
[tragedy] were crude, it is obvious that it would be inferior [to epic]. First of all the
accusation does not pertain to the poetic art, but to acting, since one can overdo
visual signals42 even in recitation of epic.
Before tragedy, a relatively new genre, Greek audiences were accustomed to
epic recitations. Rhapsodic performances were certainly less elaborate than
the later, tragic productions. On the basis of this difference, some (whether
they were Aristotles predecessors or contemporaries remains unspecified
in the Poetics) seem to have argued that the epic genre was superior to the
tragic, because the former did not need apparatus and actors to enhance
the power of poetry. These unnamed critics call the spectators of tragedy
vulgar (faloi), perhaps meaning here base, uneducated, in contrast
to those of epic, who would be noble (pieikev).43 Aristotle rejects the
accusation, saying that the power of tragedy also lies in its poetic content.
Tragic poetry can be as independent from performance as the epic is,44

40
This is probably part of the truth. A modern comparison may be useful here. Large audiences
nowadays like action movies with extraordinary visual effects, with or without coherent plot. It is
unlikely, nevertheless, that movie critics would prefer movies with amazing visual effects (opsis, so
to speak) but poorly defined characters or plot.
41
Aristotle complained that actors were more important than poets (Rh. 3.1403b33) and criticized
the choregoi conveying the sensational through opsis (Po. 14.1453b10). Marzullo 1980 thinks that
Aristotles attitude toward opsis reflects his reaction against contemporary theater production, as
well as his admiration for the theatre production before his time, which was less sophisticated.
42
Dupont-Roc and Lallot 1980, 407, render semeion in this passage as visible sign or gesture, in
contrast with the oral expression, proper to the rhapsode.
43
This is, remarkably, the Aristotelian terminology for, respectively, comic and tragic characters.
44
And the wrong kind of performance can be a problem not only for tragedy, but also for epic
(which is not as independent of performance as some critics claim), as Aristotle points out (e.g.,
Po. 26.1462a58).
84 Theoretical views about pity and fear
an observation which also occurs constantly in the Aristotelian critique of
opsis:45
Eti tragda ka neu kinsewv poie t atv, sper popoia Di
gr to naginskein faner poa tv stin. (Po. 26.1462a1112)
Tragedy also achieves its effect even without actors movement, as epic does. Its
quality is clear even through reading.
We can only glimpse literary debates of fourth-century Athens and can
barely conceive of a time when tragedy was regarded as an avant-garde
genre. And yet, a need to disprove the supremacy of the traditional epic
over the tragic seems to have been yet another reason that opsis is auxiliary
to the essence of tragedy in Aristotles Poetics.
Some scholars maintain that Aristotles references to opsis are ambig-
uous.46 They have seen contradictions between the remark that opsis is
ancillary to tragedy (which can be appreciated even without seeing, ka
neu to rn, Po. 14.1453b3), and a subsequent recommendation of the
Poetics:
De d tov mqouv sunistnai ka t lxei sunapergzesqai ti mlista pr
mmtwn tiqmenon. Otw gr n nargstata [] rn sper par atov
gignmenov tov prattomnoiv erskoi t prpon ka kista n lanqnoi
[t] t penanta. (Po. 17.1455a226)
One should construct plots and work them out in diction so as to place them
before the [minds] eyes as much as possible. For, thus, by seeing things most vividly,
as if present at the actual events, one will discover what is appropriate, and not
miss discrepancies.
The text continues with the episode relating the failure of Carcinus and
the observation that those in the grip of emotions best convey them, which
I have already discussed. This point that a poet should create an internal
vision does not disagree with the one in which Aristotle characterizes visual
effects, opsis, as inferior to tragic poetry (Po. 14.1453b16, 710).47 In fact,

45
Thus, opsis was first called the least appropriate element of tragedy, because the power of tragedy
can do even without performance and actors (ka neu gnov ka pokritn, Po. 6.1450b18
19). After the second description of opsis, Aristotle specifies that the plot of tragedy should move
the listener even without being seen (ka neu to rn, Po. 14.1453b4).
46
Thus, for example, Gallavotti 1974, 22, DupontRoc and Lallot 1980, 210, and Stanford 1983,
7690.
47
Vahlen 1914, 142, concludes that Aristotle pleads for compatibility between text and stage produc-
tion, emphasizing the capacity of poetry to evoke pathe and represent ethe by itself. Marco 1989
well notices that Aristotle does not want to break the link between stage and play but insists on the
intrinsic value of the text. Nevertheless, at 141, Marco still considers the treatment of opsis in the
Poetics to be equivocal.
Aristotle: the first theorist of emotions 85
one idea complements the other. There was a way to elicit emotion through
external visual artifice (opsis), but also through the internal structure of
tragedy, (x atv tv sustsewv tn pragmtwn, Po. 14.1453b23).
Such a device was better, since it belonged to the poet, and made conveying
emotions possible even without directly seeing the play (Po. 14.1453b310).
As indicated in the Poetics (17.1455a226), a poet should work out the plots
and diction to such an extent that he could see his creation, almost as if
performed. Therefore, both passages indicate that the structure of tragedy
ought to be so well composed that it can move even without actually being
watched (Po. 14.1453b); or it can be imagined as if watched, because the
poet has made a vision out of it (Po. 17.1455a). The only ambivalence, if
any here, may be lexical. On the one hand, Aristotle uses the term opsis as
a technical term, regarding the extraneous visual effects of tragedy, and, on
the other, he employs cognate words eyes, seeing mmata, rn) to
refer to a different optic aspect: the tragic vision of the minds eye.48
Furthermore, the parallelism between the passages discussing the arousal
of internal vision in both the Poetics and the Rhetoric is striking, with respect
to language as well as content. Aristotle urges rhetors to convey pity to the
audience, by bringing the misfortune, to which they refer in their speech,
before the eyes and making it appear close as if it is about to happen
or has just happened (ggv gr poiosi fanesqai t kakn, pr
mmtwn poiontev, v mllon v gegonv, Rh. 2.1386a335). Like-
wise, he advises poets to place tragic action before the eyes (pr mmtwn
tiqmenon, Po. 17.1455a23). As a result, the poet himself49 may feel as if
present in the middle of the events, through seeing things most vividly
(otw gr n nargstata [] rn, sper par atov gignmenov
48
The fact that scholarship has ignored Aristotles emphasis on vision suggested by the tragic text
as opposed to opsis, external visual effect, has created some confusion. An interesting example is
Wiles 1997, 512. At 5, Wiles accuses Taplin of having staked out his ground around the phrase
visual meaning, restoring the Aristotelian category of opsis to a place of more honor than Aristotle
himself allowed. Wiles suggests that Aristotle has not allowed the visual to be expressed through
tragic language. In fact, Taplin disapproves of the Aristotelian criticism of external visual effects,
opsis (see previous discussion) and intends to analyze elements of staging and theatrical apparatus.
He, nonetheless, considers the language of Aeschylean tragedies as expressing visual effects. Wiles
protests against Taplins method: it does not analyze the stagecraft, per se, but it examines the text of
Greek tragedies instead. Most objectionable, in Wiles opinion, is Taplins observation that in Greek
tragedy, there was no important action which was not signaled by words (Taplin, 30; quoted by
Wiles, 5, n.10) a point which truly makes Taplin Aristotelian, even if he is unaware of it (since in
the Poetics tragedy should be visualized even without being directly seen).
49
The one seeing (rn) most clearly probably refers to the poet here, but it may also refer to the
spectator, as in the Rhetoric. Bringing before the eyes seems to concern both the orator himself and
the listener. As Aristotle states a little later, the one in the grasp of emotions best conveys emotion
(Po. 17.1455a302), which suggests that the poet should better transmit emotions by becoming
emotionally involved through seeing the fictional events.
86 Theoretical views about pity and fear
tov pratomnoiv (Po. 17.1455a235). Therefore, if poets succeed in envi-
sioning their creation, they will be most convincing (to the audience). In
both instances, the imaginative sight seems to cause a transfer in the mind
of the orator or poet himself, and, by extension, of the audience member.
One is thus transported into the world presented in the speech, as if the
vividly described disaster seems to appear close at hand (Rhetoric), or as if
the poet/actor witnesses the tragic events directly (Poetics).
A tragic poet has to create a vision by employing dramatic structure and
by working out the style (t lxei sunapergzesqai, Po. 17.1455a22
3). It cannot be by chance, then, that the expression bringing before
the eyes occurs again in Book Three of the Rhetoric, in the discussion
of the metaphor. A metaphor is defined as a transfer, carrying across,
of an alien name (metafor d stin nmatov llotrou pifor,
(Po. 21.1457b67).50 More explicitly, a metaphor consists of expressing
(transferring to the listener) a notion that is different from the literal
meaning of the words.51 It is a figure of speech that receives special attention
in Aristotles treatment of style, in both the Rhetoric and the Poetics.52
Metaphor is first associated with bringing before the eyes, when Aristotle
talks about word choice (Rh. 3.1404b1405). This figure of speech has to
find its source in beautiful terms (p kalln, Rh. 3.1405b6), and not
all verbal expressions can form a metaphor:

Estin gr llo llou kuriteron ka moiwmnon mllon ka okeiteron,


t poien t prgma pr mmtwn. (Rh. 3.1405b1112)
For one expression is more powerful than another and more similar [to the object
signified] and more appropriate for bringing the thing appearing before the eyes.

Certain lexical choices are better than others for prompting the listener to
recognize and then visualize the object to which the speaker refers in his

50
Cariati and Cicero 1992 discuss the philological, philosophical, and semiotic complexities of Aris-
totles definition of metaphor. Four types of metaphor are described in the Poetics: from species to
genus, from genus to species, from species to species, and by analogy. For a detailed discussion of
each kind, see Levin 1982.
51
Good introductive studies dealing with the Aristotelian metaphor are Ricoeur 1977, 743; 30710,
Halliwell 1993, examining the figures of speech, to reject an old scholarly prejudice against Aristotles
theory: radical separation of style from sense, and P. Gordon 1990, who focuses on inconsistencies
in Aristotles treatment of metaphors.
52
Metaphor is essential for both rhetoric and poetic speech (Rh. 3.1405a36). Important contributions
to understanding Aristotles concept of metaphor (Po. and Rh.) have adopted the perspective of
semiotics; thus Moran 1996 and Kirby 1997, who concludes that effective metaphor sets semiotic
correspondences between speaker and listener, which pleases the audience.
Aristotle: the first theorist of emotions 87
metaphor.53 Afterwards, Aristotle discusses metaphors in detail and notes
that, in some cases, they are accompanied by bringing before the eyes.54
He offers two explanations for the meaning of visualization. First of all,
bringing before the eyes produces a temporal actualization:
pr mmtwn poien rn gr de [t] prattmena mllon mllonta.
(Rh. 3.1410b345)
Through bringing before the eyes, for things should be seen as happening [in
present] rather than in the future.55
Secondly, bringing before the eyes is defined as signifying activity, which
could be translated as actualization (nrgeia):56
lekton d t lgomen pr mmtwn, ka t poiosi ggnetai toto. Lgw d
pr mmtwn tata poien sa nergonta shmanei. (Rh. 3.1411b235)
It is necessary to say what we mean by bringing before the eyes and what makes
this occur. I call those things before the eyes that signify things engaged in activity.
The definition is followed by examples. Thus, to call a nice fellow a simple-
ton (lit. four cornered) is a metaphor, but does not signify actualization
(nrgeia). By contrast, having his prime of life in full bloom is actu-
alization (nrgeia). Finally, in the phrase Greeks darting on their feet,
darting is both metaphor and actualization, because the poet means
quickly.57 To interpret each case briefly, the first instance conveys an idea
to a listener by a different verbal expression, which is a metaphor. And yet,
there is no suggestion of movement. The second example compares young
age with blooming (a growth process), and, therefore, implies an actualiza-
tion. And yet, being young and being in bloom are not entirely different

53
Swiggers 1984 shows the ramifications of the process of recognition involved in metaphor (in Rh.
and Met.). Cognitive interactions occur between speaker and listener, who decodes language signs
in order to identify the object signified.
54
Some verbal expressions can be both metaphor and pro ommaton poiein (Rh. 3.1411b56). I have
necessarily oversimplified my discussion here, since a complete analysis of these complex examples
(Rh. 3.1411a-1413a) would be a challenging scholarly enterprise in itself. An analysis of some of
Aristotles examples of metaphor and pro ommaton is offered by Newman 2002.
55
Here elegance of style (asteia) has to be achieved through pro ommaton poiein.
56
Eden 1986, 715, connects the term energeia with things in movement, in activity, in the sense of
energy in English. For the effects of metaphor and liveliness on the listener, see Jordan 1974.
57
Oon tn gaqn ndra fnai enai tetrgwnon metafor (mfw gr tleia), ll o
shmanei nrgeian, ll t nqosan contov tn kmn nrgeia . . . ka Ellhnev
xantev
pos t
xantev nrgeia ka metafor tac gr lgei, Rh. 3.1411b268; 301; (thus, to say
that a good man is four-squared is a metaphor, for both terms are complete, but this does not
denote actualization; but having his prime of life in full bloom, there is actualization . . . and in
the Greeks darting on their feet, darting on suggests both actuality and metaphor; for he says
quickly).
88 Theoretical views about pity and fear
notions, so that the metaphor is not powerful. Finally, darting clearly
refers to actualization (activity done in the present), and is thus pro omma-
ton poiein. Perhaps an analogy with several other Aristotelian concepts,
such as potentiality, actualization, actuality (dnamiv, nrgeia, and
ntelceia, in the de Anima) would be useful here. For example, the eye
as an organ has the potentiality (dnamiv) of sight, while the seeing of
the eye is full actuality (ntelceia, de An. 2.412b10413a3). Likewise,
sensation is potential, when we say that a sleeping person can see, but it
becomes actuality, when the person is in the actual process of seeing (de
An. 2.417a114). A metaphor has the potentiality to bring the object before
the minds eye, but it does so in actuality by suggesting actualization
(nrgeia). In addition, the poet signifies an abstract notion (fast) through
a different, concrete activity (darting), which completes the metaphor.
Thus, a metaphor accompanied by before the eyes not only transfers
(from the speaker to the listener) a notion that is different from the literal
meaning of the words, but also conveys the idea of activity done in the
present.
From a lexical perspective, I believe, metaphor in association with pro
ommaton poiein illustrates a phenomenon that Aristotle also wishes to take
place on a larger semantic scale.58 In the Poetics, he recommends placing
before the eyes through style and, especially, through the structure of
plots. Now the dramatic composition of tragedy (mainly plot) has to
transfer emotions (particularly pity and fear) from the poetic creation
to the audience. These emotions are different not only from what the
audience may feel when coming to attend a tragic performance, but also
from what the poet himself may experience emotionally while composing.
Those emotions, nevertheless, have to be conveyed to the spectators, which
is a kind of emotional metaphor, and bringing before the eyes is an
important aid for the process. It is remarkable that bringing before the
eyes functions similarly on the lexical level as well as on the level of the
dramatic composition. Thus, in the case of metaphor, bringing before
the eyes makes the notion expressed in a phrase appear closer temporally:
being done (prattmena) and in action, being done (nrgounta,
Rh. 3.1411b25). Similarly, in the case of the structure of tragedy and rhetorical

58
Here I disagree with the conclusion of Newman 2002, 23, who wants to separate the function of pro
ommaton associated with metaphor from pro ommaton used in the arousal of pity: by prompting
audiences to visualize images, bringing-before-the eyes enables those individuals to participate
in the persuasive process as more than the passive aim of emotional appeals (Rhetoric 2.11). My
objection to this is that the audience cannot ever be passive if it is moved to pity, but needs to
actively use memory and imagination.
Aristotle: the first theorist of emotions 89
discourse, bringing before the eyes made the events, to which the speech
refers, appear immediate. The poet could see as if he were in the middle
of the fictional incidents (par atov gignmenov tov prattomnoiv,
Po. 17.1455a245), and the orator brought the events close at hand (gguv,
Rh. 2.1386a33).
In conclusion, Aristotelian theory discourages those specific visual
effects, which do not fit poetic discourse or exaggerate it, whereas it con-
stantly underlines the fact that the artist, whether orator or tragic poet,
should be able to create a vision. Bringing before the eyes, pro ommaton
poiein, is crucial for intensifying the emotional experience, because it makes
the events mentioned in the tragic or rhetorical speech appear as if present
to the speaker or poet and, therefore, to the audience. Aristotle does not
dismiss tragic performances. He only wishes that the content of a play
could be so exquisite that it may convey the impression of a performance
by itself, and that actual performances would not spoil a good tragedy, or,
perhaps, transform a bad one into a success.
Perhaps it could be argued that when Aristotle regarded the internal
vision created by a tragedian as more important than the actual tragic per-
formance, he expressed his own, peculiar taste, which few shared. Unfor-
tunately we do not have testimonies of other contemporary critics, from
which to draw a comparison. Later critics, nevertheless, constantly empha-
size the internal vision that a poetic text should produce in order to move
the audience.59 An amusing, and yet relevant example of seeing perfor-
mances while reading Greek tragedies comes from late Antiquity, first or
second century ce. Dio Chrysostom offers an interesting piece of literary
criticism in his Oration Fifty Two.60 The introduction is particularly
revealing for the idea of seeing a tragic text. Suffering from the flu, Dio
decided to read three tragedies dealing with the theme of Philoctetes: one
the surviving play by Sophocles, one by Aeschylus and one by Euripides
on the subject (the latter two being unknown to us).61 He reflects while
reading:

59
See Nunlist 2009, 1535, on Homeric scholiasts describing the readers as spectators or almost
spectators, thanks to the poets projection of the vivid image (phantasia).
60
Generally, for Dios place in ancient literary criticism, see Valgimigli 1912 and Anderson 2000.
Luzzatto 1983 offers a commentary on this specific oration, in light of the rhetorical tradition of
exercises based on comparison between three authors, and links Dios observations to the ancient
tradition (from the Peripatetics to the Hellenistic scholars). Ritook 1995, focusing on three orations
(11, 52 and 60), emphasizes the Aristotelian influence on Dios criticism.
61
For the myth of Philoctetes and the ancient testimonies regarding the lost plays, see Muller 2000,
2564.
90 Theoretical views about pity and fear
Okon ewcomhn tv qav ka logizmhn prv mautn ti tte %qnhsin
n oc ov t n n metascen tn ndrn kenwn ntagwnizomnwn. (52.3)
So I was feasting my eyes on the spectacle [of these dramas] and reasoning that
even if I had been in Athens in those days, I could not have witnessed those
distinguished poets [lit. men] in a contest.
A little later, Dio writes in jest, but he in fact may not be far from Aristotles
ideal of looking at a tragedy:
okon corgoun maut pan lamprv ka proscein peirmhn, sper
dikastv tn prtwn tragikn corn. (52.4)
Therefore, I played the choregus for myself in a brilliant way and tried to pay
attention, as if I were a judge of the first tragic choruses.
Therefore, Dio not only imagines seeing the plays performed while reading
them, but also transports himself to a dramatic festival, in which he
participates and is ready to judge the competing tragedians. Certainly, his
bringing before the eyes of the poetic text would have pleased Aristotle.

4.3.2 Conclusions on Pity. Fear. Transfer of emotion


through Phantasia
To return to the description of pity in the Rhetoric (2.1386ab7) the
passage contains an intriguing idea: pitiable matters are apparent, close
at hand (ggv fainmena t pqh leein stin, Rh. 2.1386a2930).
When the speeches do not refer to immediate events, visualization becomes
essential. It seems that Aristotle here shifts from the analysis of the speech
of the orator, which would usually deal with contemporary events, to the
speech of the dramatist, which normally presents remote mythical events
and has to arouse pity. As I have suggested, the phrase bringing it before
the eyes (Rh. 2.1386a335) implies a process of transfer of emotion. I shall
closely examine how the process of conveying emotion might take place.
The speaker must convince the members of an audience that a past or
future situation is pitiable, by persuading them to imagine it, see it. If he
succeeds, the evil appears as (if) it is about to happen or as (if) it has recently
happened ( v mllon v gegonv, Rh. 2. 1386a35). Whom may this
misfortune affect? Presumably the evil does not concern the audience, not
directly, at any rate, but the one who is in the middle of the events. It may
very well be someone unjustly accused in a trial, or an ancestor who died for
the fatherland (i.e. funeral oration), or a character in tragedy. In a formula
reminiscent of the terminology used in the Poetics, Aristotle characterizes
Aristotle: the first theorist of emotions 91
the persons most worthy of pity as noble (spoudaoi) and furthermore
stresses the optic impression:
ka mlista t spoudaouv enai n tov toiotoiv kairov ntav leeinn.
+panta gr tata di t ggv fanesqai mllon poie tn leon, ka v
naxou ntov ka n fqalmov fainomnou to pqouv. (Rh. 2.1386b47)
And it is especially pitiable when noble people are in such extremities; for all
these situations, because they seem close, produce pity, both as someone who is
unworthy [of suffering is suffering] and the suffering is evident before the eyes.
In the section dedicated to pity in the Rhetoric (3.1385b111386b7), Aristotle
seems to deal with two different levels of the emotion, which I will sketch
here: (A) eleos caused by real events and (B) eleos caused by the orators
speech (artistic representation). To draw a scheme for the first type is
relatively easy:
(A) Eleos felt at real situations:
(1) Someone is in misfortune and suffers undeservedly.
(2) One feels pity for him by imagining that something similar could
happen to oneself or by remembering that it has happened to
oneself.
By contrast, the second type seems much more complicated:
(B) Eleos aroused by the orators speech (artistic):
(1) Some, and especially the noble (spoudaoi), experience mis-
fortune.
(2) Orators, who through their acting look themselves more pitiable
(leeinteroi), make misfortune appear immediate (ggv), by
bringing it before the eyes [of themselves and of the audience],
(pr mmtwn poiontev). The misfortune thus looks:
(a) as (if) about to happen (v mllon), or
(b) as (if) has just happened (v gegonv).
And these sorts of situations are more pitiable (leeintera).
(3) Pity is felt mostly for the noble (spoudaov):
(a) as (since) he does not deserve (v naxou) [the suffering],
and
(b) as (since) the emotion is apparent before the eyes [of the
audience?], (n fqalmov fainomnou to pqouv).
This pattern raises a series of questions. Firstly, does the audience still feel
pity by remembering or expecting a similar sort of misfortune? Perhaps, but
Aristotle does not comment on this. The temporal inference is included,
moreover, in the verbal representation itself. By acting, the speaker brings
before the eyes a story in which some evil has happened or is about to
92 Theoretical views about pity and fear
happen.62 Is the member of the audience supposed to feel pity without
further conjecture? What sort of evil is this that has befallen? If so, he is
feeling eleos without thinking of himself, and the listener should be able to
identify with the character (i.e. subject of the speech). The character (not
I, the listener) has experienced, or will experience something terrible, and
I feel pity. In this case, the specific detachment of eleos would arise in the
audience from contemplating the past and future perspective within the
story, not within their own lives. A spectator, for instance, should feel pity
for Oedipus both when he is about to suffer misfortune, and after he has just
suffered. Furthermore, when the spectator pities a character in anticipation
of the dramatic misfortune, that implies a sort of fear for the character, of
the sort suggested by Halliwell. In addition, in a second possible scenario,
there should be a double temporal perspective: one of the character and
one of the listener. The listener would not only recognize that someone
is in a pitiable situation (within the story), the first, above-mentioned
stage, but also compare it to his own experience and feel additional fear for
himself.63 The second, more complex, interpretation will appear to be more
plausible, especially after a re-examination of Aristotles description of fear
in the Rhetoric, which I shall offer subsequently. At any rate the mechanism
of stirring pity in an audience through speech, which consists of describing
situations that can arouse the emotion, is much more sophisticated than the
psychological mechanism of the common pity, in which someone would
directly observe the situation that can stir the emotion.
Secondly, why do the speakers themselves become more pitiable
(Rh. 2.1386a33) through acting? Probably because they imitate what is
worthy of pity, by bringing before the eyes. Thus signs and actions may
contribute to their representation of pity:
di toto ka t shmea, oon sqtv64 te tn peponqtwn ka sa toiata,
ka lgouv ka sa lla tn n t pqei ntwn, oon dh teleutn-
twn . . . panta gr tata di to ggv fanesqai mllon poie tn leon.
(Rh. 2.1386b14; 56)
For this reason also signs [induce pity], for example, the clothes of those who have
suffered and any other things of this sort, such as words and any other such things

62
By contrast, pity caused by a directly observable event occurs when someone is apparently in
misfortune, (Rh. 2.1385b1314).
63
Modern theorists have not yet solved the problem of how the audience relates to fictional characters;
for example, the problem of aesthetic distance versus identification is discussed by Jauss 1974.
64
Kennedy 1991, 154, observes: This is clearest in epic and drama, where suffering characters some-
times appear in rags (Euripides portrayal of Telephus was the most notorious example), roll in
the dust, etc; but defendants in Greek courts probably sometimes dressed for the part to awaken
sympathy. Aristotle may also say that orators should allude to the victims clothes or perhaps show
the rags to the jury.
Aristotle: the first theorist of emotions 93
of those in suffering; for example, of those who are dying. For all these things,
because they appear near, make pity greater.
It is remarkable that the speakers look more pitiable [to the audience] by
impersonating, by imitating to a degree those worthy of pity. Similarly, in
the Poetics (17.1455a) Aristotle has recommended that poets bring the plots
before the eyes, because those who feel emotions can best convey them to
others. This resembles the idea of the chain of emotion in Platos Ion, in
which the poet, interpreter, and spectator are all under the spell of inspired
poetry.65
Finally, why does not Aristotle clearly state that he is dealing with two
levels of the emotion? After all, he does like dividing things into classes
and sub-classes. It may be because he only wants to advise orators briefly
on how to stir pity. He does so while talking about other emotions as
well, but he never implies that the speaker should act. The difference
might be that pity is so intimately connected with tragedy that Aristotle
steps out of his usual analysis and recommends acting. There may be yet a
second explanation. Pity felt at a directly observable misfortune of another
and that felt at a representation (i.e. verbal description) of a misfortune
were so interchangeable in Greek culture,66 that it escaped Aristotle when
he passed onto the second type. Thus, the little passage in the Rhetoric
can illuminate our understanding of how the Aristotelian mechanism of
producing pity functions when induced by mimetic representation. And
yet, its importance almost escapes us, since Aristotle is so casual about it.
Fear is defined in the Rhetoric:
Estw d fbov lph tiv tarac k fantasav mllontov kako fqartiko
luphro. (Rh. 2.1382a212)
Let fear be a sort of pain or agitation, coming from imagination of a future
destructive or painful evil.
While pity for another is regularly associated with fear for oneself in the
Poetics, in the Rhetoric, the two emotions are separated.67 As described in
65
Ion 533de. In this dialogue, Ion says that he himself experiences emotions. When Socrates accuses
Ion of being out of himself when reciting, for instance, something pitiful (535b), the rhapsode
replies: g gr tan leeinn ti lgw, dakrwn mpmplanta mou o fqalmo tan te
fobern deinn, rqa a trcev stantai p fbou (I, whenever I say something pitiable, my
eyes feel with tears, and whenever I say something frightening or dreadful, my hair stands, because
of fear, 535c58).
66
Plato often emphasizes that people can feel emotion by listening to epic (Ion) or by seeing tragedies
(Republic), art forms representing situations that are not even real.
67
Kennedy 1991, 151, proposes that the two emotions are conceptually disconnected in the Rhetoric.
Belfiore 1992, 1847, however, well notes that the two emotions are still inter-related in the Rhetoric,
and points out differences between the two emotions; pity is tearful and often followed by action
(i.e. it influences the judges who absolve the accused), whereas fear is cold and passive.
94 Theoretical views about pity and fear
the treatise, fear nevertheless seems to be a simplified version of pity. Both
are some types of pain, but fear overlaps only with the last part of the
definition of pity, the expectation of a misfortune for oneself. Extreme fear
excludes pity: when someone is so consumed by the personal experience,
he cannot think about another:
mt a fobomenoi sfdra o gr leosin o kpeplhgmnoi, di t enai
prv t oke pqei. (Rh. 2.1385b324)
Nor again those who are terribly afraid [can feel pity], for those stricken by
misfortune do not feel pity because of being preoccupied with their own suffering.
What happens in all of the other cases? The two emotions still seem to be
intertwined in the Rhetoric. People have to be in a particular state of mind
to feel either pity or fear. Thus, those who are utterly ruined do not fear:
ote o dh peponqnai pnta nomzontev t dein ka peyugmnoi prv t
mllon. (Rh. 2.1383a34)
Nor (those are afraid) who think that they have suffered all the terrible things
[possible], and have become cold toward the future.
Some hope must remain for fear to continue. Likewise, those who have
been utterly destroyed do not feel pity, because they think they can suffer
no more:
di ote o pantelv polwltev leosin (odn gr n ti paqen oontai).
(Rh. 2.1385b1920)
Therefore, those who are completely destroyed do not pity (for they think that
there is nothing left for them to suffer).
Similarly, the opposite category, those who consider themselves enor-
mously happy, can feel neither fear nor pity, since they become insolent
(brista, Rh. 2.1383a2) or prone to act with arrogance (brzousin,
Rh. 2.1385b21). Indeed, in the Rhetoric Aristotle avoids saying that a person
pities when he fears a similar misfortune himself,68 usually substituting
fear with a neutral word expects. Yet, fear itself comes with an expecta-
tion that some harmful experience will occur (i.e. met prosdokav tinv
to pesesqa ti fqartikn pqov, Rh. 2.1382b2930).
As in the case of pity, the way in which Aristotle gives brief instruc-
tions to the speakers about how to induce fear in a most effective way is
fascinating:

68
There is one exception (Rh. 2.1386a279).
Aristotle: the first theorist of emotions 95
ste de toiotouv paraskeuzein, tan bltion t fobesqai atov, ti
toioto esin ooi paqen (ka gr lloi mezouv paqon) ka tov moouv69
deiknntai pscontav peponqtav, ka p totwn f n ok onto, ka
tata ka tte te ok onto. (Rh. 2.1383a812)
Thus whenever it is best [for the speaker] to make them [the listeners] experience
fear he should make them realize that they are of such sort that they can suffer,
and that others better than them [listeners] have suffered; and [the orator] should
show other people like them [the members of the audience] suffering or having
suffered, and at the hands of those individuals from whom they did not expect
any harm; and [the orator should talk about people] suffering things they did not
expect, and at a time when they were not thinking of the possibility.
There is no advice here to imitate those who feel fear, as in the case of
pity. The passage, however, does suggest that the spectators should feel
fear by realizing their human condition, their proneness to suffering and
destruction. The observation is particularly valuable for tragedy. Gnomic
statements, which generally speak of human suffering and which modern
readers tend to ignore, would have aroused fear in the Greek audience. The
orators should further show that other, better people and such should
be the tragic characters according to the Poetics have suffered when they
did not expect it, and so might others, such as the listeners. If fear can be
induced by these kinds of examples, what are the listeners supposed to feel
for those better than themselves, about whom the rhetor talks? Aristotle
does not tell us in this passage, but I suspect that they should feel pity. In
fact, this is the only type of fear that Aristotle seems to want the audiences of
tragedy to experience in the Poetics. Since the spectators watch the suffering
of tragic characters, who should be better than average citizens, the primary
emotion must be pity. Nonetheless, by relating tragic experiences to a more
general, human suffering, which might affect everyone, the audience would
feel fear. Fear and pity are still connected in the Rhetoric. Moreover, Aristotle
now sketches a model of the interaction between the two emotions in the
audiences response, which helps to clarify some of the abrupt statements
regarding phobos and eleos in the Poetics.
According to the definitions of the tragic emotions in the Rhetoric,
pity was felt at an apparent (fainomn, Rh. 2.1385b13) evil happening
to someone who does not deserve it, while fear came from appearance,
imagination, (fantasa, Rh. 2.1382a21) of an imminent evil.70 Phantasia,

69
I am keeping here the reading of the manuscripts (QBGS) tov moouv, instead of Ross choice:
tov toiotouv.
70
Cooper 1996 draws attention to a correlation between phantasia and the emotions, especially noting,
at 2459, that phantasia adds subjectivity to the way in which someone experiences emotions.
96 Theoretical views about pity and fear
conventionally translated as imagination, in the sense of experiencing
or creating an appearance, is an important concept in the Aristotelian
psychological theory. I will only briefly examine some aspects of phantasia
in the de Anima that are relevant to my analysis, without considering all the
Aristotelian references to this term, or the scholarly debates on the subject.
In the de Anima, which provides the most extensive treatment of the various
mind-faculties, phantasia is characterized as a kind of movement related to
perception but not perception per se:71
H d fantasa knhsv tiv doke enai ka ok neu asqsewv gnesqai ll
asqanomnoiv ka n asqhsv stin. (de An. 3.428b1113)
Imagination seems to be a kind of movement which does not take place without
sensation, but only in those who have sensation with the objects of sense for its
objects.72
Further Aristotle connects phantasia with sight:
fantasa n eh knhsiv p tv asqsewv tv kat nrgeian gignomnh.
pe d yiv mlista asqhsv sti, ka t noma p to fouv elhfen, ti
neu fwtv ok stin den. (de An. 3. 429a14)
Imagination should be a motion generated by actual perception; and, since sight is
the principal sense, imagination (phantasia) has derived even its name from light
(phaos), because, without light it is not possible to see.
This account cannot refer to the physical experience of seeing alone, since
visions appear even to people who have their eyes closed (fanetai ka
mousin rmata, de An. 3.428a16). Although phantasia is intimately
related to both sensation (asqhsiv) and thought (dinoia),73 it is,
nevertheless, separated from both faculties:
71
Contrast this definition with phantasia defined as weak perception (fantasa stn asqhsv tiv
sqenv, Rh. 1.1370a28; cf. Somn. 459a1719). Conversely, phantasia and thinking have the power
of the actual thing (MA 701b18). Useful surveys of the Aristotelian use of phantasia can be found in
Freudenthal 1863, Ross 1923, 1425, Rees 1971, Modrak 1987, 81110. Inconsistencies in Aristotles
treatment of phantasia have been emphasized by Hamlyn 1968 and Schofield 1992, 24951. The
opposite view is held by Watson 1988, 1437, who argues for a unified Aristotelian concept of
phantasia, which directly opposes the Platonic treatment (Ti. 72b; Tht. 152c; Sph. 260c). Osborne
2000, 26485, argues for understanding phantasia as an autonomous concept (i.e. independent
from both reason and perception), which Aristotle does not intend to define but to describe in de
Anima.
72
For the last part of the definition, with the objects of sense as its objects, I have borrowed the
translation of Hicks 1990, 127.
73
The relationship between phantasia and reason in Aristotle has been much debated. In the first
half of the twentieth century, scholars tended to base their interpretation of phantasia on the link
between imagination and perception (i.e. phantasia is feeble aisthesis, Rh. 1.1370a289): Freudenthal
1863, 31; Beare 1906, 290; Ross 1923, 39, 1423, etc. More recently, scholars have emphasized the
link between phantasia (a necessary premise for thought, de An. 3.427b1516) and cognition; on
this, see Nussbaum 1978, 22169; Modrack 1987, 11339; Wedin 1988, 10059; Frede 1992b; and
Bynum 1993. An elegant solution is offered by Lorenz 2006, 113201, who underscores the link
Aristotle: the first theorist of emotions 97
Fantasa gr teron ka asqsewv ka dianoav, ath te o ggnetai
neu asqsewv, ka neu tathv ok stin plhyiv. Oti d ok stin
at [nhsiv] ka plhyiv fanern. Toto mn gr t pqov f mn
stn, tan boulmeqa (pr mmtwn gr sti ti poisasqai, sper o
n tov mnhmonikov tiqmenoi ka edwlopoiontev), doxzein d ok f mn
ngkh gr yedesqai lhqeein. Eti d tan mn doxswmen deinn ti
fobern, eqv sumpscomen, mowv d kn qarralon kat d tn fan-
tasan satwv comen sper n e qemenoi n graf t dein qarrala.
(de An. 3.427b1424)
For it is clear that imagination is something different from either sense or thought.
And yet, it does not exist without sensorial activity, and there is no perception
without it (phantasia). It is obvious that thinking and perception are not the same.
For this experience is in our power, whenever we want (to bring something before
the eyes, as do those who range things under mnemotechnic headings and picture
them for themselves), but to form an opinion is not in our power. For it is necessary
for opinion to be either true or false. Furthermore, when we have the opinion that
something is terrible or alarming, we feel immediately the emotion and [it would
happen] similarly even with something that is reassuring. But when we are under
the influence of phantasia, we are in such a state as if we saw in a picture objects
that are frightening or courage-inspiring.

In this comparison between phantasia and doxa, Aristotle seems to refer


to an active role of phantasia: that of creating visions (edwlopoien).
By contrast, when defining phantasia, in the passage quoted above, where
phantasia comes from aisthesis (de An. 3.429a14), he likely speaks of the
passive role of phantasia, which relates to receiving visions. As Frede has
appropriately suggested, the transition from the active type to the passive
might be found in the following Aristotelian remark:
E d stin fantasa kaq n lgomen fntasm ti mn ggnesqai ka m e
ti kat metaforn lgomen, <ra> ma tiv sti totwn dnamiv xiv kaq
v krnomen ka lhqeomen yeudmeqa; (428a14)74
If then phantasia, about which we are talking, is some appearance occurring to
us and if we do not speak [from now on] in a metaphorical manner, is it a single
faculty or disposition relative to images, in virtue of which we judge, and we are
either correct or in error?

between phantasia and desires; in a sense phantasia is cognitive, as it is necessary when one imagines
acquiring the object of desire (which is shared by both animals and humans), yet it is not rational
(as desires remain below the level of reason).
74
Frede 1992b, 280, n.3: Without wanting to be overconfident on this much debated question, my
suspicion is that this active use of imagination, edolopoien (de An. 3.427b20), (that is up to us
and neither true nor false) is the sense of phantasia that is ruled out in 428a2 as kata metaphoran,
since it never recurs in de Anima and does not suit the cognitive use Aristotle wants to ascribe to
phantasia.
98 Theoretical views about pity and fear
Aristotle may be so excluding the metaphorical use of the term (active, cre-
ative imagination) when later defining phantasia as dependent on sensation
(passive). The active phantasia is thus, perhaps, more related to thought,
as an ability to create visions before the minds eye, whereas the passive
phantasia is, in this case, closer to perception.
In addition to raising the problem of the double use of phantasia in the
treatise, the passage (de An. 3.427b1424) becomes particularly interesting
in light of the recommendations given to tragedians in the Poetics and to
orators in the Rhetoric. Thus, it is in our power to create visions, to bring
something before our eyes (pr mmtwn gr sti ti poisasqai), as
do those who range things under mnemotechnic headings and (re)create
them for themselves (sper o n tov mnhmonikov tiqmenoi ka ed-
wlopoiontev, de An. 3.427b1920). The creators of images are called here
creators of visions (edolopoiontev), while in the Poetics any mimetic
artist, whether poet or painter, receives a very similar epithet, maker of
images (ekonopoiv, Po. 25.1460b9).75 Furthermore, it is striking that the
formula used here, pro ommaton, appears almost exactly in the Poetics and
Rhetoric. Artists have to use their creative phantasia in order to bring fic-
tional events (Po. 17.1455a223), or pitiable events (Rh. 2.1386a335) before
the eyes. I have argued that bringing before the eyes has the role of
conveying emotion from the poet or actor and orator to the audience. The
process would be similar to that by which a metaphor, accompanied by
actualization (nrgeia) conveys a novel idea to the mind of the listener.
A tragedian (or orator) actualizes the emotion of the speech, by visualizing
it, and so renders it plausible to the audience. Thus, those in the grip of
emotion become most convincing (Po. 17.1455a2930), and, similarly, ora-
tors who envision pity become themselves more pitiable (Rh. 2.1386b33).
Aristotle himself seems to refer to the creative phantasia as metaphorical
(de An. 3.428a12), which further justifies our comparison.
Moreover, the account of phantasia (in the sense of creating visions) offers
a fascinating distinction between emotion aroused by imagination and that
aroused by real events (de An. 3.427b214). When we form an opinion
(dxa) about something as being frightening, we experience fear immedi-
ately (tan mn doxswmen deinn ti fobern, eqv sumpscomen, de
An. 3.427b212). However, when we are under the influence of phantasia,
we do not experience emotion to the same degree. Fear aroused by creative
imagination (kat d tn fantasan) is less strong and immediate, as
75
sti mimhtv poihtv sperane zwgrfov tiv llov ekonopoiv, ngkh mimesqai
trin ntwn tn riqmn n ti e, gr oa n stin, o fasin ka doke, oa enai de
(Po. 25.1460b811).
Aristotle: the first theorist of emotions 99
if we viewed terrifying things in a painting (sper n e qemenoi n
graf t dein (de An. 3.427b234). It may seem rather odd that most
emotions come from phantasia, appearance, imagination, in the Rhetoric.
Fear, for example, is aroused by phantasia of an imminent evil (k fan-
tasav mllontov kako, Rh. 2.1382a212).76 In the case of a real threat,
nevertheless, one has to be later convinced through reasoning that the
apparent evil is approaching, in truth. One can thus form an opin-
ion (doxzein) by asking oneself whether one is really threatened by
the misfortune77 and this is not in ones power, but depends on the
nature of the events themselves (ok f mn ngkh gr yedesqai
lhqeein, de An. 3.427b201). Likewise, one has to realize (form the
opinion) that an apparent evil is menacing in reality. When this produces
the expectation of misfortune (met prosdokav, Rh. 2.1382b29), one
experiences real fear.78 By contrast, emotion aroused by artistic creation
does not rely on real events, but depends exclusively on the artists imagi-
nation (pqov f mn stn, tan boulmeqa pr mmtwn gr sti
ti poisasqai, de An. 3.427b1819), and, probably, on the listeners ability
to imagine. The spectator does not have to verify if the misfortune is truly
menacing in real life, and therefore form an opinion. The emotion itself,
therefore, is less intense than it would be if caused by real events. Never-
theless, the emphasis on bringing before the eyes in both the Poetics and
Rhetoric is a plea for actualization of emotion aroused by artistic creation.
Because emotion is diminished by not having grounds in reality, a good
artist has to imitate real life situations as closely as possible. Therefore, a
tragedian should see himself as if in the middle of the (fictional) events
(Po. 17.1455a245). The events narrated by the orator will appear close at
hand, as if happening or as if they have just happened (Rh. 2.1386a336).
This suggests that the misfortune (which tragic plot displays, for example)
should appear as plausible as possible, so that the audience would almost
believe it to be real. Consequently, the audience experiences an emotion
almost as powerful as the one aroused by a real event. This actualization
of fictional emotion occurs when pathos becomes visible, or, to use the
Aristotelian phrase referring to pity, when pathos is apparent before the
eyes (n fqalmov fainomnou to paqov, Rh. 2.1386b7).
76
Naturally the rhetorical context is significant here: the orator has to stir fear when the emotion
is not caused by an obvious, direct threat; if people perceive the threat directly, persuasion is not
needed.
77
Gorgias had already suggested the ambiguous cause of fear (Hel. 16; 17): what alarms the mind may
be only imagined or real, and in a first stage of the emotion it may be difficult to specify.
78
In the case of pity, likewise, one expects (prosdokseien, Rh. 2.1385b14) that a misfortune similar to
one happening to another, will happen to oneself or ones own, or remembers that it has happened.
100 Theoretical views about pity and fear
Several important conclusions can be drawn from the comparative anal-
ysis of the Aristotelian treatment of tragic emotions. Pity is, perhaps, the
most complex emotion in Aristotles theory, since it paradoxically combines
the temporal and personal detachment with the imaginative involvement
of the spectator. The visual imaginative element, bringing before the
eyes, is fundamental for the process of transferring emotions from poet
(or orator) to audience (Po. 17.1455a23, Rh. 2.1386a334). Thus, when the
tragedian envisions his play, through creative phantasia (de An. 3.427b),
he conveys pity and fear and, further, he actualizes the two emotions for
the audience, by making the events look real.79 Because of Aristotles dislike
of opsis (when it substitutes for the plot as a source of emotional effect),
most scholars have not noticed the importance of the internal vision, pro
ommaton, for the Aristotelian poetic theory. The same reason (critique of
opsis in the Poetics) has obscured the fact that Aristotle may anticipate ideas
that become very common in later literary criticism in antiquity, such as
seeing emotion and poetic phantasia.80 Overall, Aristotles rhetorical the-
ory provides us with important information about the psychological effects
of pity and fear on the audience of tragedy. Furthermore, it suggests the
mechanism through which the poet actualizes emotions for his audience
as vividly as possible by imaginative vision, which remained an influential
idea in ancient literary criticism.
A Homeric scholiast, for example,81 comments on the Iliad passage
(22.4378), in which the news of Hectors death is brought to Hecuba but
Andromache does not hear it. Specifically, the scholiast emphasizes that this
line increases the emotion (axei pqov). The observation is particularly
interesting when contrasted with Aristotles remark about the arousal of
pity through pro ommaton poiein. One should present events either as if
they have just happened or as if they are about to happen. The explanation
is that such misfortunes are more pitiable (leeintera, Rh. 3.1386b1).
The scholiast makes a strikingly similar remark. The readers anticipation

79
As one reader has suggested to me, Aristotles emphasis on internal vision might be related to the
fact that the most horrific acts in Greek tragedy took place off-stage, and were verbally described
by a messenger; the audience was thus accustomed to put these narrated actions before the eyes.
80
Babut 1985, 723, notes that Aristotle may have already recognized how events described by poetic
imagination differ from reality; but his example characters of tragedy should appear better than
real people (Po. 3.1448ab) has nothing to do with phantasia. Manieri 1998 places the notion
of poetic imagination after Aristotles Rhetoric, as she notes at 39: Il problema, comunque, non
e trattato esplicitamente in nessun luogo della Retorica, lidea di immaginazione nel senso di
rappresentazione visiva che dipinge un oggetto sotto gli occhi del ascoltatori.
81
Homeric scholiasts considered the poet to be a precursor of tragedy, due to his ability to represent
pathos: tragdav tragikn xere proomion (he has found a tragic prelude of tragedy, Schol.
Il. 1.1). These examples are discussed for their own sake in Griffin 1976 and Richardson 1980.
Aristotle: the first theorist of emotions 101
that Andromache is about to find out the horrifying news may enhance our
emotion here. Later, when Andromache finally comes to the city walls and
watches Hectors corpse being dragged around (Il. 22.4645), the scholiast
notes: she is the most pitiable vision to see (sti d den oktrotthn
yin).82 This recalls the Aristotelian observation that pity should be visible,
pathos en ophthalmois. Furthermore, Andromaches seeing a terrible sight,
probably made the scholiast exclaim that the character herself was the most
pitiable sight, which again recalls the Aristotelian observation that those
in the grip of emotions best convey emotion.83 The scholiast of Sophocles
Ajax (Schol. S. Aj. 864) mentions a certain actor, who, like Platos bard in
the Ion, or Aristotles ideal orator or actor, is able to bring pathos before the
eyes of the audience. The performer should enable the viewers to imagine
the hero, to reach a vision of Ajax (ev to Aantov fantasan). Such
an actor was Timotheus, who guided the spectators and mesmerized their
souls through his delivery (yucaggei t pkrisei).84
Later, imaginative vision, phantasia, becomes a fundamental medium
through which both poetry and rhetoric can arouse pathe in the audience.
Thus, Longinus defines phantasia:
Kaletai mn gr koinv fantasa pn t pwson nnmhma gnnhtikn
lgou paristmenon dh d p totwn kekrthken tonoma, tan lgeiv
p nqousiasmo ka pqouv blpein dokv ka p yin tiqv tov koousin.
(Subl. 15.12)
For the term phantasia is used, in general, for an idea coming from any source
and producing speech, but the meaning that now has prevailed regards those
(discourses), in which, under the influence of enthusiasm and emotion, you seem
to see what you describe and bring it vividly before the eyes of your listeners.
Longinus general description of the term (to have a poetic vision) reminds
us of Aristotles view of creative phantasia in the de Anima. The narrower
definition of phantasia, which Longinus adopts, strikingly resembles Aris-
totles notion of pro ommaton poiein, to place the poetic vision before the
eyes of the listeners, and an equivalent expression is used in the passage
82
Nunlist 2009, 13949, analyzes the scholiasts comments on this particular scene and other Homeric
passages. In all these cases, the anticipation of the characters suffering stirs the readers pity.
83
Many other observations of the scholiasts can be associated with Aristotles theory. Thus, dramatic
pity and oratorical pity are connected in the Homeric scholia. When Helen finishes deploring the
fate of Troy, for example, (Il. 24.776), the scholiast observes that the Iliad ends with arousal of
pity, as orators end their speeches with moving the audience to pity (pleonta knhsen okton.
Ep plest d l katastrfei tn Ilida, qen ka o torev n tov dikanikov scaton
tiqasi tn okton v kinonta tn kroatn).
84
Cf. Plu. (Moral. 17d), in which the spectators are infected by passion through the voices of those
who have suffered; for further discussion on this, see Lada 1993.
102 Theoretical views about pity and fear
(p yin). Similarly, Quintilians comments on phantasia echo Aristotles
theory:
Quas fantasav Graeci vocant, nos visiones sane appellemus, per quas imagines
rerum absentium ita representamur animo, ut eas cernere oculis ac praesentes habere
videamur, has quisquis bene ceperit, is erit adfectibus potentissimus. (Inst. 6.2.2930)
We should certainly call visions what the Greeks call phantasiae, through which
we so represent the images of absent things that we seem to discern them with our
own eyes and have them present. Whoever has a hold of these (visions), he will be
most powerful with respect to emotions.
The passage recovers the Aristotelian link between actualization and pro
ommaton. Thus, the imagined things are visualized, cernere oculis, and seen
as if present (praesentes).85 Moreover, phantasiai or visiones can bring before
the eyes the images of absent things (absentium rerum), which seems to con-
nect viewing a mimetic work of art with remembering. Remembering an
absent object as representation and watching an object of mimesis are similar
mental processes.86 Finally, the idea that whoever uses phantasia properly
is most powerful with respect to emotions (adfectibus potentissimus) is very
similar to Aristotles point (Po. 17.1455a) that the most convincing poets are
those who visualize their plays and are themselves in the grip of emotions.
In his Confessions, St. Augustine marvels at the paradoxical nature of the
tragic pleasure, from which he attempts to free himself in a quasi-Platonic
manner:87
Rapiebant me spectacula theatrica plena imaginibus miserarum mearum et
fomitibus ignis mei. Quid est quod ibi homo vult dolere cum spectat luctuosa et
tragica, quae tamen pati ipse nollet. Et tamen pati vult ex eis dolorem spectator
et dolor ipse est voluptas eius. Quid est nisi miserabilis insania? (Conf. 3.2.16)
Theatrical performances were captivating me, full of visions of my misfortunes
and fuel of my fire. What is it that one wants when he watches mournful and
tragic [events], which, however, he himself would not want to suffer? And yet,
the spectator wants to suffer and the pain derived from those [tragic sights] is the
spectators very pleasure. What is this if not unfortunate madness?
In addition to terms underlining the visual process of watching tragedies
(spectacula, spectat, spectator), the passage clearly connects the imaginative
85
Quintilian, like Aristotle, directly links pro ommaton to energeia (Inst. 9.2.40). He further notes that
Ciceros pro oculis subiectio and Celsus evidentia translate the Greek energeia or hypotyposis, which
means: proposita quaedam forma rerum ita expressa verbis ut cerni potius videatur quam audiri.
86
Similarities between the process of memory and that of viewing art are emphasized in Aristotles de
Memoria. I will next explore this topic, while dealing with Aristotles ideas about tragic pleasure,
oikeia hedone.
87
I have discussed this passage more extensively elsewhere (2009, 1224).
Aristotle: the first theorist of emotions 103
visions conceived by tragedians to those of the viewer. Thus, the tragic
performances were full of images of misfortunes (plena imaginibus miser-
arum), which Augustine metaphorically transfers to his own self (mearum).
In conclusion, although the spectator can only passively sympathize with
the tragic action, he nevertheless takes pleasure in the imaginative pain:
Non tamen ad subveniendum provocatur auditor, sed tamen ad dolendum invitatur
et auctori earum imaginum amplius favet cum amplius dolet. (Conf. 3.2.1316)
For the listener is not challenged to help [in the tragic circumstances], but only to
feel pain, and the more he feels the pain, the more he favors the author of these
images.

Reminiscent of Platos view about tragic pleasure in the Republic, this


statement once again draws attention to the transmission of imaginative
vision, through a kind of contract between poet and spectator. The more
the spectator feels the painful emotion, the more he likes the creator of the
painful visions.

4.4 proper pleasure ( oikeia hedone ) from emotions

4.4.1 Proper pleasure as a species of mimesis


Scholars have discussed tragic pleasure in the Poetics mainly as part of a
larger Aristotelian concept of mimetic pleasure. The focus of my analysis
will be instead on the link between pleasure and sorrowful emotions in the
concept of the oikeia hedone of tragedy, which has not been examined suf-
ficiently. Before proceeding, a specification is necessary. In this section, my
examination will concentrate on several passages in Aristotles works that
can be connected with the proper pleasure of tragedy without considering
Aristotles overall treatment of pleasure, which is complex and inconsistent
at times.88 First, I discuss the concept in the context of specific pleasure
of an activity in the Nicomachean Ethics and, then, review the proper

88
The expression oikeia hedone, pleasure proper to individual activities (nrgeiai) occurs most
prominently in EN (10.1175ab). Hardie 1980, 31314, and Laurenti 1989, 1623, provide useful
introductions to this subject. For example, Aristotle follows the Academic view of hedone as a
process of restoration (Rh. 1.1369b335 and MM 1205b111), but he rejects it elsewhere (EN and
EE). Furthermore, even in the ethical treatises the definitions of pleasure diverge: pleasures are
activities (nrgeiai, EN 6.1153a10), whereas pleasures intensify activities (nrgeiai) without being
activities per se (EN 10.1174a36). General, useful introductions to the topic are Festugiere 1936,
Owen 19711972, 135, and Gosling and Taylor 1982, 193318, who argue for a more unified concept
of pleasure in Aristotles works than Owen.
104 Theoretical views about pity and fear
pleasure of tragedy in connection with other Aristotelian descriptions of
the pleasures of memory and recollection.
After denouncing the external visual element, Aristotle notes that there
is an appropriate kind of pleasure for the genre:
O gr psan de zhten donn p tragdav, ll tn okean. Epe
d tn p lou ka fbou di mimsewv de donn paraskeuzein tn
poihtn, fanern v toto n tov prgmasin mpoihton. (Po. 14.1453b10
14)
For one should not seek every kind of pleasure from tragedy, but [only] the
appropriate type. Since the poet has to produce the pleasure that comes from pity
and fear through mimesis, obviously this should be built into the events.
By connecting this remark with the description of mimesis in the Poetics,
scholars have made some important observations regarding Aristotles tragic
pleasure.89 Overall, human beings have the innate tendency to imitate and
to delight in mimetic works because these trigger a certain mental process:90
t te gr mimesqai smfuton . . . ka t carein tov mimmasi pntav. Shmeon
d totou t sumbanon p tn rgwn gr at luphrv rmen,
totwn tv eknav tv mlista kribwmnav caromen qewrontev, oon
qhrwn te morfv tn timottwn ka nekrn. ation d ka totou, ti
manqnein o mnon tov filosfoiv diston ll ka tov lloiv mowv,
ll p brac koinwnosin ato. Di gr toto carousi tv eknav
rntev, ti sumbanei qewrontav manqnein ka sullogzesqai t kaston,
oon ti otov kenov. (Po. 4.1448b5; 817)
It is natural to imitate . . . and it is natural also that everyone delights in mimetic
representations. A common proof of this comes from the following: we enjoy
contemplating the most precise images of things whose actual sight is distressing,
such as the forms of the most repulsive animals and of corpses. The explanation
for this is also the fact that learning is very pleasurable not only to philosophers
but likewise to all others, though the latter partake in it less (than the former).
This is why people enjoy looking at images, because while contemplating them it
happens that they learn and infer what each element is, for example, this is that.
This account of mimesis presents some difficulties, since it deals with both
imitation as a natural phenomenon and artistic imitation. Thus, the birth
of poetry has two natural causes (Poet. 4.1448b45): the inborn tendency

89
Tracy 1946, Goldschmidt 1982, 21217, Belfiore 1985, 34961 as well as 1992, 31718, 3589, and
Halliwell 1998, 4381.
90
Else 1958 convincingly shows that initially the word refers to sound-imitation, imperson-
ation/enactment in Greek literature until Plato appears to have coined the concept of artistic
mimesis.
Aristotle: the first theorist of emotions 105
of human beings, in particular,91 (1) to imitate and (2) to enjoy imitations
(Po. 4.1448b59). Moreover, mimetic works are generally pleasurable, as the
example of painting shows. Aristotle uses the concept of imitation in an
extensive sense, that of mimicking (sounds and gestures perhaps), and also
in a more restrictive sense, that of arts as complex products of imitation.92
He uses here the verb to learn, to understand (manqnein) twice in
connection with pleasure. Firstly, he states that everybody enjoys some
basic type of learning, even if philosophers experience cognitive delight on
a more sophisticated level.93 Secondly, Aristotle describes the pleasure that
people derive from mimetic works, by choosing the example of painting.94
In this case, learning is a reasoning process. The viewer delights in using
similarities to recognize how the representation relates to the identity of the
model, by reckoning what each one is, that this is that (sullogzesqai
t kaston, oon ti otov kenov, Po. 4.1448b1617).95
This account of pleasure produced by visual arts (Po. 4.1448b) does not
seem an adequate explanation for the pleasure of tragedy, which Aristotle
does not specifically try to explain here.96 Nevertheless, as Halliwell rightly
notes,97 tragic hedone does appear to belong to the larger category, the
hedone of mimesis, as genus relates to species. This view is supported by

91
As Heath 2009b, 62, observes, Aristotle says in this passage that humans are the most imitative of
all animals, which suggests that some other animals are able to imitate, too.
92
Halliwell 2002, 15176.
93
Cf. Metaph. 980a21: pntev nqrwpoi to ednai rgontai fsei (all people desire to know by
nature). Halliwell 2001 interprets learning (manqnein) from mimesis as an important intellectual
process, which is perhaps less sophisticated than the philosophical understanding of the world but
still essential for human progress. Any link between mimesis and learning, as Halliwell 1998, 78,
convincingly argues, is a bold critique of the Platonic dialogues.
94
Struck 1995, 2213, notes that comparison: picture-painter occurs no less than seven times in the
Poetics (1.1447a; 2.1448a twice; 6.1450a, 1450b; 15.1454b; 25.1460b). The analogy presupposes a
criterion of clarity and plausibility for poetic mimesis, which should refer to the model represented
as a painting does. This Aristotelian model of clear mimesis, Struck argues, has been extremely
influential on later literary critics, such as Aristarchus, Cicero, and Quintilian, and opposed to
interpreting a poetic text as allegorical.
95
A certain recognition is involved in this cognitive process that produces pleasure, as Dupont-Roc
and Lallot 1980, 163, have remarked, un plaisir de reconnaissance. Thus previous acquaintance
with the model imitated is a condition sine qua non for pleasure. If the viewer does not recognize the
subject of the imitation, then he does not enjoy the painting because of the imitation, but because
of the execution or color of the painting (pe n m tc proewrakv, oc mmhma poisei
tn donn ll di tn pergasan tn croin di toiathn tin llhn atan,
Po. 4.1448b1719). Heaths (2009b, 65) suggestion that the pleasure derived from mimetic inference
resembles the pleasure of solving a puzzle (cf. Aristotles discussion of metaphor Rh. 3.1410b927)
is compelling.
96
The most interesting example is, perhaps, the comparison between a painting composed of random
colors and an outline that uses no colors (Po. 6.1450a39-b3). The latter resembles the plot of a
tragedy and produces more pleasure than the former.
97
1986, 6077.
106 Theoretical views about pity and fear
another passage in which Aristotle discusses mimetic pleasure more gen-
erally. Here he includes poetry among the arts that compel the audience
to engage in a syllogistic process of learning, which ultimately produces
delight:
pe d t manqnein te d ka t qaumzein, ka t toide ngkh da enai
oon t te mimomenon, sper grafik ka ndriantopoia ka poihtik, ka
pn n e memimhmnon , kn m d at t memimhmnon. O gr p
tot carei, ll sullogismv stn ti toto keno, ste manqnein ti
sumbanei. (Rh. 1.1371b410)
Since to learn and to admire is pleasurable, other things are necessarily pleasurable,
such as a mimetic work [lit. what has been imitated], for example, painting,
sculpture, and poetry, and everything that is well imitated, even if the object of
imitation is not in itself pleasant. For, one (the spectator) does not take delight
in this [the subject of imitation], but in the reasoning process: this is that, so one
learns what is going on [in the artistic representation].
Moreover, the Poetics often emphasizes that tragic pleasure includes such
a cognitive element. The dramatic composition has to be logical, but at
the same time surprising, so that it offers the spectator the opportunity
to combine a process of learning (manqnein), in the sense of reason-
ing, with amazement (qaumzein). Events, for example, should occur
on account of one another, and also contrary to expectation in the best
kind of tragic plot. Best recognition is accompanied by reversal.98 This
suggests that the audience should enjoy following the rational develop-
ment of the tragic story, its plausibility, and, simultaneously, marvel at the
unexpected.99 Moreover, lexical devices lead to a similar type of pleasure,100
as the following observation shows clearly:
t gr manqnein dwv d fsei psin st, t d nmata shmanei ti,
ste sa tn nomtwn poie mn mqhsin, dista. (Rh. 3.1410b1012)
To learn easily is naturally pleasant to all; and words signify something; so whatever
words create knowledge in us are the most pleasurable.

98
Kallsth d nagnrisiv, tan ma peripete gnhtai (The best kind of recognition scene
is when this occurs together with a reversal, Po. 11.1452a323).
99
As Aristotle clearly states, peripeteiai, reversals of fortune, are pleasurable because they produce
wonder: ka a peripteiai ka t par mikrn szesqai k tn kindnwn pnta gr
qaumast tata (reversals of fortune and being saved in the last moment from dangers are
also pleasurable, for all these things are wondrous, Rh. 1.1371b1011). For the pleasurable effect
of wonder, which promotes surprise in connection with intelligible causation of tragic events, see
Hepburn 1984, 13154, and Halliwell 1998, 746.
100
Aristotle suggests that language is a source of delight in the definition of tragedy itself, which is
composed in garnished language (dusmn lg, Po. 6.1449b25).
Aristotle: the first theorist of emotions 107
Remarkably Aristotle prefers figures of speech that delight the listener
through a cognitive process,101 which strikingly resembles the reasoning
of the viewer in the passage on painting (Po. 4.1448b817). The contrast
between the simile and metaphor serves as a particularly revealing example:
Estin gr ekn, kaqper erhtai prteron, metafor diafrousa pro-
qsei di tton d, ti makrotrwv ka o lgei v toto keno. okoun
od zhte toto yuc. (Rh. 3.1410b1719)
A simile is, as it was mentioned earlier, a metaphor differing in the way it is put
[lit. in its setting]. Therefore, it is less pleasing because it is longer and because it
does not signify that this is that. Thus the soul [of the listener] does not seek this
[i.e. to infer that this is so].
As the viewer recognizes in the mimetic painting some elements, which
remind him of the model represented, and yet, are not identical with them,
so the listener discovers in metaphorical language elements that lead him
to the object signified.102 In both instances, cognitive pleasure derives from
reasoning (in the viewers or listeners mind): this is that, and thus from
the ability to discern the likeness as well as the difference between the
original and its artistic representation.103
Sufficient evidence indicates that, for Aristotle, tragic discourse should
delight the audience through its subtle composition. Therefore, the descrip-
tion of the Aristotelian concept of tragic pleasure as cognitive qua mimesis
is accurate, and yet not complete. In the definition of the oikeia hedone, a
poet ought to contrive pleasure not only through mimesis but, in fact, from
pity and fear, through imitation (p lou ka fbou di mimsewv,
Po. 14.1453b12). Since the emotions are named as a source, they are crucial
for the pleasure of tragedy. The role of the emotions in this equation,
nevertheless, has not been discussed adequately. Belfiore has convincingly
underscored the cognitive function of the proper pleasure but considered
it somewhat divorced from the tragic emotions.104 In the conclusion of
101
Metaphors, urbanities, and riddles all presuppose such a reasoning process in the mind of the
listener. They are often accompanied by surprise (Rh. 3.1412a).
102
Although a metaphor is different from the notion signified, the poet has to capture the similarities
between the signified and signifier, through contemplating the alike (for to write metaphors well
is to observe the alike [i.e. that one thing is like another], t gr e metafrein t moion
qewren stin, Po. 22.1459a78; cf. Rh. 3.1405a810). The listener can thus discover the notion
signified. This seems to be true in the case of mimetic painting (Po. 4.1448b1519); the painting
does not exactly copy the model but sufficiently resembles it, so that the viewer can infer this is
so and so.
103
Both Tsitsiridis 2005 and Heath 2009b, 646, correctly underscore that Aristotle ascribes the
pleasure of imitation to a process of reasoning similar to active recollection.
104
Belfiore 1992, 31618, compares tragic pleasure with the pleasure without pain and desire, such as the
pleasure of contemplation (EN 7.1152b36ff), and suggests at 3549 that the Aristotelian spectator
108 Theoretical views about pity and fear
her book, she emphasizes that the spectator should perceive tragic char-
acters not in pitiable situations, but rather in shameful ones. Thus, the
audience could learn a moral lesson: to produce aidos in the soul, by
avoiding shameless emotions (i.e. pity and fear), which would preserve
the polis.105 On the contrary, the Poetics, it seems, constantly underscores
the role of pity and fear in producing the pleasure of tragedy. Halliwell
correctly observes that the oikeia hedone is both cognitive and emotional.
Nonetheless, he analyzes the cognitive aspects in detail without focusing
on how emotions may enter the equation of the appropriate pleasure of the
genre.106 Heath identifies the problem: if we regard the peculiar (oikeia)
pleasure of tragedy only as part of the general pleasure of mimesis, we do
not understand its particularity. In his opinion, the solution lies in the
fact that tragedy is a noble form of leisure for the audience.107 Such an
explanation, however, does not account for the presence of pity and fear in
the definition of tragic pleasure. In fact, the emotional aspect (the fearful
and pitiable) seems to be the specific element of tragic mimesis, which dis-
tinguishes tragic pleasure from the pleasure of mimesis overall, and which
deserves our further consideration.

4.4.2 Proper pleasure supervening the activity of tragedy


In general the presentation of the oikeia hedone in the Nicomachean Ethics
can be sketched as follows. Pleasure perfects every activity and is, therefore,
diverse:
*neu te gr nergeav o gnetai don, psn te nrgeian teleio don.
Oqen dokosi ka t edei diafrein (EN 10.1175a202)
For there is no pleasure without activity, and pleasure perfects every activity. Hence
(pleasures) seem to differ in species.

should learn emotional lessons from friendship and shame (adv), rather than from pity and
fear, which would make tragedy better than philosophy. In my opinion, Aristotle certainly
unlike Plato is not interested in emphasizing the superior pleasures of philosophy over tragedy,
but wants to discuss each in its own right, as activities with their specific, proper pleasure.
105
Belfiore (1992) 3589. Overall, Belfiores book is insightful and contains illuminating analyses of
various passages of the Poetics in the context of other Aristotelian works, but it seeks, at times, a
direct reply to Platos critique of tragedy in the Poetics by diminishing the role of pity and fear,
which cannot find support, in my view, in the Aristotelian treatise.
106
Halliwell 1998, 76, argues that cognition and emotion are integrated in the tragic pleasure, but
analyzes oikeia hedone particularly as a genus of the generic mimetic pleasure, which leads to the
emphasis on the cognitive aspect and for which the text of the Poetics offers more, though sketchy,
explanation.
107
Heath 2001. According to Too 1998, 924, Aristotle avoids the political implications of aesthetic
pleasure, by placing the pleasure of music or poetry under the category of leisure.
Aristotle: the first theorist of emotions 109
This premise of specific pleasure occurs in a context that raises prob-
lems relating to both terminology and content.108 Pleasure perfects an
activity,109 not in the sense of making it whole, but rather in the sense of
crowning an already complete activity:
teleio d tn nrgeian don oc v xiv nuprcousa, ll v pigin-
menn ti tlov, oon tov kmaoiv ra. (EN 10.1174b313)
But the pleasure perfects an activity not as the fixed disposition does, by being
already present, but as some supervening perfection, like the bloom in those who
are vigorous.
The cryptic phrasing suggests that pleasure would follow an activity as
a certain supervening completion (pigignmenn ti tlov). Then, is
pleasure a result of an activity (energeia) done well? If so, how does it
complete the activity, and what exactly is the relationship between the
two?110 Additional points regarding this are even more baffling:
wv n on t te nohtn asqhtn oon de ka t krnon qewron,
stai n t nerge don mown gr ntwn ka prv llhla tn atn
trpon cntwn to te paqhtiko ka to poihtiko tat pfuke gnesqai.
(EN 10.1174b341175a3)
Therefore, as long as both (1) the object of thought or the object of perception
is as it should and also (2) the subject discerning or contemplating is as it should
be, there will be pleasure in the activity; for, similarly, when both the passive
(pathetikou) and the active (making, poietikou) are similar and in the same relation
to one another, the same result is naturally produced.
108
For a comparison between the accounts of pleasure in the Aristotelian works, see Gosling and
Taylor 1982, 26383, and Riel 2000a, 11938. Eudoxus defined pleasure as the supreme good. Plato
dismissed the hedonist position; this anti-hedonist position was later adopted by Speusippus.
Aristotle defends Eudoxus to some extent, but also adopts the Platonic hierarchy of intellectual
pleasures as superior to the rest.
109
Energeia is itself a problematic term in the passage. Commonly translated with activity (EN, cf.
LSJ sv.1, as opposed to disposition, xiv), it can also mean actualization (cf. LSJ sv.2, especially
as opposed to potentiality, dnamiv). In this context, the term does refer to an activity being
performed (i.e. music, philosophy, EN 10.1175a1316), but it also has a broader meaning. Thus, life
itself is a kind of activity (EN 10.1175a13, probably in the sense of a process by which something
attains its form), in which case actualization may be a better rendition of the word.
110
This passage explaining pleasure as supervening completion has caused scholarly controversy. Irwin
1985 and Riel 2000b, 57, summarize the scholarly divergence in understanding the relationship
between pleasure and activity in this passage. Some tend to diminish the significance of the idea
of pleasure as supplementary perfection. For example, Gosling and Taylor 1982, 21112 and
24950, argue that pleasure perfects activity (frequently repeated in EN 10), and one perfection is
enough. Others emphasize that pleasure has a different perfection, in addition to activity; thus,
for example, Rist 1989, 109, and Riel (2000b) 58. Both positions seem somewhat extreme to me.
Hughes 2001, 198, provides the most nuanced explanation: Enjoying something just is part and
parcel of performing a natural activity at its best. It can be thought of as something different and
additional.
110 Theoretical views about pity and fear
The abstract language used here is difficult to decode. The passage prompts
several questions. First, what is the activity (energeia) in this case? Activity,
resulting in pleasure, seems to take place when the perceived (or the object
of thought) is as it should be (oon de) in relation with the perceiving
(or thinking). And yet this is not very helpful, for how should they be? In
the second example, activity seems already complete at the moment when
pleasure is produced,111 since the making (poihtikn) part and the part
suffering the action (paqhtikn) are in a constant relation to one another.
Another question arises: who feels pleasure? As far as the abstruse wording
allows interpretation, one seems to experience pleasure through a twofold
process. (1) The activity is well performed (in this sense, complete), so, for
example, the one who is thinking relates properly to the object of thought.
(2) Pleasure may occur at a subsequent realization that the activity is com-
plete (i.e. when a thinker realizes that he has thought correctly). Although
the passage is too complicated to venture any definite conclusions, the
definition of pleasure as supervening perfection may have consequences
for aesthetic pleasure. If pleasure derives from being aware that an activity
is perfect, the audience could derive pleasure from perceiving tragedy as
the imitation of a complete action. Then pleasure might occur when the
spectators perception is as it should be in connection with the tragic
action as well as when he is properly affected, which is properly moved to
pity and fear.
Apart from the preliminary discussion of hedone and energeia, the
account of proper pleasure runs smoothly. As activities are different in
quality, so are the pleasures perfecting them:
omeqa . . . mowv d ka tv nergeav tv diaferosav t edei p diafer-
ntwn edei teleiosqai. (EN 10.1175a 23; 256)
Similarly we think . . . that activities different in kind are perfected by [pleasures]
different in kind.

Pleasures are thus different, in accordance with the activities which they per-
fect, or proper to their activities, and the appropriate pleasure enhances
the activity:

111
Although some scholars propose a contradiction between this point and the later statement
that pleasure enhances activity, one need not take this stance. Rowe and Broadie 2002, 437, write:
Aristotle should explain how, if pleasure supervenes an activity (EN 10.1175b31), it also strengthens
it. In my opinion, Aristotle implies an interdependence of activity and pleasure. When activity
is well done (in this sense complete) and the doer has the awareness that it is so, then he feels
pleasure, and thus becomes more involved in that activity.
Aristotle: the first theorist of emotions 111
(diafrousi) ka a teleiosai d dona. faneh d n toto ka k to
sunkeisqai tn donn ksthn t nerge n teleio. Sunaxei gr tn
nrgeian okea don. (EN 10.1175a2831)
Therefore, pleasures that perfect (activities) also differ from each other. This may
also appear so from the way in which each kind of pleasure harmonizes with the
activity which it perfects. For, proper pleasure augments the activity.

Aristotle does not further explain or illustrate what is specific (okeon) in


the pleasures of various activities, as one may have hoped. Instead, he states
that proper pleasures intensify activities, because people perform those
activities best that they enjoy. By contrast, pain (lph), here perhaps used
in the sense of dislike,112 ruins an activity. For example, when someone
regards counting as unpleasant, he stops doing sums, because the activity
is painful to him (EN 10.1175b1720). An important observation is that
alien (lltriai) pleasures have an effect similar to pain (lph) felt
in respect to an activity:
A lltriai dona erhtai ti paraplsin ti t lp poiosin
fqerousi gr, pln oc mowv. (EN 10.1175b 224)
Alien pleasures, it has been said, do something that is very close to pain. For they
destroy (an activity), only not to the same extent.

Thus, alien pleasures impede an activity because they belong to actions


other than the one performed at the moment, and thus they can distract
somebody from the proper pleasure, oikeia hedone. For example, people
who love flute music cannot pay attention to a philosophical discussion
when they hear someone playing flute. Pleasure of music impairs the proper
pleasure of study in this instance (EN 10.1175b37).
At this point, Aristotle passes to classifying pleasures. He makes a first
distinction based on quality, or, more exactly, purity of pleasure. As seeing
is superior in purity to all the other senses, so the pleasures of thought
(dinoia) excel those of the senses, and the pleasures of either class differ
among themselves in purity.113 The criterion of purity seems here to

112
Finding the right meaning for the word lph is not easy in this context: usually the term means
pain. Now dislike can be dispositional, whereas pain is momentary. But, in the Aristotelian
example, someone can stop counting because the person considers the activity momentarily
unpleasant (pain) or generally unpleasant (dislike).
113
diafrei d yiv fv kaqareithti, ka ko ka sfrhsiv gesewv mowv d diafrousi
ka a dona, ka totwn a per tn dinoian (sight differs from touch in purity and hearing
and smell from taste; similarly, pleasures are different, and those concerning thought are superior
to these other types, EN 10.1175b361176a3).
112 Theoretical views about pity and fear
refer to the degree to which activities, and therefore their corresponding
pleasures, pertain to form without matter.114 A second division deals with
pleasure as proper to species. Every animal has its own pleasure, oikeia
hedone, just as its own function (ergon), namely, the pleasure of exercising
that function through an activity (energeia):
doke d enai kst z ka don okea, sper ka rgon gr kat tn
nrgeian. (EN 10.1176a34)
It seems that each animal has its own proper pleasure and function, that which
corresponds to an activity.

This observation may have some validity for the proper pleasure of tragedy,
since the analogy between literary genres and living creatures occurs fre-
quently in the Poetics.115 Furthermore, pleasures vary within the same
species. Individuals are often subjective when they regard something as
pleasurable or not:
t gr at tov mn trpei tov d lupe, ka tov mn luphr ka misht
sti tov d da ka filht. (EN 10.1176a1012)
The same things delight some men and upset others, and things painful and
displeasing to some, are pleasant and attractive to others.

Finally, ethical characteristics divide pleasures into good, when they perfect
noble activities leading to happiness, and bad, when they relate to base
actions (EN 10.1176a1735).
The account of pleasures proper to activities in the Nicomachean Ethics
can provide a framework for the few scattered references to oikeia hedone in
the Poetics. We have already visited some possible repercussions of Aristotles
overall views about proper pleasures on the specific tragic pleasure. In
several instances in the Poetics, Aristotle refers to something as being or not
being particular to tragedy. When dealing with the construction of the
plot, which should meet certain requirements to achieve the function of
tragedy (tragdav rgon, Po. 13.1452b2930), he recommends:

114
Eterovich 1980, 245. For the interpretations of catharsis, see the appendix. The use of the term
purity in connection with pleasure (EN 10) could add yet another reading to the controversial
word catharsis in the definition of tragedy. Tragic emotions may not pertain to the matter (i.e.
would not be felt at real events) but to the form (i.e. felt during a cognitive activity, when events
are represented by tragic mimesis).
115
Thus both tragedy and epic are compared to a living being (zon, Po. 7.1450b341451a4;
Po. 23.1459a20). For a good discussion of the biological analogy in the Poetics, see Belfiore 1992,
557. For the ethical implication of Aristotles poetic teleology, see Held (1984) and (1995) 146.
Aristotle: the first theorist of emotions 113
de tn snqesin enai tv kallsthv tragdav m pln ll pepleg-
mnhn ka tathn fobern ka leeinn enai mimhtikn (toto gr dion tv
toiathv mimsev stin). (Po. 13.1452b313)
The structure of the finest tragedy has to be not simple, but complex, and imitating
fearful and pitiable events; for this is the specific feature of such mimesis.
Imitation of the fearful and pitiable is thus called the particular (dion)
characteristic of tragedy. On numerous other occasions, the Poetics empha-
sizes that the tragic plot represents the two emotions. And yet, here this
emotional capacity of the plot is defined as the unique feature that differen-
tiates tragedy as genus from other types of mimesis, be it painting, sculpture,
etc. By contrast, opsis, the external visual element, could be conducive to
the fearful and pitiable (Po. 14.14453b12), but it is the least particular
(kista okeon, Po. 6.1450b17) element to tragic poetry. I have discussed
extensively the reasons for which Aristotle makes such discrimination.
Another detail is of interest for my analysis here. When opsis produces an
effect matching that of good tragic composition (of pitiable and fearful),
it can move the soul (Po. 6.1450b1618), and it can pertain to tragedy,
though to the least extent. On the other hand, if opsis is used for a different
result, it has nothing to do with tragedy:
o d m t fobern di tv yewv ll t teratdev mnon paraskeuzontev
odn tragd koinwnosin. (Po. 14.1453b810)
Those who use spectacle to create an effect not of the fearful, but only of the
sensational, have nothing at all in common with tragedy.
What is so incriminating, so unforgivable, about those who employ the
sensational, the monstrous (teratdev) that they are banished from the
realm of tragedy? The transgression, I believe, concerns replacing some-
thing that is proper, intrinsic to tragedy, the fearful (fobern) with
a foreign component. The monstrous, (teratdev) might arouse the
wrong variety of the emotion in the spectator, probably an instinctive
variety of fear, which modern theorists (Roberts 2003, 199200) label as
horror, in which the subject does not necessarily have to perceive an
imminent danger (i.e. the sight of corpses can produce horror). The adjec-
tive is derived from the noun meaning monster, portent (t trav), and
seems to describe an object or situation that leads to an instinctive reaction
of awe or repulse.116 In explaining the term, Gudeman interestingly includes
an excerpt from the Vita Aeschyli (7), in which the adjective (teratdev)
116
LSJ the adjective is used in the sense of awesome, related to the voices of the clouds (Ar. Nu.
364), or monstrous, as of strange births (Arist. GA 772a36).
114 Theoretical views about pity and fear
refers precisely to the monstrous sight of the Furies in the Eumenides.117
The reaction to the sight of such monsters (whether the Furies or, nowa-
days, the Green Slime, Godzilla, King Kong) is often instinctive horror
and may or may not relate to the self-reflective fear of tragedy. In fact, the
emotional response that the monstrous, or sensational produces can
be entirely divorced from the type of fear (fbov) that Aristotle expects
from tragedy, which, as I have suggested depends on pity, on the realization
that others better than us have suffered and thus that we as spectators are
prone to suffering. More importantly, Aristotle defines proper pleasure of
the genre precisely as an explanation of this point: for one should not
seek every pleasure from tragedy (o gr psan de zhten donn p
tragdav, Po. 14.1453b1011), but the proper one, oikeia, which should
be derived from eleos and phobos (Po. 14.1453b1113). The implication is that
other devices could lead to pleasure, such as the sensational, but they are
not proper to tragic pleasure but alien to it.
Pity and fear are specific to tragic mimesis and, therefore, ought to be
proper to the pleasure tragedy produces as activity, to borrow the language
of the Nicomachean Ethics. Aristotles emphasis on tragedy as imitation of
a single action (praxis), as well as on the concentration of tragic mimesis,
may suggest that he is thinking of pleasure derived from the tragic genre
as pleasure of an activity. In fact he associates tragedy with vividness in the
Poetics, in the same manner in which he associates activity with vividness
in the Nicomachean Ethics:
nargv cei ka n t nagnsei ka p tn rgwn. (Po. 26.1462a1718)
[Tragedy] has vividness in both reading and performed events.
Tragedys action is more concentrated than is that of epic,118 which leads
to more intensive pleasure than the other genre produces. In this sense,
proper pleasure seems to be a kind of supervenient pleasure that occurs in
addition to, or as the result of, feeling the correct variety of the emotions,
pity and fear. Therefore, if opsis results in the fearful and the pitiable, its
effect coincides with the nature of tragic mimesis and does not impede the
nature of the oikeia hedone. On the other hand, if opsis leads to some other
effect, such as the sensational, and produces horror, the hedone that it

117
Gudeman 1934, 254.
118
ti t n lttoni mkei t tlov tv mimsewv enai (t gr qroteron dion poll
kekramnon t crn), Po. 26.1462a18-b2; (again it has the advantage that the completion of
the imitation is shorter in length; for what is better held together is more pleasant than what is
presented in a long time).
Aristotle: the first theorist of emotions 115
may create would be alien, allotria, and would distract from the oikeia
hedone, as the account in the Nicomachean Ethics puts it.
The connection between pity and (or) fear and pleasure of tragedy can
be found in Greek culture before Aristotle. However, the concept of the
proper pleasure of the genre is Aristotelian, as far as we can tell. Therefore,
when Aristotle suggests that tragedians should contrive the oikeia hedone
from fearful and pitiable exclusively, he has in mind his own criteria,
which an ideal spectator should adopt. In practice, audiences seem to have
had less restrictive standards and to have derived other, alien pleasures while
watching tragedies. A relevant point in this sense is the discussion of the
types of plots in tragedy (Po. 13.1452b281453a). Aristotle mentions a kind
of plot with opposite outcomes for good and bad characters, which some
mistakenly believe to be the best:

Doke d enai prth di tn tn qetrwn sqneian kolouqosi gr o


poihta kat ecn poiontev tov qeatav. Estin d oc ath p tragdav
don ll mllon tv kwmdav okea. Eke gr o n cqistoi sin n t
mq, oon Orsthv ka Agisqov, floi genmenoi p teleutv xrcontai,
ka poqn skei odev p odenv. (Poet. 13.1453a339)
[The double plot structure] seems to be the best because of the weakness of the
audiences, for the poets follow and fulfill the wish of the spectators. Yet, it is not
the pleasure [to expect] from tragedy, but rather the pleasure proper to comedy.
In such cases, those who are worst enemies, such as Orestes and Aegisthus, exit at
the end as new friends, and no one dies at the hand of anyone.

These plots with a double structure were clearly popular among audiences.
Perhaps, Aristotle is here at odds with some critics and doubtlessly he
dislikes the tragic practice. I have mentioned earlier the passage in the
Nicomachean Ethics (10.1176a1112), in which Aristotle observes that the
same thing can be pleasurable to some and annoying to others. Thus, Aris-
totle seems aware of the existence of personal taste. And yet, in this passage,
he shows no tolerance of a different aesthetic choice. Aristotles criticism
comes from the fact that, in his opinion, audiences do not understand the
principle, the one of the proper pleasure of tragedy. The weakness of the
theater-goers (qetrwn sqneian) is conceptual, and the poets appear to
know this, but they compromise their dramatic structure, in order to sat-
isfy their audiences. Indeed, the argument against the value of this plot is
made on the basis of the specific pleasure of the genre. Such plot structure
produces a hedone, but not the appropriate (oikeia) type: it produces a kind
of pleasure that is rather proper to comedy. As the example suggests, the
scenario proposed here (the worst enemies exit at the end as new friends,
116 Theoretical views about pity and fear
and no one dies at the hand of anyone) appears not to be conducive to
the tragic emotions.119 Consequently, such plots cannot lead to the true
pleasure derived from the two emotions, eleos and phobos, which is proper
(oikeia) to tragedy.
Finally, the concept of proper pleasure is one of the reasons that
Aristotle, unlike some of his contemporaries, regards tragedy as superior to
epic.120 After drawing a comparison between the two genres, he concludes
with the following observation:
E on totoiv te diafrei psin ka ti t tv tcnhv rg (de gr o tn
tucosan donn poien atv ll tn erhmnhn), fanern ti krettwn
n eh mllon to tlouv tugcnousa tv popoiav. (Po. 26.1462b1215)
If then [tragedy] excels in all these respects, as well as in the function (ergon) of
the art for these genres should not produce pleasure by chance, but the one
which has been said it is clear that [tragedy] should be superior, by achieving its
completion more than the epic.
As the passage states, both genres should not produce a random pleasure
(tucosan donn), but the one which has been said, which can only
be proper, oikeia.121 A question is whether Aristotle means here a kind
of pleasure that would be proper to each of them separately, or the same
one, specific to both (epic and tragic). The matter becomes even more
complicated in the case of epic pleasure, because the Poetics offers no
elucidation about what the specific element involves. The treatise only
asserts that epic ought to achieve its oikeia hedone, by being constructed
like tragedy, around a single and complete action, which resembles a whole
living being.122 Since references to the pleasure of epic always occur in
119
As Janko 1987, 1045, puts it: Orestes and Aegisthus. No specific play may be referred to here,
at least, no comedy on this topic survives, although the comic poet Alexis wrote an Orestes, and
many comedies were on mythological topics. The distinguishing feature of this version of Orestes
encounter with his hated step-father, whom he usually kills, is that there is no SUFFERING;
compare b39 it is not tragic as there is no suffering.
120
For the comparison between tragedy and epic in the Poetics, see Hogan 1973, Halliwell 1998,
25366, and Eden 2005.
121
As seen from the passages quoted, references to proper pleasure are usually preceded by a brief
note that not every kind of pleasure should be derived from a genre, but only the proper one.
Here Aristotle says that no random pleasure should be produced, but the mentioned type, which
has to be the proper.
122
Per d tv dihghmatikv ka n mtr mimhtikv, ti de tov mqouv kaqper n tav
tragdaiv sunistnai dramatikov ka per man prxin lhn ka telean cousan rcn
ka msa ka tlov n sper zon n lon poi tn okean donn, dlon, Po. 23.1459a1721.
(Regarding the art of exposition and artistic imitation in verse, it is clear that, just as in tragedies,
[the epic poet] ought to create plots that are dramatic about a single action that is complete,
with a beginning, a middle, and an end, so it will bring about the pleasure proper to it, as a single
whole animal does).
Aristotle: the first theorist of emotions 117
connection with tragedy, the oikeia hedone of the two genres is most likely
the same, or the two types of pleasure of tragedy and epic are very similar.
As Else has remarked, Aristotle probably considers the pleasure derived
from pity and fear proper (oikeia) not only to tragedy but also to epic.
This would also explain why tragedy surpasses epic in this respect, since it
is better able to produce the emotional pleasure than is epic poetry, due to
tragedys concentrated action and plot-composition.123

4.4.3 Painful emotions in pleasure: Oikeia hedone and the pleasures


of memory and mourning
Questo ci dicono tutte le grandi storie, caso mai sostituendo a Dio, il fato, o le
leggi inesorabili della vita. La funzione dei racconti immodificabili e proprio
questa: contro ogni nostro desiderio di cambiare il destino, ci fanno toccar con
mano limpossibilita di cambiarlo. E cos facendo, qualsiasi vicenda raccontino,
raccontano anche la nostra, e per questo li leggiamo e li amiamo . . . Credo che
questa educazione al fato e alla morte sia una delle funzioni principali della
letteratura. (U. Eco, Su alcune funzioni della letteratura, Studi di Estetica 23,
2001, 2)
This is what all great stories tell us, even if they replace God with fate, or the
inexorable laws of life. The function of unchangeable narratives is exactly this:
against all our desires to change destiny, they make us touch with our hand the
impossibility of changing it. And in doing so, regardless of the story they are telling,
they are also telling our own story, and that is why we read and love them . . . I
believe that one of the essential function of literature consists of this education
about fate and death.

Tragic pleasure has a proper, emotional element, derived from pity and
fear, in addition to the general characteristics of mimetic pleasure. Diffi-
culties arise, however, when we try to interpret how exactly this emotional
element produces tragic pleasure. Perhaps, a solution lies in the idea of
hedone as supervening perfection. Pleasure may come from the awareness
that an activity is complete, and so it becomes a supplementary perfection
in the Tenth Book of the Nicomachean Ethics. The Poetics uses the words
perfection (tlov) and function (rgon) ambiguously, as pertaining

123
Else 1957, 6503, offers an illuminating analysis of this problem. He notes that Aristotle never
connects pity and fear with epic directly, as he does with tragedy, but nevertheless often implies
it. At 652, Else concludes, with caution, that By tn erhmnhn (donn) Aristotle means the
pleasure based on pity and fear. Both genres aim at it, but tragedy succeeds where the epic, in
general, fails. Even Homers epic cannot achieve the concentration of emotion, and therefore of
pleasure based on emotion, which tragedy achieves.
118 Theoretical views about pity and fear
either to plot or to arousal of emotion and pleasure.124 So, for exam-
ple, plot is the completion of tragedy (Po. 6.1450a22) and a little later the
function (Po. 6.1450a301). In other cases, however, such as the comparison
between tragedy and epic, as mentioned (Po. 26.1462b1215), completion
(tlov) refers to the genre creating pleasure.125 In light of the discussion of
the Nicomachean Ethics, the spectators awareness that plot imitates a com-
plete, fearful and pitiable action may itself produce tragic pleasure. The
oikeia hedone should involve pity and fear, as the activity (tragic plot) that
it perfects should, so that both tragic action and its supervening pleasure
share the same characteristics.
Open questions still remain. How can pity and fear, which are each a kind
of pain, be linked to pleasure? This question, however, concerns us more
than it seems to have preoccupied Aristotle or Plato, who both associate
painful emotions (i.e. pity) and tragic pleasure but do not seem to perceive
this as an inextricable paradox.126 A strange passage in the Nicomachean
Ethics states that when the perceiving (or thinking) subject was in the
right relationship with the object perceived (or thought), pleasure would
ensue, as aforementioned (EN 10.1174b1175a). And yet, it does not specify
what would happen if the object perceived such as the tragic action
should arouse sorrowful emotions. More exactly, how would the audience
experience a pleasure that has painful pathe as a precondition? Furthermore,
as the examples in the Poetics indicate, Aristotle thinks of an ideal audience,
for whom the poet should prepare the pleasure specific to the genre
(Po. 14.1453b1014). He only mentions real audiences when they fail to
understand the emotional prerequisite of the oikeia hedone, as in the case
of double plot (Po. 13.1453a349). Then, the right question to ask becomes:
how would, ideally, a spectator experience the tragic pleasure based on pity
and fear? Aristotle does not offer an explanation. Furthermore, he does
not seem concerned with the paradox involved in the oikeia hedone, but is
content to assert that it ought to come from eleos and phobos. Does he not
see a paradox here, or does he accept it as the nature of tragic pleasure,
without further inquiry?127 Since the Poetics does not give a direct response,

124
Belfiore 1992, 57, well notes this ambiguity, but she explains it exclusively in the light of Aristotles
biology.
125
The term completion, perfection (tlov) refers to emotional pleasure (Po. 25.1460b246;
Po. 26.1462a18b1).
126
For more on this see my article (2009, 1223): St. Augustine perceives the tragic pleasure from
sorrowful emotions as a paradox, whereas fifth-century Greek thinkers simply note that tragedy
produces both such emotions and pleasure.
127
Perhaps this is the case, and the question of how tragic pleasure and painful emotions can coexist
is only a modern question. After all, Plato acknowledges this paradox in the Republic. He does say
Aristotle: the first theorist of emotions 119
I shall surmise and examine some possible answers to the problem. To this
end, I shall venture more fully into Aristotles psychology of the aesthetic
emotions.
One way to solve the paradox of the oikeia hedone is simply to factor
the tragic emotions out of the equation. While dealing with the example
of visual arts, Aristotle states that people enjoy looking even at the ugli-
est beasts in paintings, because they derive pleasure from mimesis, which
implies reasoning.128 The viewer delights in even the most disgusting images
represented in a painting, thanks to mimesis.129 Similarly, some scholars
suggest, the spectator may enjoy tragedies exclusively through cognitive
pleasure and by emotional disengagement. Such an argument is erroneous
and far from Aristotelian thought. The point in Poetics (4.1448b1018) is
that a mimetic work can produce delight despite its subject, which may not
be aesthetically pleasing. This may relate to the subject of tragic mime-
sis, but it does not concern the tragic emotions. Tragedy should create
its proper pleasure not in spite of painful emotions, but because of (from)
pity and fear, through mimesis, as stated in the Poetics (14.1453b1014). To
assume that Aristotle conceived an audience that delights in watching the
misfortunes of others, without feeling pity, is preposterous. According to
Aristotles Rhetoric, the Greeks, and therefore the Greek audience, become
angry at someone who would rejoice or would even remain indifferent at
the undeserved misfortune of another:
[Orgzontai] ka tov picarousi tav tucaiv ka lwv equmoumnoiv n
tav atn tucaiv gr cqro ligwrontov shmeon. Ka tov m
frontzousin n lupswsin. (Rh. 2.1379b1719)
[They become angry] at those rejoicing and generally taking pleasure in the
misfortunes of others; for it is a sign of being either an enemy or a despising
person; and [they become angry] with those who do not care if they suffer.
that by feeling pity and pleasure at watching tragedies or epic performances, the spectator relaxes
the weak part of the soul, and then feels emotions more acutely in real life. And yet, this is not
an explanation of the paradox of tragic pleasure, but rather an appraisal of the consequences of
aesthetic pleasure on audiences.
128
Besides the examples cited above from the Poetics, similar remarks are to be found in other
Aristotelian works (Rh. 1.1371b28, PA 1.645a715).
129
According to this line of interpretation, catharsis purifies or eliminates tragic emotions, and thus
the audience experiences cognitive pleasure. Yet, Sorabji 2000, 80, acknowledges the difficulties
involved in trying to explain aesthetic pleasure derived from painful sights as follows: There
remain objections about reactions to the plot being enjoyable or therapeutic, when the real
emotions would merely be distressing . . . To take the ancient answers, one is Aristotles theory of
catharsis of such emotions as pity and fear. Aristotle also mentions many other pleasures involved
in art and drama, as well as its specific tragic pleasure. There is a further point. Even in real life
the ancients repeatedly noticed, people find pleasure in grief, in jealousy, in anger and in such
disgusting things as corpses.
120 Theoretical views about pity and fear
Indeed, the definition of the oikeia hedone is enigmatic. Aristotle adopts in
the passage containing the definition, as often in the treatise, the perspective
of the composition of tragedy and not the reception of tragedy. He gives
us no reason, nonetheless, to disregard the role of tragic emotions in the
audiences experience of oikeia hedone, when he describes how a poet should
contrive such pleasure from emotions. As suggested, pity, the most detached
pathos in the Aristotelian theory, presupposes the imaginative involvement
of the spectator. Tragic fear is a very specific type of emotion, which
depends on pity and consists of realizing that human beings are prone
to suffering. Because of these attributes and because the two emotions
are felt due to mimesis, I propose, tragic pathe relate to pleasure. Several
Aristotelian accounts of pleasure provide useful parallels for the paradoxical
enjoyment of tragedy, particularly the pleasures connected with memory
and mourning. Now, as shown, pity itself is formed through a painful
memory or painful anticipation of a misfortune for the self. Memories, for
example, can be pleasurable even when they involve unpleasant events:
t mn on mnhmoneut da stn o mnon sa n t parnti, te parn,
dea n, ll nia ka oc da, n steron kaln ka gaqn t met
toto . . . totou d ation ti d ka t m cein kakn. (Rh. 1.1370b13; 6)
Things remembered are thus pleasurable not only about things that were pleasant
when they were going on, but even about some unpleasant events, if what comes
afterwards is good and honorable . . . the reason for this is that not having an evil
is also pleasurable.
If we apply this point to tragedy, we come, perhaps, closest to the idea
of aesthetic detachment: a painful emotion, pity, which we may feel for
the tragic characters by remembering personal misfortune, brings us joy
nevertheless, because we realize that (at the moment) we are not directly
facing danger. Aristotles comment becomes even more relevant to our
topic, when placed in the context that introduces the general discussion
about the joys of memory:
Epe d st t desqai n t asqnesqa tinov pqouv, d fantasa stn
asqhsv tiv sqenv, e n t memnhmn ka t lpzonti kolouqo n
fantasa tiv o mmnhtai lpzei e d toto, dlon ti ka dona ma
memnhmnoiv ka lpzousin, peper ka asqhsiv. (Rh. 1.1370a2732)
Since to be pleased consists in perceiving a certain emotion130 and since imagination
is a kind of feeble perception, and since some kind of imagination of what a person
130
I incline toward the translation emotion of the term pathos here, cf. Barnes 1984, vol. 2, 2181,
although the translation experience is also possible; the choice of translation, however, does not
matter for my overall argument.
Aristotle: the first theorist of emotions 121
remembers or hopes may always linger in what is remembered or hoped for; if this
is so, it is clear that pleasures come simultaneously to those who are remembering
and hoping, since there is perception there, too.
The pleasure of both memory and anticipation has a very peculiar fea-
ture here: it does not come directly from perception. Instead, it relies on
imagination, phantasia, which produces the impression of perception, or a
faint perception (asqhsiv sqenv). Thus, in the present, one has the
actual perception of something enjoyable and thus feels pleasure. When
remembering or anticipating, one has the imagined perception of some-
thing enjoyable, by constructing its mental image in the past or future.
It follows then that memories of happy events are pleasurable. Indeed,
this is true,131 but it is not the only possibility. Sometimes, even memories
of unpleasant events could produce pleasure, as pointed out, as long as
something good comes out of it. Likewise, proper pleasure may be based
on imagination, since the spectator is involved in the painful tragic action,
not through direct perception, but through phantasia. Emotions stirred
by phantasia resemble the formation of memory or anticipation because
they derive from a weak sensation and are less intense than those caused
by present events. While tragic pity (and connected fear), as Aristotle
insists, ought to be aroused as vividly as possibly, through visualization and
enargeia, they remain, nevertheless, deeply anchored in detachment and
imagination (e.g., pity depends on our imagining that we could suffer like
someone else does, which triggers tragic fear). As Aristotle briefly suggests
in de Anima, the emotions aroused by mimetic works resemble memory.
Fear, for example, is less strong when someone views a terrifying painting
than it is when somebody experiences fear based on a belief that a real
threat will occur.132 By analogy with the pleasure derived from memory of
a painful event, one can feel the oikeia hedone, an imaginative pleasure,
through pity and fear at watching the tragic action, as long as something
good will follow. But much to our chagrin, a problem remains: Aristotle
never tells us specifically what good may come out of watching tragedy.

131
As Aristotle immediately specifies: ngkh pnta t da n t asqnesqai enai parnta
n t memnsqai gegenhmna n t lpzein mllonta. Asqnontai mn gr t parnta,
mmnhntai d t gegenhmna, lpzousi d t mllonta (it is necessary that all pleasant things
are either present and perceived, past and remembered, or future and expected; for we perceive
present things, remember the past, and expect the future, Rh. 1.1370a325).
132
Cf. de An 3.427b, quoted in my previous section. I have argued that in the case of pity, which is
by its definition in the Rhetoric the most detached emotion, Aristotle urges poets and orators to
intensify the pathos, to make it as close as possible to the real emotion, by creative phantasia and
pro ommaton. The audience of tragedy, nevertheless, would continue to feel pity through passive
phantasia.
122 Theoretical views about pity and fear
As was shown above, Aristotelian pity is an emotion felt only through
memory or anticipation. On the whole, one experiences pity when ones
state of mind is such as to remember, or to expect a misfortune like that
suffered by another (to have happened/or will happen to oneself or one of
ones own, Rh. 2.1386a13). The remark seems to theorize an idea deeply
rooted in Greek culture. For our purposes, it will suffice to discuss two
famous examples from Greek literature preceding Aristotle to show the
connection between the arousal of pity through memory or anticipation,
as well as the complexities involved in the process. In the Iliad,133 King
Priam, guided by Hermes, reaches Achilles tent. He pleads for the ransom
of Hector, asking Achilles to remember his own father, Peleus:
mnsai patrv soo, qeov piekel %cille,
thlkou v per gn, lo p graov od. (Il. 24.4867)
Remember your father, godlike Achilles,
As old as I am, on the gruesome threshold of old age.
After appealing to Achilles remembrance, by pointing out the similarities
between himself and Peleus (both old, both fathers), Priam emphasizes his
own misfortune (Il. 24.485502). Peleus may be old and defenseless, but he
still hopes for his sons safe return from war. By comparison, he, Priam, has
been so unfortunate that he lost most of his fifty sons in battle and, above
all, he lost Hector, his noblest son, the best defender of Troy. Only now,
Priam begs Achilles for pity, not before inviting him again to remember:
ll adeo qeov, Acille, atn t lhson
mnhsmenov so patrv g d leeinterv per,
tlhn d o o p tiv picqniov brotv llov
ndrv paidofroio pot stma cer rgesqai. (Il. 24.5036)
But honor the gods, Achilles, and pity me
By remembering your father, for I am even more pitiable [than he is]
And I endured what no other mortal on earth ever has
To reach out my hand to the mouth of the man whos killed my son.
Priams supplication relies, therefore, on both similarity and dissimilarity
between himself and Peleus, and it is the difference that makes him more
133
The Iliad is likened to tragedy, for example, by Plato (R. 595c, 598d, 607a, etc), Aristotle
(Po. 4.1448b346), and a scholiast (Il. 1.1). Pertinent modern discussions of the tragic struc-
ture of the Iliad are, for example, Griffin 1980, 13843, Schein 1984, 6788, and Rinon 2008,
1344. Kim (2000) specifically deals with the theme of pity in the poem as well as extensively
and aptly arguing for a tragic and unified composition of the Iliad, on the grounds of Achilles
emotional journey from anger to pity. I am indebted in my discussion here to the seminal analysis
of Crotty (1994, 7583), which shows how memory of grief ignites pity in the Iliad.
Aristotle: the first theorist of emotions 123
pitiable, since he has suffered more than any other human being. There is
a strange correspondence between what Priam does here to arouse Achilles
pity and what Aristotle recommends that orators should do to move the
audience to pity. Priam presents himself as more pitiable (leeinterov)
than others and dares to come, in fact before the eyes of his enemy.
Achilles does pity his old age (Il. 24.51516) and admits being impressed
by the kings coming before his eyes (ndrv v fqalmov, 520), which
is an act of courage. Aristotles orators have to become more piteous
(leeinotrouv, Rh. 2.1386a33) and imaginatively put the suffering before
the eyes (n ofqalmov, Rh. 2.1386b7) of the audience.134 Priams speech,
which I have mentioned earlier, is important for our topic for various
reasons, and here especially because it stirs a reaction that is beyond its
initial purpose. The scene ends in mourning as the former enemies become
united in remembering and grieving:
T d mnhsamnw, mn Ektorov ndrofnoio
Kla . . . (Il. 24.50910)
Atr Acillev klaen n patr, llote d ate
Ptroklon. (Il. 24.51112)
The two remembered, one wept for the man slaughtering Hector . . .
And Achilles wept now for his own father, now for Patroclus.

Thus, Achilles remembers not only his father, as Priam had urged, but also
Patroclus. In this way Achilles experience becomes more similar to Priams,
from the larger perspective of human misfortune. In Aristotelian terms, he
remembers that something similar has happened to him. As Priam has
lost his beloved son, so Achilles has lost his beloved friend. Moreover, the
remembrance of Peleus also moves Achilles to tears, which may involve
more than the thought of his aged father. Together with the memory of his
father, Achilles seems to anticipate that Peleus will also lose him in war,135 so
that his father will be like Priam: old and mourning his son. According
to Aristotle, this would be expecting that one of his will suffer something
similar.

134
Kennedy 1963, 93, discusses Priam as a prime example of emotional persuasion.
135
This is especially plausible if we think of Il. 18.324ff. Here, after the death of Patroclus, Achilles
imagines the sorrow of Menoetius, Patroclus father. As Achilles is aware of his own imminent
death, he knows that Peleus will also be bereft of his homecoming:
. . . pe od m nostsanta
dxetai n megroisi grwn pphlta Phlev
od Qtiv mthr, ll ato gaa kaqxei (for the old horserider Peleus will not receive me,
coming home, in his halls; nor will my mother Thetis, but earth will hold me here, Il. 18.3302).
124 Theoretical views about pity and fear
The Homeric episode suggests that the association of pity with memory
and anticipation is essential in Greek culture. Furthermore, there is not
an absolute resemblance between the experiences of the one who feels pity
and the pitied. Achilles nonetheless perceives the likeness between Priams
misfortune and his own by a complicated process of retrospection and,
perhaps, of contemplation of the future.
A second relevant episode in this respect occurs in Sophocles Ajax, in
which Athena invites Odysseus to be the only spectator of Ajaxs madness,
and thus to laugh at his enemys misery.136 Surprisingly, Odysseus responds
to the scene in a very different manner (Aj. 1216) than anticipated by
the goddess. He is filled with pity (poiktrw, Aj. 121), because in Ajaxs
plight he sees his own situation (r gr mv, 125) as a human being
exposed to calamity. Odysseus feels here sympathy by contemplation, by
thinking of other misfortunes (whether past or future) that all humankind
might suffer. Moreover, as I have already argued, gnomic statements in
tragedy may be directed toward arousing tragic fear. Then, it may well be
that, besides pity for Ajax, Odysseus feels tragic fear for his own human
fate, as he adds in conclusion that all of us who live are nothing but empty
shadows (1256).137 Odysseus reaction matches Aristotles remarks. The
kind of misfortunes that people dread for themselves excite pity when
happening to another (Rh. 2.1386a279). Furthermore, when Aristotle says
that people feel pity if some similar misfortune has happened or will happen
to them, this may refer to common human experience. If so, the spectator
will pity the tragic character, whose misfortune is out of the ordinary, not
because he has suffered or will suffer exactly the same, but because he
is thinking of his own suffering from the perspective of the frailty of the
human condition.138
These two chosen examples are somewhat exceptional since both Achilles
and Odysseus feel pity for their enemies, the category of people for whom
one should least feel sympathy. They exemplify, therefore, even more

136
I will only briefly mention the episode here and discuss it more extensively in the analysis of
tragedies in the next chapter.
137
Cf. the famous Pindaric lines: t d tiv t d o tiv skiv nar nqrwpon, P. 8.956 (One
is what? One is not? Mankind is a shadow of a dream,) and Aeschylus (Ag. 839). In Herodotus
(1.86.6), Cyrus recognizes this own proneness to suffering in the misfortune of his enemy.
138
As Halliwell 2002, 230, has suggested: The Poetics notion of characters like us appears to
mark a condition whose status is psychologically descriptive, not normative, and therefore relative
to the kinds of responsiveness that a playwright is able to tap in his audience. Moreover, such
responsiveness presupposes an audience not of atomistic individuals, but those who, to borrow
another revealing detail from the Rhetoric, have parents, children or wives (2.8, 1385b28) a detail
that exemplifies the dependence of pity on the capacity to imagine not only what one might suffer
oneself, but on what those who matter most to us might suffer.
Aristotle: the first theorist of emotions 125
impressively, the complex psychological process that causes the arousal
of eleos. As an audience member at a trial, or rather as a judge, Achilles
hears Priam pleading his desperate case:139 his son may have wronged the
Achaeans and killed Patroclus, but he has the right to burial. Remem-
brance and recognition of Priams suffering as similar to his own move the
heretofore heartless Achilles to pity. As a spectator of tragedy, Odysseus
watches the unfortunate Ajax a tragic character, who happens to be his
enemy and, despite the enmity, he feels pity by thinking of human suf-
fering in general. Both episodes present striking similarities with Aristotles
theoretical description of pity.
The psychological complexity of feeling pity, in both Aristotelian theory
and Greek culture, still does not explain how the tragic emotions may cause
pleasure in the Poetics. Pity is some kind of pain (lph tiv) according
to Aristotles Rhetoric (2.1385b13),140 and, after all, pity is such a painful
emotion for Achilles that it drives him to mourning.141 Nevertheless, the
link between pity and memory or expectation is part of the answer to
the enigma of the proper tragic pleasure. Another valuable parallel for the
oikeia hedone, occurs soon after Aristotles description of the pleasures of
memory in the Rhetoric. He adds that there is a certain pleasure even in
mourning:
ka n pnqesi ka qrnoiv satwv piggneta tiv don mn gr lph
p t m prcein, don d n t memnsqai ka rn pwv kenon ka
pratte ka oov n. (Rh. 1.1370b258)
And similarly, a certain pleasure is felt in lamentations and mourning; for pain
applies to what is not there, but pleasure to remembering and, in a way, seeing
him [the deceased] and what he used to do and what he was like.
The association of tragedy with grieving is extremely common in Greek cul-
ture, and, moreover, Plato has directly linked tragic pleasure to mourning.142
It is remarkable that this Aristotelian account of pleasurable mourning

139
Belfiore 1992, 250, compares Priam to the Aristotelian orator.
140
Cooper 1999, 41416, notes that Aristotle does not associate emotions with pain or pleasure
randomly. Thus, in the Rhetoric, pain is associated with six emotions, as if it were their genus.
Aristotle probably has in mind the psychological and physiological effects of emotion that cause
either pain or pleasure.
141
Stanford 1983, 235, points out that pity is a much more intense emotion in Greek culture (as
it often causes physical commotion and leads to lament) than it is in its modern, Christian
equivalent.
142
Cf. Phlb. 47d48a, R. 10.605cd; 606b, in which the pleasure of tragedy may appear innocent,
but it leads, in fact, to mourning. Numerous essential studies have emphasized the connection
between tragedy and the rituals of mourning, to quote a few: Alexiou 1974, 16184, Easterling
1993b, 723, Foley 2001, 1956.
126 Theoretical views about pity and fear
comes from an imaginative process that is strikingly similar to watching
a work of mimesis. Someone grieving feels delight when imagining the
deceased through memory (n t memnsqai). He can thus somehow
see him (the dead), (rn pwv kenon), which means that he can create
the image of the deceased in his minds eye. Relevant here is the example
with which Aristotle ends his brief discussion of the pleasure of mourning
(Rh.1.1370b1213). The illustration refers to the reaction of the Achaeans in
the Iliad, Book Twenty Three, when Achilles tells them about the vision
of the dead Patroclus. Achilles sees in a dream the imitation of Patroclus,
who looks like, talks like, and acts like his friend, and yet the image
(edwlon) does not have the real mind (frnev) of Patroclus. The ghost
spends the night with Achilles, who, in the morning, recounts his vision
to the Greeks:
ppoi, tv sti ka en %dao dmoisi
yuc ka edwlon, tr frnev ok ni pmpan
pannuch gr moi Patroklov deiloo
yuc festkei gows te muromnh te,
ka moi kast ptellen kto d qskelon at.
Wv fto, tosi d psin f meron rse gooo. (Il. 23.1038)
Oh wow, even in the house of Hades something exists
a soul or an image, but there is no real heart in it.
For all night long the ghost of wretched Patroclus
stood above me moaning and lamenting
and the likeness told me each thing that I should do, while it was wondrously
(similar) to him.
So he spoke, and he stirred in all of them the desire for mourning.
What Aristotle seems to imply here is that by evoking the image that was
wondrous like Patroclus, Achilles stirred both pain, because Patroclus was
gone, and pleasure, because the Greeks could reflect on the degree to which
the ghostly image resembled the real friend, now absent.143 Consequently,
seeing here is very much akin to the seeing of the tragic poet, who
imagines his plots so vividly that it is as if he directly experiences the
actual events (Po. 17.1455a236). After creating the image, the mourner can
delight in watching how the lost one acted (pratten, Rh. 1.1370b27)
143
The idea that mourning can bring back the dead appears in the Norse myth of Baldr, the splendid
son of Odin. After the death of god Baldr, Hel, the god of the Underworld offers to release Baldr
if all things, living and dead, weep for him, as Lindow 2001, 66, has noted. Everyone mourns for
the god except for an old woman Thokk (Thanks), who turns out to be Loki in disguise, so the
redemptive mourning fails. For possible interpretations of the incomplete universal weeping, see
Lindow 1997, 1267. The Greek myth of Orpheus trying to rescue Eurydice from the Underworld
can also be interpreted as an effort to revive the dead through lamentation.
Aristotle: the first theorist of emotions 127
and see what sort of man he was (oov n, Rh. 1.1370b28). This probably
refers to inferring how close his mental image resembles the absent person,
and, without doubt, the expression is very reminiscent of the account of
mimetic pleasure in the Poetics. There, the viewer of a mimetic painting
feels pleasure even at the sight of disgusting things when he infers how this
is that (oon ti otov kenov, Po. 4.1448b17), thus while pondering how
much the imitation resembles his mental image.144 Mourning, therefore,
seems to involve two related processes: (1) active, poetic phantasia, which
consists of creating an image, and (2) passive phantasia, which involves
contemplating, comparing a given artistic imitation (here the mental image
of the deceased) to its model, in the same manner in which a viewer of a
painting would think of the image created of the real person.
The pleasure of mourning offers, perhaps, the closest parallel to the
oikeia hedone. In the case of tragedy, the poet is a creator of images
(ekonopoiv), like any other mimetic artist.145 And yet, his imitation,
mimesis, is of a very special kind: of the fearful and the pitiable. The
spectators might feel the two aesthetic emotions, eleos and phobos, at seeing
the misfortunes of various characters, and remembering or anticipating
their own. But at the same time, they may feel pleasure at seeing how
someone in distress would act and of what sort he would be. The pleasure
may come from contemplating the similarities as well as the differences
between personal and universal (which poetry can encapsulate according
to Aristotle) experiences of human suffering.
In an intriguing passage from de Memoria, Aristotle notes:
n t pnaki gegrammnon zon ka zn st ka ekn, ka t at ka n
tot stn mfw, t mntoi enai o tatn stin mfon, ka sti qewren
ka v zon ka v ekna, otw ka t n mn fntasma de polaben ka
at ti kaq aut enai qerhma ka llou fntasma, mn on kaq aut,
qerhma fntasm stin, d llou, oon ekn ka mnhmneuma. (Mem.
450b239)146
An animal depicted on a panel is both an animal-figure and a representation; and
while being one and the same, it is both, although being of the two is not the
same. And one can contemplate them as both animal figure and representation.
In the same way, one must understand the image in us to be something of its own
sort and of another thing. In itself it is an object of contemplation and an image
(phantasma). But when it is of another thing, it is a sort of representation and a
reminder.

144
Cf. the other examples I have discussed, pleasure of mimetic arts generally comes from inference
(Rh. 2.1371b9: ti toto keno, of metaphors, Rh. 3.1410a19: v toto keno).
145 146
Po. 25.1460b89. Sorabji 1972 provides a detailed and useful commentary on this.
128 Theoretical views about pity and fear
Sifakis has drawn attention to the importance of this account for under-
standing the mimetic pleasure in the Poetics.147 He notes that represen-
tation (ekn) and mimesis are interchangeable in Aristotles vocabulary.
The pleasurable learning from mimesis, Sifakis argues, lies in understanding
the object imitated as a generic representation (this is such) rather than
as a copy of a certain model. Therefore, poetry as representation of the
universal (kaqlou) is more philosophical than history, which deals with
the particulars (Po. 9.1451b57). I am not sure whether Aristotle signifies
the universal by the word representation (ekn) in the passage from
de Memoria.148 He certainly does not mean to take an image ad litteram,
but symbolically, as referring to something else. In an additional example,
Aristotle notes that, in the case of actual perception, we need an object
to form a thought or an image. On the other hand, a representation or
copy (ekn) would remind us of something that is not present in the
perception. Thus we see Coriscus (i.e. think of Coriscus) in a painting,
without actually seeing him:
n d llou, sper n t grf v ekna qewre, ka m wrakv tn
Korskon, v Korskou. (Mem. 450b324)
When the image is of something else, one sees it as in a painting, as representation,
and sees it as an image of Coriscus, without [actually] having seen Coriscus.
Furthermore, when we regard the object as an animal merely in chalk,
our experience involves only thought (nhma), whereas when we look
at the object as representation (ekn), we do so through memory
(mnhmneuma, Mem. 450b35451a3). This point closely resembles Aristotles
distinction between pleasure derived simply by admiring the color when
viewing a painting and pleasure derived through mimesis (Po. 4.1448b17
19).
To conclude, when someone remembers, he goes through a similar
process as when watching a product of mimesis. Thus, Sifakis is right
to connect the two. Secondly, universals seem to be important in the
mimetic as well as mnemonic operation, and yet I believe not because
the audience learns the universal meaning of something from mimesis, as
Sifakis proposes. The artist has to imitate, according to the universal
(kaqlou),149 so that he might capture the general characteristics of what
147
Sifakis 1986, especially 21720.
148
For some objections to Sifakis view, and a thorough discussion of the meaning of the poetic
universals, see Heath 1991.
149
For a tragedian, to represent things according to the universal (kaqlou) means to show what
might happen in accordance with necessity and probability (Po. 9.1451b89).
Aristotle: the first theorist of emotions 129
he represents. For his part, the spectator must also have the precognition of
such universal features of mimesis, so that he might derive meaning from
the symbolical reference of the artistic imitation. If he knows what Coriscus
looks like, he should be able to recognize him in a painting, even without
seeing him directly at the moment. If he does not, he will simply admire
the color-composition of the painting, or the drawing in chalk of some
man. The link between memory and mimesis is reminiscent again of the
definition of pity in the Rhetoric. One feels pity by remembering. Feeling
pity, even in a real situation, seems to involve a reasoning process by which
we relate to something else. A human being suffers undeservedly. My loved
ones and I are human beings. Therefore we could suffer too.150 Aristotle
includes the educated among the categories of people who are most prone
to feel pity, because they are good at discerning, they reason well (ka
o pepaideumnoi elgistoi gr, Rh. 2.1385b278). The aesthetic pity
and its dependent fear seem to involve an even more complex process of
recognizing the universal in the personal as well as in the imitation of
human experience. The audience do not watch people actually suffering
on the stage, for that would arouse only painful emotions. Nor do they
watch tragedy without having any idea of what human suffering means.
If this were the perception, it would be like seeing the chalk drawing
in a picture, and it might appear interesting but not elicit the proper
emotional pleasure. In addition, the audience ought to see a representation
of human suffering, in accordance with the universal (i.e. probability and
necessity). The spectator should take the fact that the noble (spoudaoi)
suffer in tragedies as a representation (ekn). By relating the universal
of tragic action to his own experience, the spectator should recognize that
the tragic action shows, indeed, how one might act and feel in such a
given situation. The audience can thus realize that the characters represent
suffering as it should be, this is that, this is what it is like when people
suffer.151 But such process leads to pleasure, through imitation, as the
Poetics suggests. Syllogism relates to the pleasure of mimesis, in general.
Emotional syllogism, or syllogism involving the emotions of pity and fear,
is likely the peculiarity of tragic pleasure. It appears to involve the following
process: (1) other humans, superior to me, the spectator, suffer in tragedy,
and I pity them; (2) I too am human. As such, if those on stage suffer,

150
This kind of reasoning occurs both when pity is produced through memory and through antici-
pation.
151
This may be the reason for which Aristotle not only insists on the arousal of emotions in the
Poetics, but also emphasizes how they should be represented within the plot. Sampson 2009 takes
the universals as referring to the plot itself.
130 Theoretical views about pity and fear
I must also suffer. Therefore, I fear. Overall, this is pleasurable because I
recognize that human suffering is correctly represented in the action of the
drama (according to the universals) and because I feel correctly toward it,
which is a kind of supervenient pleasure. Moreover, this is also pleasurable
because I am aware that I am imagining (remembering or anticipating)
what it is like to suffer, but I am not in danger right now, yet I understand
and recognize what the experience is like (this is that).
Can the parallel between memory and emotional pleasure through mime-
sis extend even further? In de Memoria, exercise strengthens memory and
leads to recollection, which is nothing else but to view the image frequently
as a copy and not in itself.152 In the Metaphysics (980b-981a) by coalescing
multiple memories (mnmai), one gains experience (mpeira), and,
ultimately, a kind of rational understanding of the practice (tcnh). This
occurs when one has one unitary perception of the similarities (ma
kaqlou gnhtai per tn mown plhyiv, Metaph. 981a67). Later,
Aristotle connects the pleasure of memory and anticipation with the activ-
ity of the prime mover (Metaph. 1072b). Could the audience, in Aristotles
view, gain some kind of emotional experience (mpeira) from watching
tragedy? By exercising the feeling of pity and fear not in themselves, but
for artistic imitations, which should concern a single action (ma prxiv)
and represent events according to the universal (kaqlou), the spectators
may be better able to deal with their own suffering.153 Tragic pleasure may
thus offer some solace for human suffering, as the pleasure of mourning
does. Perhaps. But this later moral point remains mere speculation; for
Aristotle, as far as we know, was silent on this matter.
The process of remembering and anticipating that arouses pity is very
complex and involves connecting personal distress with the misfortune
of another, as Achilles eleos has well shown. Therefore, any individual
member of the audience may have a different way of connecting his own
experience to the affliction of tragic characters. Nevertheless, tragic action
pertains to a universal experience, as Odysseus remarks in the Ajax and as
Aristotle has suggested in the Poetics. Thus, ideally, the audience may feel
pleasure by inferring the likeness, as well as the dissimilarity, between
their particular emotional experiences and their more universal images.
152
A meltai tn mnmhn szousi t panamimnskein. Toto d stn odn teron t qewren
pollkiv v ekna ka m v kaq ato (mnemonic exercises preserve memory by frequent
reminding; this is nothing else than contemplating something often as a representation and not
in itself, Mem. 451a1315).
153
Modern scholars cannot define easily how one could learn from tragedy, but they often propose
a certain type of wise acceptance of mortality and suffering as the essence of tragic learning; thus,
for example, Morris 1991, 24455.
Aristotle: the first theorist of emotions 131
To summarize the characteristics of the oikeia hedone: it is a supervening
pleasure, similar to the type described in the Nicomachean Ethics, in the
sense that it occurs on top of, or while the spectator experiences the
right effects of an activity, tragedy, namely pity and fear. As a result, or
as a supervening effect of the tragic emotions, the proper pleasure of
tragedy is cognitive, via mimesis: it comes from a painful realization of
the spectator, of the type this is that, a realization of loss and shared
mortality, represented on the stage by another and prospectively imagined
or remembered by the self. Why is this emotional syllogism, involving our
pity and fear, pleasurable after all? We may wonder, and I have suggested
some possible explanations. Aristotle, however, does not appear to be pre-
occupied with the question of why at all. The best analogy to tragic
pleasure is the pleasure of mourning: remembrance of what we have lost
is pleasurable though painful because we can mentally reconstruct the
past, as Aristotle suggests, and, perhaps, because we can share this with
others who have suffered the same, which gives us a sense of universal
connectedness.

4.5 predecessors and successors. timocles.


how original is aristotle?
Aristotle concentrates in his poetic theory on praising tragic plots that can
best arouse pity and fear. In a sense, he and the author of Natyasastra share
the belief that certain dramatic forms arouse certain emotions in the audi-
ence. Unlike the Indian author, however, Aristotle is extremely selective:
not only does he prefer pity and fear to any other emotional responses that
drama might stir, but he seems to have in mind specific, narrow definitions
of the two emotions, carefully excluding their possible varieties. Thus,
tragic action should stir pity (eleos) for the undeserved suffering of another
that we may fear for ourselves, or have experienced ourselves; it should
not arouse a fellow-feeling (philanthropon, Po. 13.1453a23), the kind of
reaction produced by a plot involving a bad character who falls from good
to bad misfortune, which is thus not caused by undeserved suffering.154 Like-
wise, the right plot ought to arouse the Aristotelian tragic fear (phobos),
154
The exact meaning of this philanthropon is not absolutely clear (cf. Halliwell 1998, 219, n. 25;
Konstan 2005a): it could mean either that we feel sorry for a character (anyway), despite the fact
that he is bad and fell into misfortune, toward which I incline; or that we think that justice has been
done (thus do not feel sorry) for the character; in either case the element of undeserved suffering
necessary for pity is not met. Generally, as one of the readers points out to me, philanthropia seems
to denote an attitude or disposition rather than an emotion, and adjectives denoting kindness,
gentleness suddenly abound in Greek sources in the fourth century (Romilly, 1979, 37).
132 Theoretical views about pity and fear
based on the abstract, imaginative possibility of suffering for the self in
connection with pity for another, and ought not to stir horror (suggested
by the term monstrous, sensational, teratodes, Po. 14.1453b9).
A particularly significant feature of the Aristotelian pair of tragic emo-
tions is imagination, phantasia. To a great extent, the formation of both
pity and fear in classical Greek culture relies on an imaginative element
in general: with respect to pity, imagining that the misfortune of another
could affect the self; with respect to fear, imagining (whether justifiably
or not) that a threat is imminent. Nevertheless, Aristotle emphasizes this
imaginative element beyond its usual place in the formation and creation
of the tragic emotions. The ability to visualize, or bring before the minds
eye the misfortune of another becomes essential for both the playwright
and the audience, inviting an emotional syllogism: I pity another, fear for
myself, and thus recognize our common experience: this is that, this is
what it is like to suffer as a human being.
A certain form of consolation likely accompanied the lamentations for
the dead in Indo-European communities. As West has observed, a specific
type of consolatory technique occurs in Norse, old English, and Greek: It
consists in the recital of other bad things that have happened in the past to
other people and that were overcome. The aim is to persuade the one being
consoled to put things in proportion.155 The Homeric passage, which West
offers as an example (Il. 5.382404), does not directly pertain to mourning
but rather to an amusing scene. Dione tries to cheer up Aphrodite, who
has suffered at the hands of Diomedes, by telling her that other gods have
also been abused by mortals and were able to overcome the discomfort.156
By contrast, the Norse poem Gudrunarkvida (1.311) provides us with the
prototype of consolation through lamentation. Stricken with unspeakable
pain and unable to lament, Gudrun sits over Sigurds body, while friends
and family try to comfort her and are afraid that she might die from pain.
One by one, the wives of the warriors come to the widow and give her solace,
telling their own sorrowful stories.157 Giaflaug declares that she is most
unfortunate, because she is now alone, after having lost five husbands, eight

155
West 2007, 66.
156
In the fragmentary Hypsipyle, as Chong-Gossard 2008, 758, and 2009, 1122, has observed, the
chorus women try to console the heroine by reminding her that others, such as Europa and Io,
have suffered. Hypsipyle, however, does not feel comforted but replies that lamentations may have
helped the mourners of Procris. As Scodel 1997, 93, and Chong-Gossard 2008, 79, have pointed
out, Hypsipyles lament does not pertain to common mourning but to a different genre, which
is erotic lamentation.
157
A discussion of this scene in its context is provided by ODonoghue 2004, 814. On gender and
the expression of grief in this Norse poem, see McKinnell 2005, 21819.
Aristotle: the first theorist of emotions 133
brothers, and three sisters. Next, Herborg, queen of the Huns, deplores the
loss of her seven sons, her husband, and parents; she adds that after all these
deaths she has become a captive to a wife of her foe, who beats her daily. And
so on, other women continue to narrate their plight. Several elements of the
Norse poem are relevant for our discussion. Interestingly, Gudrun cannot
weep at first, and the presentation of the tragic tales of others helps her to
do so. Several Greek accounts suggest that listening or viewing a tragic story
leads the spectator to express his own suffering: thus Achilles, overcome
with the desire for weeping, laments his own losses after listening to Priams
plea in the Iliad. Plato anticipates that pity for the tragic characters will lead
to pleasure and to inability to refrain from lamentations for the spectators
own misfortunes and, perhaps, Gorgias abstract expression, sorrow-loving
longing (pothos philopenthes) has a similar meaning. Secondly, the series
of mini-tragedies that women present to Gudrun alleviate the widows
unbearable suffering, most likely by shifting her interest from herself to
others.158 The same idea that feeling sympathy for the misfortunes of the
characters can alleviate the real sufferings of the spectator of tragedy
clearly occurs in one fourth-century text.
A charming description of tragic pleasure appears in a fragment of
Middle Comedy, the Dionysiazousae of Timocles,159 a later contemporary
of Aristotle:
*nqrwpv sti zon pponon fsei
ka poll lupr biv n aut frei.
Parayucv on frontdwn nereto
Tatav gr nov tn dwn lqhn labn,
prv llotr te yucagwghqev pqei,
Met donv plqe, paideuqev ma
Tov gr tragdov, prton, e bolei, skpei
Wv felosi pntav mn n gr pnhv,
Ptwcteron ato katamaqn tn Tlefon
Genmenon, dh tn penan on frei.
O nosn ti manikn Alkmawn skyato
Ofqalmi tiv, es Finedai tuflo
Tqnhk t pav, Nibh kekofiken (214).
A human is a being prone to calamities
And his life brings him many aches
158
Although we have no direct parallel to this scene in the Iliad, it is interesting that Achilles reminds
Priam, who is mourning the loss of Hector, of the story of Niobe in order to console him (Il.
24.60113): even Niobe, wearied with crying, remembered to eat, after the gods finally allowed the
burial of her twelve children.
159
Fr. 6, Kassel-Austin (PCG, vol. 7, 1983).
134 Theoretical views about pity and fear
Therefore he has found solace for the worries.
For (ones) mind leaving aside the care for his personal things
And being mesmerized by the pathos of another
With pleasure has gone away, and has been instructed at the same time.
Look first at the tragic characters, if you want,
How they benefit everyone! For, a poor man
Learning that Telephus was poorer than him
Already bears his poverty more easily.
One being ill with some madness, has considered Alcmaeon,
Someone suffers from an eye illness? The Phinidae were blind.
Someones child has died, Niobe has eased [his anguish].
The passage is in agreement with the tradition of consolation that appears
to have Indo-European roots: noticing the utmost destruction of tragic
characters, the audience should feel relieved and bear personal suffering
more easily. Furthermore, Timocles echoes several terms used in the Aris-
totelian theory and seems to propose a simplified and perhaps parodic
version of the oikeia hedone.160 The spectator forgets about his misery
by being transported into the emotion of another (llotr te yuca-
gaghqev pqei, 6), a process that is accompanied by pleasure (meq donv,
7). Remarkably, the spectators mind (nov, 5) makes the transfer from the
personal emotion (or experience) to the plight of another. This is reminis-
cent of Aristotles proper pleasure, which depends on both the cognitive
and emotional responses of the audience. Yet, the process of forgetting ones
own problem while contemplating anothers resonates with the scene from
the Norse poem: it is exactly what women hope that Gudrun will do: turn
away from self-absorbed suffering toward considering their sorrow. More-
over, in the fragment from Timocles, the spectator becomes instructed
(pepaideuqev, 7) when watching tragedies, because he learns how to put
his petty troubles in perspective by comparing them with the misfortunes
of tragic characters.161 Since we do not know the whole picture of the liter-
ary theories circulating at the time, we cannot tell how extensive Timocles
parody of the Aristotelian theory might be, or more generally, how the
author of this fragment refers to other poetic theories of the time. There
160
Stark 1972, 8390, considers Timocles fragment to be a direct expression of Aristotles theory of
catharsis. The passage does not seem to me a serious reinstatement of philosophical ideas, much
less an explanation for the enigmatic catharsis. Nevertheless, Timocles does appear to ridicule here
the Aristotelian and, perhaps, other critical views about tragedy, in the old Aristophanic tradition
(cf. the debate about how tragedians benefit the polis in the Frogs).
161
On learning from suffering in this fragment, see Gregory 2005, 395. For a detailed philological
commentary, see Olson 2007, 16973; at 169 Olson notes that this fragment of Timocles was
preserved by Stobaeus 4.56.19 in a section entitled Consolatory (Passages), which perhaps
reflects an earlier critical tradition that classified this piece as such.
Aristotle: the first theorist of emotions 135
are, nevertheless, some obvious allusions to both tragic practice and Aris-
totles terminology. The fragment opens with a perfect tragic gnome: all
mankind is subject to suffering. The comic twist, man is an unfortunate
being (zon pponon, 2), may facetiously echo Aristotles definition of
the human being as political being (politikn zon, Pol. 1.1253a). From
Gorgias on, it has been recognized that poetry has the ability to drive the
soul of the listener (yucagwga) and a cognate is used in the fragment of
Dionysiazousae (yucagwghqev, 6). Plato refers in the Republic to the spec-
tator of tragedy as ready to abandon himself to the emotions of another
(lltria pqh, R. 606a4), an idea also mentioned in Timocles frag-
ment (llotr . . . pqei, 6). There may be other, more subtle allusions.
Thus, the spectator bears his poverty better, by fully realizing (kata-
maqn, 10)162 how poor Telephus was, which could be taken as a reference
to Aristotles learning from mimesis (mqhseiv, manqnein, Po. 4.1448b7
8, 13). The pain of losing a child has been alleviated (kekofiken, 14)
by Niobe, and the same verb occurs in Aristotles Politics to describe the
effect of musical catharsis (koufzesqai meq donv, Pol. 8.1342a15). An
acquaintance with the whole play could, perhaps, clarify whether Timocles
has used these terms here intentionally or accidentally. At any rate, Plato
dismisses tragic pleasure, because spectators delight in tragedy, by foolishly
thinking that they can feel pity for the suffering of tragic characters without
being themselves affected, when, in fact, they become morally weak in real
life. Aristotle suggests that an ideal audience should contrive the proper
pleasure from tragic emotions, by inferring the connections as well as the
differences between personal and universal human experience. Timocles,
in his witty way, perhaps takes the Aristotelian side and amuses us with a
description of how the theory could have worked in practice.
Despite the similarities, nevertheless, there is a major distinction between
the idea that the tragic stories of others bring solace through models
of suffering that relate to the self, as seen in the examples from early
epic to Timocles, and Aristotles oikeia hedone. And this difference comes
from a different approach to the relationship between tragic story and
the audience, which completely changes the dynamics of the emotions.
Let us consider the internal spectators in the Gudrunarkvida and the
Iliad, Gudrun and Achilles, who are both in a very different position from
the common spectator of tragedy. The heroes of the Norse and Greek
poems have recently lost their dearest lover or companion and thus the
162
The fragment continues with a few other examples, which I have not listed. Interestingly, learning
from tragic examples is used once more: if some spectator is old and unhappy he has fully
understood (katmaqen, 17) Oineus.
136 Theoretical views about pity and fear
tragic spectacle of others who have suffered (even more) leads them to
pity and then, perhaps, to an acceptance of their own fate through shared
weeping. Where is fear in this equation? Achilles and Gudrun have
already endured the most terrible type of misfortune.163 What do they
have to dread? According to Aristotle, those who have already suffered the
utmost misfortunes do not feel pity for they cannot imagine any additional
reason for sorrow. Do, then, the epic heroes feel pity even? Yes, and, as
shown in the case of Achilles, some of the psychological mechanisms that
arouse the emotion (through memory and anticipation) remain valid in
Aristotles theory. But when these characters respond to the pain of others
within the epic poems, they do so by moving from suffering for the self
to feeling for another, in a kind of altruistic way, which soothes the initial
personal sorrow. Aristotle seems to prescribe an opposite movement in
the Poetics and Rhetoric. Commonly, the external spectator is not recently
bereft, but starts from pity for others (tragic characters) to thinking about
the vulnerability of the self and his kin, in a kind of selfish manner.
Fear catalyzes this movement from another to the self. Thus, interestingly,
Aristotle recommends the archaic, perhaps Indo-European, technique of
consolation in the Rhetoric: showing that others (better) have suffered
(more than the listener), yet not to appease the pain of the spectator
(as it happens in the Norse epic), but to stir fear in the audience. In the
Poetics, most recommendations concern the best ways in which tragic plot
arouses the emotions: pity for another, hence fear for oneself. The purpose
of the traditional consolation is to diminish ones sorrow, by showing the
connection with other suffering beings. Conversely, the purpose of the
tragedian is to stir the sorrowful awareness of the frailty of the self, by using
the same connection.

4.6 general conclusions


Gorgias, Plato, and Aristotle acknowledge pity and some form of fear as
essential emotional responses to tragic (and often epic) poetry, and link
the tragic emotions to a kind of grievous pleasure, expressing personal
loss or longing. Nevertheless, each author has a different purpose, mode
of presentation, and, to a degree, understanding of the two emotions. In
describing the power of various types of speech, Gorgias focuses on the
psychology of the audience. In the Encomium, he notes that, apparently

163
Achilles, indeed, may fear for his own father who, like Priam, will not enjoy his son in his
old age.
Aristotle: the first theorist of emotions 137
unlike other types of logos, poetry arouses at the same time pity and a
certain form of fear, shuddering. His further observations about fear point
to an ambiguous moment in the initial formation of the emotion, shared
by both data-based and aesthetic emotion. Thus the clamor of battle
(whether it occurs in reality or on the stage remains unspecified) can
greatly affect the mind of the listener. Interested in the psychology of the
audience in the fragment on tragedy, Gorgias suggests the spectator who
lets himself be deceived by the tragic plot can feel genuine emotions and
thus attain pleasure. Plato discusses the tragic emotions in the context of his
philosophical reform of culturally accepted ethics and his own reshaping
of common psychology. Pity for the tragic characters produces a type of
aesthetic pleasure that is linked to the spectators desire to mourn for his own
misfortune in the Republic. Yet, mourning pertains to our fear of loss and
ultimately relates to fear of death. Fear, however, indeed fear in its utmost
form of death has no rational cause, as Socrates argues in the Apology
and Phaedo. The culturally accepted causes of fear, such as anticipation
of harm (of which death ranks as the ultimate harm),164 come only from
ignorance not from reality. If then, the commonly considered data-based
fear is based only on the illusion of knowledge, aesthetic fear, derived from
ridiculous stories of doom in Hades, appears even more foolish. To the
lover of wisdom, pity and fear have no rational base and should not be
formed at all, whether such emotions are aesthetic, stirred by tragic fictional
stories, or data-based, stirred by real events. In fact, philosophy offers
emotional alternatives. If, generally, in classical Athens, pity is a response
to the undeserved misfortune of another, Socrates demonstrates that it
should not be so. Thus, Phaedo comes close to feeling pity for Socrates, on
the assumption that his unfair condemnation to death is a misfortune. But
Socrates does not perceive his imminent death as a misfortune and does not
fear it, so that the transformed emotion is a kind of paradoxical, optimistic
grief. Not interested in such an ethical transformation of the psychology
of emotions, Aristotle concentrates in the Poetics on a completely different
matter, namely the structural, dramatic elements of plays that can produce
in his opinion the best, the purest aesthetic emotions. In doing so, as an
avant-garde philosophical theorist of the aesthetic emotions, he carefully
distinguishes the formation of the optimal tragic pity from other varieties
of the emotion (such as philanthropia, fellow-feeling) and, likewise, tragic
fear from other varieties of the emotion (such as teratodes, horror). With

164
As aforementioned, people fear death as if they knew that it is the greatest evil of all, although no
one knows what comes after death (Pl. Ap. 29ab; cf. Ap. 40ab).
138 Theoretical views about pity and fear
the help of other Aristotelian treatises, particularly the Rhetoric and the
de Anima, we infer that the ideal tragic pity relies on an imaginative
visualization of the suffering of another and not on direct observation
of such suffering. The ideal tragic fear comes from the spectators abstract
realization that he is prone to suffering and death, after noticing that others
(tragic characters) who are better than he have endured worse misfortunes.
This fear differs from an immediate, data-based emotion that comes from
expectation of danger. Finally, this type of aesthetic fear does not come from
an expectation that the audience will suffer the exact type of misfortunes
represented on the stage. Both aesthetic emotions are in Aristotles opinion
best stirred through shock and amazement, but, at the same time, in a
probable manner, because this should lead the spectator to the realization
that the most unexpected catastrophes can reasonably happen to the
best and, therefore, may happen to the spectator himself. Strangely enough,
such pessimistic realization can bring pleasure through a feeling of human
solidarity in suffering. Such reminders of the greater sufferings of others
seem to belong to an old, Indo-European technique of consolation. Feeling
intensely for the suffering of another may lead the mourner, such as Achilles
who pities Priam or Gudrun who pities the other women, to expressing
or releasing his or her own pain: feeling connected results in suffering less
intensely for oneself. Tragedy becomes, therefore, a genre of archetypal
mourning for fictional others that can paradoxically alleviate the spectators
own pain. Intense emotions produced by tragedies, as Timocles suggests,
can give the spectator a correct perspective on his own suffering and thus
bring solace.
part ii

Pity and fear within tragedies


chapter 5

An introduction

5.1 purpose of survey


Developmental psychologists have found that infants feel sympathetic
distress before they fully realize that they exist apart from other people.
Even a few months after birth, infants react to a disturbance in those
around them as though it were their own, crying when they see
another childs tears. By one year or so they start to realize the misery
is not their own but someone elses, though they still seem confused
over what to do about it.
(Daniel Goleman, Emotional Intelligence, New York, 1998, 98)
Modern studies show that we are wired to feel sympathy for the suffer-
ing of another,1 and ancient Greek thinkers deemed pity the fundamental
response to the human suffering represented in tragedy. But what are the
features of pity in tragedies? Do the internal viewers invariably feel pity
when they witness suffering? Is pity accompanied by fear, as Gorgias, Plato,
and Aristotle have suggested? What kind of fears do the internal spectators
express? Thus far, I have discussed theoretical views about pity and fear
as tragic emotions in fifth- and fourth-century Athens. Ancient authors
defined the effect of tragedy on the audience mainly in terms of emo-
tion, pleasure, and cognitive stimulation, although different authors gave
these characteristics varying degrees of emphasis and different nuances of
meaning. My focus has been on less explored aspects of Aristotelian theory,
which proposes an integrative response to tragedy, both emotional and
cognitive, and thus conducive to pleasure. In this second part I will assess
pity and fear as emotional responses within tragedies, ranging from early
Aeschylean to late Euripidean, by examining how, why, and when internal
1
For a recent reappraisal of the complex psychological processes involved in the formation of empathy,
see Decety and Jackson 2006, who show that while shared representation (i.e. understanding the
affective states of others by using a neuronal architecture that reproduces such states in ourselves)
is the dominant reason for our responding empathetically to anothers suffering, other neuronal
activities (often dissociative) are also necessary when we feel for others.

141
142 Pity and fear within tragedies
audiences (the chorus and various characters) express the two emotions.
The purpose is twofold. On the one hand, I am interested in comparing
internal expressions of pity and fear to the theoretical descriptions of the
emotions of the preceding chapters. To this end, the differences between
the tragic expressions and the philosophical accounts are as important
as the similarities. On the other hand, I concentrate on possible links
between the expressions of pity and fear within tragedies and the responses
of the external audiences. Despite their differences, Gorgias, Plato, and
Aristotle generally assume that pity is an emotion that the Athenians feel
naturally when watching tragedies. But is this an unquestionable truth?
Moreover, how does fear depicted in tragedies relate to pity? What types of
fears are expressed in tragedies? The focus of my analysis will be especially
on the manner in which internal audiences debate pity as an appropriate
response to suffering and the relevance of such disputes over pity for the
contemporary fifth-century Athenian audiences. In all cases, I discuss first
modern scholarly views about a plays ability to stir the sympathy of the
Athenian audience, then examine the internal perspectives on tragic suf-
fering, and conclude with an appraisal of how these internal viewpoints
might have been received by the contemporary spectators.
The selection of the plays aims to cover a diversity of styles (including
tragedies by Aeschylus, Sophocles, and Euripides), as well as to signal the
complexity of pity and fear as tragic emotions, concentrating on aspects
that were not observed in the philosophical accounts. To a degree, then,
the tragedies chosen for analysis underscore various kinds of difficulties
related to our understanding of the two emotions.
Aeschylus Persians abounds in internal expressions of fear, but the fears
belong to the Persian queen and the chorus of elderly Persians; it ends with
utter misery for the Persian army. Could the Athenians resonate with this
representation of the anxiety of the historical enemy, whom they had just
defeated? Above all, could they have felt pity for the shattered armies of
Xerxes?
Prometheus Bound is an unusual play in many respects; perhaps most
remarkably, it presents the continuous suffering of the Titan on stage and
various internal models of viewing this suffering. A kind of political pity
for mortals that led Prometheus to rebel against the tyranny of Zeus, and
inspires others to do so as well, appears to prompt the removal of fear
and has no equivalent in the theoretical descriptions of the emotion, as
provided by Gorgias, Plato, and Aristotle.
Sophocles Ajax offers a scene in which a character displays a type of
abstract pity that is reminiscent of the Aristotelian account, but the question
An introduction 143
of whether or not suffering is deserved continues to be pondered by internal
audiences. Another problem raised by this and other Sophoclean plays is
the degree to which the pitier ought to help the sufferer.
Euripides Orestes, although popular, was seen as unorthodox in antiq-
uity. This perception might have something to do with the way in which
characters react emotionally to suffering. Internal audiences display unusual
types of fear and can be entrapped by pity. Some of these observations apply
to other Euripidean plays as well.
In addition to the close analysis of the internal expressions of pity and
fear, in each case, I consider the historical context of the play, reports about
the production of the plays and the reaction of the original audiences, and
later comments of the scholiasts, to the degree to which they are available
and relevant to the subject.2

5.2 pity and fear as expressions of internal audiences and


the philosophical views (gorgias, plato, aristotle):
a different emphasis
Overall, the theoretical accounts discussed in the first part of this
book emphasize the psychological aspects of the tragic emotions. In the
Encomium, when discussing pity, fear, and longing, Gorgias describes the
effect of poetic speech on the mind of the listener, and further speculates
on what happens to the mind when people feel alarmed. Plato sees in tragic
pity a force that unsettles the rational part of the soul, and considers fear
entirely irrational. Aristotle concentrated on the links between poetic text
and the emotions in the Poetics, as well as on the arousal of emotions in
the mind of the listener in the Rhetoric. Conversely, expressions of pity
and fear in tragedies, which I intend to discuss in the following chapters,
do not generally consist of psychological explanations, but emphasize the
ethical and socio-political aspects of feeling the emotions.
Naturally, the difference comes to a degree from the dissimilar perspec-
tives of theorists and of tragic characters. The former refer to pity and fear
as the responses of drama spectators, who cannot modify the tragedy they
are watching but can only contemplate it, whereas the latter, the characters
in tragedies, are represented as experiencing the emotions in the middle
of the events, and thus as being able to act under the impetus of those
2
I refer to the commentaries of the scholiasts, especially when they give interesting details about
the production of the plays, and assume certain audience reactions. As Meijering 1987 has shown,
scholiasts continue the ancient tradition of literary criticism, and revive such notions as phantasia,
mimesis, etc; on this, see also Nunlist 2009, 814.
144 Pity and fear within tragedies
emotions. Thus, while philosophers concentrate on the mental states pro-
duced by the emotions, characters do not usually describe what happens
in their mind when they feel pity and fear, but may acknowledge why
they feel the emotions and how they will act consequently; and both their
motivations and actions entail questions of morality and politics. To return
to a famous example, when Achilles hears Priams appeal to his pity, fol-
lowed by the request for the body of his son in the Iliad, he is able feel the
emotion and as a consequence grant the request. In fact, the appeals
to pity are almost always followed by practical requests in both epic and
tragedy (for example, requests to spare ones life or to offer protection and
shelter), and one has to consider moral and social matters before granting
such a request. Obviously, a listener to the Homeric epic may also feel pity
for Priam but has no power to act as a result of feeling this emotion. Even
more evident than pity, in the case of fear, terrified characters can usually
take action fight or flight when faced directly with danger in epic or
drama,3 while this is not possible for the spectator.
Two questions arise. Firstly, to what extent can we compare the theo-
retical accounts to the internal expressions of the tragic emotions, when
they seem to focus on different aspects of pity and fear? And, secondly,
should we even attempt such a comparison? Obviously, the comparison
will be necessarily limited, mostly to the ways in which the formation
and the psychological features of pity and fear in tragedies resemble the
theoretical models. In addition, it will reveal certain aspects particularly
moral motivations and effects resulting from the emotions that were
missing, or barely outlined, in the previous theoretical accounts of pity
and fear; therefore the examination of the emotions in the plays comple-
ments well the previous analysis. It is true that Plato speculates on the
moral consequences of feeling tragic fear and pity for the real life of the
spectators, but his observations are very succinct, and designed to prove
the superiority of philosophy over (tragic and epic) poetry. With respect to
fear, for example, Socrates suggests in the Republic that by hearing horrible
stories about the underworld (R. 3.3868), listeners become more fearful
in real life as well; tragic pity, he says, though an emotion felt for another,
can unleash psychological mechanisms that encourage displays of sorrow
caused by personal misfortune (R. 10.6046). Aristotle, to the chagrin of
many modern interpreters, does not engage much in this kind of specula-
tion, although he implies in the Poetics that tragic emotions are important
3
Frightened characters obviously cannot always run to escape danger; perhaps, tragedy more than epic
presents situations in which characters cannot do anything to remove their anxieties (for example,
women waiting to hear about their fate as captives).
An introduction 145
for the spectators and that playwrights ought to stir them as much as
possible. By analyzing pity and fear(s) as emotional reactions in tragedies,
we may infer other ethical and socio-political facets of the two emotions.
Pity and fear as internal reactions in tragedy probably reflect responses to
suffering of the contemporary Athenians. However, the degree to which
they do so cannot be easily determined, as I suggest next.

5.3 relationship between pity and fear as expressions


of internal audiences and external (contemporary
athenian) audiences

5.3.1 Internal audiences as models for external audiences


Greek tragedy does not allow the voice of the poet to be heard. As Hall
has noted, tragedy is the most polyphonic genre and the authorial voice
of the tragic poet himself is more elusive in this genre than in any other
ancient literary form, including comedy.4 Indeed, tragedians neither state
their poetic intent, nor directly address their audiences.5 In the absence
of the poetic voice, therefore, tragedies would lead the spectators toward
certain responses only indirectly, through their complex, dialogic structure.
Yet, appeals to pity in tragedies rely on a type of rhetoric that deals with
emotional arousal;6 they can persuade both internal viewers (characters
and chorus) and external Athenian audiences. Aristotle notes that contem-
porary tragedians make their characters speak rhetorically (Po. 6.1450b7).7
Later, Theophrastus regards both oratory and poetry as arts dealing with
the orientation of the listeners, in a fragment, which may have elaborated
Aristotelian ideas.8 Can we then consider the emotions of the audiences
4
Hall 1997, 120.
5
There may have been some exceptions, such as Euripides Danae. For discussion of later sources
which describe the tragic chorus speaking on behalf of the poet, as some kind of parabasis, see Bain
1975.
6
Stevens 1944 provides judicial and dramatic examples for the stirring of pity in cases of undeserved
suffering. He well summarizes both techniques of eliciting pity and ways of dissuading audiences
from feeling the emotion in the Athenian society.
7
Goldhill 1999 divides the most common types of language employed in tragedy into: (1) heroic (of
Homeric grandeur), (2) religious and ritualistic, (3) law-court speech (used particularly in tragic
debates), (4) sophistic (used in Euripidean drama, particularly).
8
Fortenbaugh-Huby-Sharples, fr. 78; Innes 1985, 25167, appropriately notes that Theophrastus
emphasis on the audience in this fragment seems to develop Aristotelian theory. While Aristotle
deals with the technical elements of oratory and poetry, and only implicitly refers to the audience,
Theophrastus may have shifted the focus. In fact, this is in the tradition of Gorgias, who placed
oratory and poetry into the same category of speeches that charm the soul, as did Plato. Aristotle
insists that his main discussion of thought-arrangement (dinoia) should be included in the Rhetoric,
and it is more particular (dion) to oratory than to poetry (Po. 19.1456a345).
146 Pity and fear within tragedies
responding internally to suffering in tragedies as mirroring the emotional
responses which playwrights hoped to trigger in the Athenian audience?
The simple answer: yes, to a degree, especially with respect to pity. Ancient
audiences probably expected to be moved in a way in which characters
(and their interpreters, the actors) were moved in tragedies.9 There is
plenty of evidence to support this. Early on, Gorgias sketched the notion
of dramatic illusion in tragedy, through which the spectator should be
absorbed, or willingly taken away, and sincerely engaged emotionally
by the tragic fiction. In the Poetics, the passage recommending that one
should work out the plot in gestures (Po. 17.1455a302) and be impassioned
oneself to persuade others, has usually been interpreted as referring to the
dramatist, but sometimes to the tragic actor.10 Such ambiguities, regard-
ing who feels or transmits pathe, imply strong correspondences between
emotional responses within the internal structure of tragedies and those
of external audiences. All poets (or poetic texts), actors, and spectators
partake in tragic pathe in the metaphorical chain of emotion in Platos
Ion.
From Schlegel on,11 scholars have entertained the idea that the chorus
is a type of ideal spectator in Greek tragedy. More recently, studies have
viewed the chorus as representing Athenian collective consciousness, in the
context of Athenian democracy.12 Segal has proposed a fascinating read-
ing of Oedipus the King, in which the chorus gives closure to the tragedy

9
See Goldhill 2009 for additional arguments and examples of how the fifth-century audience is
represented in Sophoclean theater.
10
Else 1957, 4905, is the main supporter of the view which interprets the passage as concerning the
actor. Although most commentators incline toward the opposite explanation, that it regards the
poet, the ambiguity remains. I agree with Sifakis 2002, 163, who writes: a conflation ought to be
recognized in the Poetics between dramatist and actor, its implication being that according to
Aristotle, anyway an actor was bound by the text as far as the style of performance was concerned.
11
Schlegel 1923.
12
Several directions of scholarship can be observed. One emphasizes that choruses were socially
important and representative for the audience, because citizens would participate in their formation
and be part of the ceremonies of dramatic festivals: thus, for example, Winkler 1989 and Wilson 1997.
In this vein, for example, McClure 1999, 723, analyzes the male chorus in Aeshylus Agamemnon, as
representing the (external) male audience: the chorus discourse is authoritative and truthful, which
is to be contrasted with Clytemnestras talk. By contrast, others have pointed out that choruses
cannot be a social reflection of the Athenian audience in an unequivocal manner. For example,
Gould 1996 notes that no social equivalence can be directly established between tragic choruses
and the collectivity of the polis: choruses were often composed of foreign slave women, or old men,
categories of people who were marginalized in Athenian society. Similarly, Griffin 1998, 43, argues
against the chorus representing directly the Athenian civic identity, observing that in only two out
of thirty-three extant tragedies were the choruses composed of Attic citizens (S. OC and E. Heracl.).
Interestingly, Goldhill 1996 suggests that choruses might not reflect Athenian society, but they do,
however, fulfill a social need of Athenian audiences. By representing not the Athenians, but the
others, the choruses invite projection and sympathy, thus redefining Athenian self-identity.
An introduction 147
by imitating a ritual of mourning, which should be recognizable to the
external audience.13 Looking at Sophoclean plays, Murnaghan has sug-
gested that the chorus presents to the audience models of survival, which
are not possible for other characters; but this survival does not remain
unaffected by tragic suffering.14 Calame reworks Schlegelian ideas to sug-
gest complex relations between chorus, external audience, and tragedian,
by analyzing the collective choral voice (the use of we and I).15 As
scholars rightly note, spectators may have closely related to the chorus
views about the dramatic events. This does not mean, however, that audi-
ences would have always embraced the responses proposed by the chorus.16
Often, external audiences know more about the tragic action than does
the chorus, and may have reactions to the plays that differ from those of
the chorus. Sometimes choruses simply offer lyric interludes that are not
directly connected with the dramatic events. Furthermore, other characters
offer alternative views, which do not necessarily concur with those of the
chorus and which spectators also had to consider when interpreting the
plays.17
While modern scholars devote much attention to the relationship
between the chorus and Athenian spectators, ancient authors say very
little about the subject. Aristotle scarcely mentions the chorus in the
Poetics,18 which has often been interpreted as a sign of his disregard for
tragic performance.19 The omission comes, I believe, from Aristotles inter-
est in tragedy as action (prxiv), in which the chorus plays a minimal
role. In a brief but interesting remark about the tragic chorus, the Peri-
patetic author of the Problemata observes:
13 14
Segal 1996; some objections to Segals views are given by Easterling 1996. Murnaghan 2009.
15
Calame 1999 suggests that the chorus might inculcate certain responses in the spectators, by using
the authoritative voice I, and we, which is compelling. He goes too far, I believe, when, at
129, he maintains that the chorus would represent the voice of the tragedian himself, and gives
examples of sensible choruses (i.e. IA, Hipp.). In other plays (e.g. A. Ag.), the chorus is characterized
by indecision, which can be hardly compatible with the authoritative voice of the poet. For the use
of self-referential remarks of the chorus, see Henrichs 1994 and 1996.
16
Mastronarde 2010, 88121, offers an important reappraisal of how choruses related to the Athenian
audiences, and also discusses the limits of identifying the chorus as internal audience with the
contemporary spectators.
17
Schenker 1999, for example, notes that the chorus can enhance the audiences dramatic and mythical
perspective on the play. He correctly points out that complex tragic characters and actions must
have further proposed interpretative possibilities for audiences.
18
The few references include the following: Aeschylus has reduced the role of the chorus (Po.
4.1449a1518); praise for the chorus in Sophocles plays, for being integrated in the action and part
of the whole, as well as criticism of the practice initiated by Agathon: the chorus singing lyric
interludes completely divorced from tragic action (Po. 18.1456a 2532).
19
A clear and unbiased analysis of this subject, with a synopsis of the most important scholarly
opinions is offered by Halliwell 1998, 23852.
148 Pity and fear within tragedies
sti gr corv khdeutv praktov. Enoian gr mnon parcetai ov
prestin. (Probl. 19.922b267)20
For the chorus is an inactive attendant. Its only function is to offer a friendly
attitude to those who are on the stage at the time.
The adjective inactive (praktov) probably refers to the fact that the
chorus, though involved, does not contribute much to the tragic action.
Remarkably, the description of the chorus as an outside observer, expressing
sympathy toward the tragic events, could apply to the spectators as well.
This statement is too brief to be conclusive, but it seems to anticipate the
modern idea of the chorus reflecting the reaction of the external audience.
In the analysis of the plays, I will deal with the responses of internal
audiences to the tragic action, considering both the chorus and other
voices, as well as suggest ways in which the spectators responses may have
mirrored or departed from the responses of these internal audiences.

5.3.2 Linking internal audiences and external audiences: problems


surrounding pity and fear
But the model of the playwrights eliciting pity from both internal and
external spectators is complicated, in my view, by two problems, which will
be considered in the following chapters. The first difficulty can be stated
as such: the external audience can dissociate itself from the perspective of
internal audiences, and thus from internal emotional appeals, for reasons
that do not pertain to the structure of tragedy per se. An obvious example
is historical drama that presents the enemy in distress, such as Aeschylus
Persians and Phrynichus Phoenissae, which I discuss more extensively in the
next chapter. A second problem relates to contradictory views presented by
internal audiences, who often argue about whether a particular individuals
suffering is deserved, and thus whether it is pitiable. Consequently, internal
viewers may adopt opposite attitudes toward the sufferer: indifference,
or sympathy and these may have presented emotional challenges for the
Athenian spectator and, perhaps, ethical dilemmas.21 Athenian spectators
may have internalized opinions that reject pity as an appropriate response

20
This chapter of the Pseudo-Aristotelian Problems, in which the statement occurs, deals with music.
For a general analysis of the section, with bibliographical references, see Louis 1991. This question
(48) arises: why dont choruses use the Hypodorian mode? The answer is because this mode suits
the action of heroes, which is not suitable for the chorus, an inactive attendant.
21
That the tragic imitator is able to put on various postures, which forces the spectators to adjust
to different perspectives, seems to be Platos concern (R. 3.397c398b). In an ideal state, citizens
should have only one business and not be influenced to adopt many.
An introduction 149
to someones suffering (e.g., Creon implying that Antigones misery is self-
inflicted, caused by her stubbornness), even when those opinions are later
dismissed as wrong in the plays.22 It is perhaps surprising then that no
ancient author describes how the debates of the agon and various other
conflicts in tragedies pull his emotions in different directions, or, more
generally, how those debates might cause the spectator to withhold his
pity. In Aristotles case, the reason may be that he does not concentrate on
dramatic conflicts within tragedy, but rather on tragic action as a whole
in the Poetics.23 As a result, the emphasis is not on how characters may
display or withhold pity when someone suffers at certain times in tragedy
but rather on how the plot overall triggers the spectators emotions. A
spectators sympathy may be pulled back and forth during the arguments
exchanged by Antigone and Creon, or be directed toward one character or
another, but in the end and this is what interests Aristotle the viewer
should feel pity for the entire tragic action and for the whole suffering in the
play. In the case of Antigone, this probably includes not only the suffering
of Antigone but also that of Creon, who loses his wife and son. Plato and
Gorgias too describe pity as an emotion naturally aroused by tragedies,
and not as an emotion conditioned by how tragic suffering may appear
deserved or undeserved to various internal characters. It may then very well
be that, in general, for the Athenians, the spectators pity transcends the
internal debates on whether sufferers deserve to stir the viewers sympathy.
Nevertheless, examining the moral, social, and political implications of the
debates regarding pity within tragedies, as well as the ways in which those
controversies may relate to the contemporary audience, remains important,
because it reveals, albeit indirectly, the complexity of pity as a response to
tragic suffering in fifth-century Athens.
As usual, fear as tragic emotion presents different types of problems
from pity. While misfortunes on stage can arouse pity in both internal and
external viewers, obviously the dangers that arouse fear in tragedies cannot
directly terrify external spectators. Yet, in two respects, examining internal
expressions of tragic fears can be profitable for my enterprise. One point of
interest concerns how internal expressions of fears in tragedy may reflect
the anxieties of contemporary audiences, thus facilitating the process of

22
For example, Sourvinou-Inwood 1989 proposes that ancient audiences may have credited Creons
accusations against Antigone, for she was a woman, and, from Hesiod on, Greek poetry had been
misogynistic. I think that this point is too extreme but ought not to be fully dismissed. Nevertheless,
the sympathetic response toward Antigone, emphasized often by internal audiences, likely prevailed.
23
As Belfiore 2000b, 604, rightly points out, our modern obsession with conflict has been influenced
by narratology, but conflict is not at the core of Aristotles discussion of plot.
150 Pity and fear within tragedies
thinking from another to oneself that is required by pity. A second point
of interest concerns the kind of fears that the suffering of others can
trigger in internal viewers. In this respect, my analysis seeks to discover
if the Aristotelian model can be recognized in tragedies, more specifically
if internal audiences express a type of abstract fear for themselves after
observing the suffering of another and (or) after showing pity for another,
while also aiming to examine other types of fears expressed by internal
viewers, which might exist beyond the Aristotelian model.
chapter 6

Aeschylus: Persians

6.1 a review of interpretations


Any appraisal of the initial reception of Aeschylus Persians raises an unusual
problem. The play, produced in 472 bce, deals with the Persian defeat at
Salamis in 480 bce, only a few years after the event. Could the Athenian
spectators have watched a tragedy depicting the fall of their historical enemy
with aesthetic detachment? My analysis examines pity and fear as emotions
expressed in the tragedy and as possible reactions of the audiences, consid-
ering the internal structure, as well as the dramatic and historical milieu
of the play. The dramatic background of this tragedy will be compared
with other descriptions of the Persian Wars in the art and literature of the
time, which probably shaped certain expectations for Aeschylus treatment
of the topic. Particular emphasis is placed on the ways in which histor-
ical circumstances may have conditioned the audiences responses to the
emotional appeals of this tragedy.
Modern critics have debated whether Athenian audiences were moved to
pity by the ruin of Xerxes in the Persians after seeing the actual destruction
caused by the king in Athens. According to some, no dramatic element of
the play, not even the final threnody, was designed to lead the spectators
toward feeling pity.1 Others, on the contrary, believe that the Persians should
be regarded as a typical tragedy, which rises above ethnic differences and
historical facts. Consequently, the play would have aroused pity on account
of its tragic content, which the spectators saw as an abstract depiction of

1
Wilamowitz-Moellendorff 1914, 4258, considered the kommos (Pe. 9311078), in which the cho-
rus and Xerxes lament the ruin of the armies, to be more amusing than tragic. Wilamowitz,
whose critique was very influential in the early twentieth century, found other structural flaws
with the play, such as the lack of unity, the absence of a true tragic hero, etc. Adams 1952 also
finds the kommos satiric and the play unemotional. G. Thompson 1973, 14, describes the Persians
as less rich in intellectual content than the other Aeschylean plays, but valuable as poetry of
an eyewitness, preserving the spirit of the Athenian people during their struggle against Persian
occupation.

151
152 Pity and fear within tragedies
a human fall rather than in connection with recent history.2 Both views
seem to be extreme. The former eliminates pity, the emotion of tragedy par
excellence, as a possible response to the Persians, while the latter emphasizes
the emotional effect of the play without considering the complex historical
circumstances.
More recently, scholars have tried to harmonize the status of the Persians
as tragedy portraying the historical foe, to which the spectator might
have responded with compassion, while recognizing the plays implicit
glorification of Athens. Loraux has suggested that the Persians adopted the
theme of honoring the enemy, which was common in Athenian funeral
orations.3 Though an interesting suggestion, this does not elucidate why the
tragedy emphasizes the destruction, and never the bravery, of the Persian
armies. Indeed, the play repeatedly mentions the impressive number of
Persian soldiers and the wealth of Xerxes. Rather than honoring the enemys
valor, this suggests that the Persians lack military virtues, since they lose
the battle of Salamis despite their riches and multitude.
Hall has proposed that the Greek spectators of the Persians could have
enjoyed a sense of ethnic superiority and pride, while they also exorcised
their own powerful emotions by watching them dramatically projected
onto the other, the barbarian.4 In this case, the Athenians would have
mourned their own loss of young fighters indirectly, seeing the calamity
that befell the Persians in war. The idea of the projection of suffering
is fascinating. Nevertheless, as the philosophical descriptions of the tragic
emotions suggest, the Greek spectator typically felt pity and pleasure similar
to mourning when he sensed similarities between the other, the tragic
character, and the self, through a mental process of inference rather than of
projection.5 Therefore, in order to feel pity, the audience could no longer
2
Some believe that the Persians meets the criteria for a tragedy, in the later Aristotelian sense, since it
contains a reversal and a tragic error, and therefore it must have moved the audience, e.g. Conacher
1974, who even suggests at 1678 that the mere appearance of Xerxes on the stage would have
produced catharsis in the audience. For a balanced reappraisal of Xerxes entrance, see Thalmann
1980.
3
Loraux 1999, 7182, proposes complex and mixed responses to the play: a subtle mixture of patriotism
and compassion, pleasure and pain.
4
Hall 1996b, 19. This explanation does not do justice to the unique historical context of the play,
which, otherwise, Hall underscores wonderfully in her analysis. Hall notes that the formula playing
the other, coined by Zeitlin (1996) can apply to all Greek tragedies, which represent the other,
the non-Athenians, women, and barbarians. However, the fact that the audiences fought the other
and likely still considered the Persians to be dangerous enemies, distinguishes this tragedy from other
extant plays.
5
As shown in earlier chapters, in Homer, Achilles pities Priam and yields to his own mourning when
thinking about the likeness between the old king of Troy and his own father. Plato notes that pity for
another may give way to mourning for personal loss (R. 10). Aristotles tragic pleasure comes from
pity (Po.), which is an emotion felt for another in connection with abstract fear for the self (Rh.).
Aeschylus: Persians 153
have perceived the Persian as the other, the barbarian enemy in the play, but
rather as self-like, human, beyond ethnicity. These interpretations point
to the difficulties involved in understanding how the historic perception
of the Persians may have determined the audiences response to the play.
In an excellent study of the play, Rosenbloom has taken into account the
ambiguous signals that the descriptions of the defeated Persians may have
sent to the Athenian audiences who had also suffered human losses.6 My
examination focuses more specifically on the emotional reactions of the
internal audiences and the dramatic devices that may be conducive to
the emotions prescribed in theory for the genre. Then, it will consider
how the spectators memory of recent history may have undermined or,
conversely, supported the plays appeals to emotion.

6.2 patriotic pride and its compatibility with tragic pity


The Persians occupies a unique place in the surviving corpus of Greek
tragedy as the only extant play with a historical subject instead of a myth-
ical theme.7 Other tragedies, however, dealing with historical topics, pre-
dated the production of the Persians in the spring of 472 bce.8 Phrynichus
composed the Sack of Miletus, after the Ionian rebellion against the Persian
king, and the Phoenician Women, victorious in the dramatic competition in
476 bce.9 Aeschylus play was thus not entirely experimental, as Athenian
audiences were already used to dramas depicting the Persian Wars. Fur-
thermore, the hypothesis to the Persians offers an interesting detail, namely
that Aeschylus modeled his tragedy after his predecessors Phoenician
Women:

6
E.g., Rosenbloom 2006; similarly, Rabinowitz 2008, 94, notes that the Persians may have stirred
varied and contradictory reactions in the audience. Hopman 2009 provides a nuanced analysis of the
types of narratives in the Persians, out of which she calls the main theme a war-pothos, understood
as both longing for conquest and mourning, and suggests how the Athenians may have responded
to those.
7
Castellani 1986 discusses reasons for which myth may have been preferred to history in the com-
position of Greek tragedies. For an interesting argument for political drama first, see Kottman
2003.
8
IG ii, 2318: the play was produced during the archonship of Menon (473/2 bce), under the choregy
of Pericles.
9
Herodotus (6.21.2) reports that the audience disliked The Sack of Miletus for reminding them too
much of its own misfortunes (oikeia kaka). The Sack of Miletus may have been produced around
493 bce, while the successful Phoenician Women won later in the dramatic festival of 476, having
Themistocles as choregos (Plu., Vit. Them. 5.4). The revival of historical drama in the fourth century
is suggested by a papyrus fragment (P. Oxy. 2382) and an Apulian vase (fourth-century, Naples 3253),
which probably shows Darius receiving the news of the Persian defeat at Marathon. For a detailed
discussion on this and bibliography, see Hall 1989, 65, and n. 36 and 37, and Ghiron-Bistagne 1993.
154 Pity and fear within tragedies
pqesiv Persn Asclou Glakov n tov per Asclou mqwn k tn
Foinissn Fruncou fhs tov Prsav parapepoisqai. Ektqhsi ka tn
rcn to drmatov tathn, td st Persn tn plai bebhktwn. Pln
ke enocv stin ggllwn n rc tn Crxou ttan . . . ntaqa d pro-
logzei corv presbutn.
Here is the hypothesis to Aeschylus Persians. In his work on Aeschylus plots,
Glaucus says that the Persians was fashioned after Phrynichus Phoenician Women.
He even quotes this beginning (line) of the drama, which is These are things
of the Persians, who have gone long ago. Except that in that play [Phrynichus]
a eunuch is reporting the defeat of Xerxes at the beginning . . . while in this one
[Aeschylus] a chorus of elders delivers the prologue.
As the hypothesis itself suggests, the Persians most likely differed greatly
from the dramatic structure of the Phoenician Women.10 An obvious distinc-
tion is that Aeschylus builds up Xerxes defeat, while Phrynichus announces
the kings downfall from the start. Though it is impossible to specify the
extent to which the two plays resembled each other, Aeschylus appears to
have wanted his audience to be aware of the similarities. He thus imitates
the first line of the Phoenician Women in the opening of his own play11 a
very unusual position for a literary allusion in tragedy.12 One reason could
be that Aeschylus acknowledges a literary debt, and thus indirectly praises
his precursor.13 Another plausible explanation is that Aeschylus invites the
audience to compare his tragedy to Phrynichus and to appreciate how
he deals with the same theme. Whether the tragedian intends to com-
pete for poetic glory with Phrynichus remains uncertain. Essentially, the
prologue of the Persians seems to have reminded the spectators that they
were familiar with the subject of the Persian Wars in tragedy, which was
still a sensitive topic. Perhaps it referred to the Phoenician Women as a

10
Hall 1996b, 1056, emphasizes possible structural differences between the two plays. Her commen-
tary also provides basic information about the literary tradition of the hypothesis, which appears to
contain observations of Hellenistic scholars, compiled at a later date. The identity of Glaucus, the
author of the treatise on Aeschylus plots, cannot be established with precision (perhaps referring
to Glaucus of Rhegium, a fifth-century bce critic).
11
According to the hypothesis, the imitation of Phrynichus was not literal. Aeschylus replaced
bebhktwn with ocomnwn (Pe. 1: Tde mn Persn tn ocomnwn) and omitted plai.
Sheppard 1915 suggests that Aeschylus borrows the line to create a particular effect with a word play.
Thus, while Phrynichus verb simply means departed, Aeschylus uses a verb that could be taken as
gone both in the sense of left, and gone in the sense of perished. For a similar interpretation,
see Winnington-Ingram 1983, 1989.
12
Garner 1990, 20621, lists the recognizable literary allusions in the extant tragedies and tragic
fragments, which are, of course, limited by our access to Greek literature. Nevertheless, the Persians
alone uses an allusion to the first line of Phoenissae in the first line, a position that seems to be
significant.
13
J. B. Bury 1905 and Garner 1990, 22.
Aeschylus: Persians 155
kind of captatio benevolentiae, since Phrynichus play had already been
successful and its subject not too painful for the audience (unlike that
of the Sack of Miletus). Finally, the imitation of the opening line of the
Phoenician Women in the Persians may have suggested to the audience that
Aeschylus would treat the ruin of Xerxes armies in Greece with dramatic
novelty.
In addition to the dramatic background of the play, which we can merely
surmise, further difficulties in estimating the audiences responses to the
Persians arise from the fact that the play represents the fall of a historical
enemy.14 Athenians had been involved in military campaigns against the
Persians for decades when the Aeschylean play was produced. In 498 bce,
Athens aided Ionia in the revolt against the Persian king, which ended in
494 bce with a Greek disaster, the capture of Miletus.15 The expedition of
Datis and Artaphrenes, under Darius rule, aimed to conquer the Greek
mainland, in 490 bce. This Persian invasion was only averted by Greek
victory in the battle of Marathon, in which Aeschylus suffered a personal
loss, the death of his brother.16 In 480 bce, after Xerxes victory in Boeotia,
Athens had to be evacuated, and was sacked by Persian armies, which were
subsequently defeated at Salamis and Plataea.17 Both Aeschylus and his
audiences must have been deeply affected by the Persian invasion, as they
witnessed the events.18 Under such circumstances, it is probably right to
assume that the spectators felt a certain amount of pride at watching a
tragedy, which, after all, depicted Greek triumphs over the Persian aggres-
sor. The literature and visual arts of the time commemorated the bravery
and sacrifice of the Greeks during the Persian wars. Simonides wrote lyric
and elegiac poetry about the battles of Thermopylae and Plataea.19 Polyg-
notus painted the battle of Marathon (Paus. 1.15.3), and vase paintings
portrayed Persian battles, in addition to showing the customary mythical
scenes.20 Most likely, tragedies, such as Aeschylus Persians and, before,
14
Harrison 2000 deals with the historical, political, and ideological implications of the tragedy,
contrasting Aeschylus with Herodotus.
15
O. Murray 1988; for the historical context of Aeschylus play, useful studies are, for example, Lazenby
1993, Balcer 1995, and Miller 1997.
16
Hdt. 6.114.
17
Shear 1993 presents the archaeological evidence of the Persian sack of Athens. The Persian threat
continued to loom after 480. Furthermore, the Athenians associated the danger of the Mede
with the return of tyranny, since Xerxes brought with him Hippias, the deposed tyrant; on this, see
M. M. Austin 1990.
18
As Hall 1996b, 4, writes: It is difficult for readers in the late twentieth-century Western world to
imagine either the strength of emotions which thinking about Persia could stir up, or the depth of
the conceptual chasm which was felt to yawn between West and East.
19
For the fragments of Simonides poems, see Boedeker 1995 and Schachter 1998.
20
Bovon 1963.
156 Pity and fear within tragedies
Phrynichus Phoenissae, belonged to this cultural trend honoring Athenian
military glory.21 Indeed, scholars have noted that several dramatic moments
would appeal to the patriotic feelings of the contemporary audiences of the
Persians. Perhaps the most impressive example is the extensive evocation of
the naval battle at Salamis in the play (30230, 33747, 353432),22 accom-
panied by references to Psyttalea (44771) and Plataea (81620).23 Further-
more, when analyzed ideologically, the tragedy reinforces a distorted Greek
impression of the barbarians. It portrays the Persians in effeminate atti-
tudes, confused in battle, and subjected to a hierarchical society.24 Athenian
spectators might have felt civic pride by contrasting this image of the bar-
barian with their image of democratic Athens, where citizens were manly
and free.25 An ancient suggestion about the reception of the play occurs in
Aristophanes Frogs, in which Aeschylus describes the Persians as inspiring
courage:
(A) Eta didxav Prsav met tot piqumen xeddaxa
nikn e tov ntiplouv, kosmsav rgon riston. (10267)
Then, by putting on the Persians, I taught (the spectators) to desire
Always to defeat their enemies, so crowning the best achievement.26
No doubt, the comic lines should be taken cum grano salis. They imply,
nevertheless, that the Persians was associated with patriotism, even gen-
erations after the initial production.27 Perhaps this kind of response to
art would have pleased Plato, who may not have banished the play from
his ideal polis, if it educated the citizens and inculcated courage in the
soldiers:
ato d n t asthrotr ka hdestr poiht crmeqa ka muqolg
felav neka, v mn tn to pieikov lxin mimoto ka t legmena lgoi

21
Taplin 2006 makes a twofold claim: from a historical point of view, the Persians belongs to the
works of art that celebrate the Greek victories over the invader and, as far as the tragic genre is
concerned, this tragedy develops the epic theme of glorifying the achievements of men.
22
On this, see Goldhill 1988, who discusses the implications of Aeschylus emphasis on Salamis
and the Athenian contribution in expelling the Persians for the audience of the Dionysiac
Festivals.
23
Sad 1992/1993 argues that Aeschylus mentions the land battle on the small island of Psyttalea to
suggest that a land victory was also achieved, besides the important naval victory.
24
Hall 1989 and 1993. For some objections to Halls theory and a reappraisal of the ideology of the
play, see Harrison 2000, 408.
25
For the contrast between tyranny and democracy in Aeschylean drama, see also West 2006.
26
The phrase adorning the best thing kosmsav rgon riston (Ra. 1027) could refer to Aeschylus
composing his best work or to honoring the highest Greek achievement, the defeat of the Persians.
I opt for the second, with Dover 1993, 320.
27
The Frogs was produced in 405 bce, seventy years after the Persians was put on stage.
Aeschylus: Persians 157
n kenoiv tov tpoiv ov kat rcv nomoqethsmeqa, te tov stratitav
peceiromen paideein. (R. 3.398a8b4)
For we should use for our benefit a rather austere and less pleasant poet, who
would imitate only the virtuous in style, and will follow those models that we
prescribed when we undertook the task to educate soldiers.
In this passage and elsewhere, Plato suggests that the subject of imitation
in art might directly influence the audiences behavior in life. Thus, if poetry
imitates the courageous, the spectators will be inspired to display courage,
and vice versa: if it imitates shameful acts, the spectators would be led astray
from virtue. The Persians, however, imitates not the courageous Athenians
who faced the Persian army, although it does allude to the Athenian bravery,
but rather describes the discouraged, defeated Persians. The tragedy may
have thus failed to conform to Platos ideal poetic imitation and inculcated
valor in the spectators only indirectly, a possibility ignored in the Platonic
critique of art.
Yet, did the acknowledgment of military superiority of the Athenians
exclude the possibility that the spectators felt pity for their enemy? The
answer to this is no, not in itself. Although, as Konstan has well demon-
strated, the ancient pitier does not usually underscore his superiority over
the pitied, as one might when feeling Christian compassion,28 literary and
philosophical descriptions of pity do suggest that the pitier is in a privileged
position, able to grant favors to the pitied. Pity for the defeated, espe-
cially when they are utterly defeated, was certainly attested as early as the
Iliad.

6.3 internal expressions of fear: athenian pity


for the aggressor?
While the dramatic structure and historical context of the first production
suggest that the Persians was part of the artistic movement praising the
Athenian victory at Salamis, I will next examine how the internal structure
of the play likely involved the audiences emotionally. In this play more
than in any other Aeschylean tragedy, fear dominates the internal expres-
sions of emotion.29 Early on, the chorus of old Persians, royal counselors,
recount that Xerxes has left for Greece, with his armies, which are described
as:
28
Konstan 2001, 4974.
29
As Kantzios 2004, 3, observes, terms denoting anxiety, terror, and intimidation occur at a rate of
3.5 per every 100 lines, which is unparalleled even for Aeschylean drama, twice as high as the rate
found in the Agamemnon, for example.
158 Pity and fear within tragedies
Fobero mn den, deino d mchn. (27)
Terrifying to look at, and dreadful in battle.
A few lines later, while giving the first catalogue of the Persian commanders,
the chorus reinforces the theme, calling the army a terrifying sight to
behold (fobern yin prosidsqai, 48). As this characterization refers
precisely to the visual impression that Persian troops would make on the
enemy, it likely stirred painful memories in the Athenian audience, who
had seen or heard about the Persian invasion. Tragic fear, in the light of
the Aristotelian theory, seems to refer to fear for the dramatic happenings
and, by extension, can lead to anxiety about human destiny in general. In
fact, anxiety is an essential feature of Aeschylean drama, as scholars have
convincingly shown.30 In the Persians as well, both the chorus and later
the queen exhibit anxiety for what might happen to Xerxes and his army.
In the prologue itself, the chorus shows visceral fear for the fate of the
absent troops.31 Thus, for instance, all Asia grieves with soft yearning
(pq stnetai maler, 62); parents and wives tremble (tromontai,
64), waiting for news from the departed soldiers. The chorus thinks about
the gloomy end that might await the army:
Tat moi melagctwn frn mssetai fb. (115)
These (worries) tear apart my black-robed heart with fear.
These examples show anxiety for those gone to war, to which the Athenian
audiences could have related with sympathy, since they themselves had
experienced similar feelings. Thus, the helpless crowd of Athenians who
had had to evacuate Athens and go to Troezen to await the fate of the
Athenians likely felt the kind of dread that tears apart the heart.32 On the
other hand, the previous descriptions of the Persian army as a frightening
sight do not seem to belong to the same category of tragic fear. They
would not provoke the audiences to imaginatively fear for the tragic
action, but would rather remind them of being afraid of the Persian armies
in reality. In the de Anima, Aristotle distinguishes between fear felt at seeing
a frightening image in art, and fear felt in the face of real danger. The former
emotion comes from imagination (fantasa) and does not materialize
in a belief (dxa) that something terrible will truly happen to the viewer,
30
Snell 1928, 3451, and Romilly 1958.
31
Sullivan 1997 analyzes at length the use of psychological terms in Aeschylus tragedy and compares it
to prior Homeric and Greek lyric poetry; he notes at 345 that often these terms occur in connection
with expressions of emotion, especially fear.
32
For basic historical details of the evacuation to Troezen, see, for example, Strauss 2004, 668.
Aeschylus: Persians 159
whereas the latter emotion does materialize in such a belief. When hearing
the reference to the terrifying sight of the Persian army in the play, the
audience may have recalled an emotion based on the expectation of seeing
the enemy, before the Persians invaded, a fear that materialized and was
followed by the sack of Athens.
Xerxes, portrayed as a godlike mortal (sqeov fv, 80), has a fiery,
demonic look:
Kuneon d mmasi lesswn
fonou drgma drkontov. (Pe. 812)
Casting with his eyes a dark glance
Of a deadly snake.
Once again, the inhuman glance of the king can point to his terrifying
presence in battle. Furthermore, the lines are reminiscent of the Homeric
passage in which Hector, about to confront Achilles in the fatal battle,
resembles a deadly snake.33 Perhaps the audiences of the Persians would have
recognized the allusion to the Iliad. If they did, likening Xerxes to Hector
may have been intellectually satisfying and emotionally comforting. Thus,
the historical enemy would appear closer to a mythical warrior, destined to
be defeated, and, perhaps, worthy of pity.
Rich imagery contributes to the dramatic movement of the play,34 as
the sight of the Persians changes from fear-provoking to pity-inspiring.
Both Atossa and Xerxes are figuratively described in terms of their sight.
The queen spreads around a light that equals the eyes of gods (qen
son fqalmov | fov rmtai mthr basilwv, 1501), while Xerxes
is called the eyes of the palace (mma gr dmwn, 169). The metaphors
denote extraordinary, almost divine, attributes and prefigure the excess of
power, hybris. Ironically, however, both the queen and her son start seeing
images that progressively shatter the previous descriptions of the splendid,
confident Persian army. After her premonitory dream (181200), followed
by a vision conveying an ill omen, the queen exclaims:
. . . tat moge demat st den. (210)
. . . these visions are to me dreadful to see.
The image recalls the description of the Persian army lexically, but in this
case the queens visions are worrisome with respect to the Persian army.
33
Aeschylus use of Homeric language is well analyzed by Sideras 1971, especially 198215 for the
Persians.
34
Michelini 1982, 7798, provides an excellent analysis of the imagery and themes of the play.
160 Pity and fear within tragedies
After the news of the defeat at Salamis, the nebulous fear of the prophetic
dreams materializes for the queen:
W nuktv yiv mfanv nupnwn,
v krta moi safv dlwsav kak. (51819)
Oh nocturnal sight, appearing in dreams,
How clearly you revealed to me the misfortunes.35

When the old Persians, who form the chorus, lament the destruction of
the army, which Zeus has concealed in dark grief (pnqei dnofer,
536), they use for the lost Persian ships an epithet (kuanpidev, 559) that
once described the terrifying eyes of Xerxes. Similar lexical phrasings give,
therefore, different emotional suggestions to the audience.36 As the imagery
changes from a brazen to a humiliated Persian army, the responses of the
Athenian audience may also have changed. At first the visual suggestions
seem to remind the Athenians of an overconfident historical enemy. By
contrast, as the play progresses, the visual descriptions would invite the
spectators to imagine the homecoming of a king with a shattered army.
Moreover, the internal audiences anticipate the catastrophe of Salamis
or hear about it soon after it has occurred. According to Aristotles theory,
evoking a misfortune (which is about to or has just happened) is the device
that should best induce imaginative pity in the listeners, because it brings
the events before the minds eyes, pro ommaton.
To conclude, two types of fear-related imagery dominate the first part of
the play, and these may have produced conflicting emotional responses in
the contemporary audiences. One is the imaginative anxiety of the queen,
fearing for the departed army, to which the Athenians may have related with
sympathy, remembering their own fears for the fighting Athenians. The
other image, of the fear-inspiring Persian army, likely prompted Athenian
recollection of the recent data-based fear of the enemy. This must have
driven away sympathy, if Athenians were still afraid of the Persians; however,
if the Athenians were now confident and not imagining another invasion,
the remembrance of the terrifying foe may have produced pleasure, if
we are to believe Aristotles point in the Rhetoric that narrowly escaping
danger (in this case, not being conquered by Persians) is pleasurable when
remembered, if the outcome is noble (Rh. 1.1370b).

35
Cf. the queens exclamation: mo gr dh pnta mn fbou pla (everything is already full of
fear for me, Pe. 603).
36
Assael 1993 points out that Aeschylus achieves unusual stylistic effects by placing repetitions in
different contexts.
Aeschylus: Persians 161
In the speech of Darius, Aeschylus impressively employs the motif of
remembrance. As I have argued, memory and arousal of pity are closely
related in Greek culture. In the Persians, Darius advises future generations
to avoid hybris by contemplating their defeat and remembering Athens:37
Toiaq rntev tnde tpitmia
mmnhsq A
qhnn Elldov te. (8234)
Seeing the penalties of these events
Remember Athens and Greece.
Piles of Persian corpses, left on the earth of Plataea, will silently signify to
the eyes of generations of people (fwna shmanosin mmasin brotn,
819), not to attempt excessive displays of power.38 Instead of being con-
ducive to pity, the motif of memory, as used here, serves as a warning and
must have aroused feelings of pride, not pity, in the audience. At the same
time, the passage may have also humanized the enemy by proposing
a way in which the Persians envision their defeat and acknowledge the
importance of Athens in Persian memory.39 Overall, the voice of Darius
appears to symbolize the view of Athenian males condemning the Persian
aggression, whereas the feminine voice of the queen, accompanied by the
chorus, gives the broader perspective of a bereft parent.40
The end of the play invites the audience to pity. Xerxes threnody (908
17) is reminiscent of a very famous Homeric scene. The king notices
the chorus members and deplores their old age (914), which might recall
Priams emphasis on his old age (Il. 22.41920) in his appeal for pity.41

37
The speech questions the morality of the actions of Xerxes and thus makes the interpretation of the
final kommos more problematic. Mitsis 1988 analyzes the relationship between Darius and Xerxes
in the play.
38
Taplin 2006, 7, observes that this prediction of Darius (Pe. 81820) is a novel twist to aetiopoeia,
a kind of proleptic aetiology, predicted from the present instead of from the past and likens it to
Simonides poetic setting of the battle of Platea as something to be remembered in the future.
39
Interestingly, through this speech of Darius, Aeschylus already gives Athens first place in the fight
against the Persians, followed by a reference to Greece (i.e. other Greek cities). As Marincola 2007
has pointed out, the Athenian credit (as opposed to that of other communities) for the Greek
victory over Persia often becomes a matter of dispute in the fourth century (more than in the fifth).
The primacy of Athens is always emphasized by orators and historians, with the argument that the
city (unlike other Greek cities) is never defeated; Marathon and Salamis represent the most crucial
battles in the Persian Wars, etc.
40
On gender differences, see especially Michelini 1982, 13953, Griffith 1998, 623, and McClure 2006,
who all contrast the perspectives of a mother and a father on the defeat of the Persians. Suter 2008,
1612, argues for a novel way of looking at genders in the play: e.g., lamentation was considered a
sign of feminization; however, it is the queen, a Persian female, who calms the lamenting chorus
and asks the messenger to control his sorrow (295) as he reports the defeat.
41
Hopman 2009, 371, well emphasizes that staging the fearful Persian elders could have elicited
sympathy from the Athenian audience.
162 Pity and fear within tragedies
If so, this may be significant. In a way, the audience of the Persians is
also invited to watch, with the minds eye, the pitiful sight of an enemy.
Therefore, when envisioning Xerxes and the Persian army through the eyes
of their parents and the elderly, the Athenian spectators might have rea-
soned as follows: the Persians, like us, lost their youth in battle and they
have anxious, mourning parents; they should be even more pitiable than
we are, since they were vanquished in war, while we were victorious.
This is the kind of reasoning that Priam uses to stir Achilles pity in the
Iliad, in the most difficult type of emotional appeal: entreating pity for
the foe. Perhaps some audience members would have responded in this
way, having considered the Persians similar to themselves in experiencing
misfortunes. Nevertheless, it is not likely that everybody in the audience
embraced this emotional response. In Aristotles Rhetoric, people cannot
feel pity in certain circumstances, such as when they are in great fear,
because they are too stricken with their own emotion (mt a fobo-
menoi sfdra o gr lesin o kpeplhgmnoi di t enai prv t
oke pqei, Rh. 2.1385b323). Likewise, those who are overconfident
cannot feel pity or anger (Rh. 2.1385b2931) because they do not think
about the future. When the Persians was produced, many were proba-
bly in such states of mind toward the invader. Some may have still been
utterly afraid that the next Persian attack would result in Athens destruc-
tion. Others, perhaps those who fought against the Persians, may have
been confident that they could always inflict suffering on the ruthless,
invading army.
Finally, the chorus laments Xerxes loss of the trusted eye (pistn
. . . fqalmn, 979), another visual metaphor for the army. Xerxes himself
asks the chorus to look at his sorry plight (rv, 1017), and the chorus
responds I see, I see (r, r, 1018), as if about to realize the
magnitude of the kings disaster.42 This response of the chorus can be
understood as placing pathos before the eyes. The internal audiences
verbally emphasize seeing the suffering of the king, and, therefore, indirectly
appeal to the external spectator to share the tragic vision. The climax of
the playwrights art is, perhaps, to arouse pity even for the foe. But the
Persian king is still alive in the play, and perhaps not ready to take in his
fathers advice not to attack Greece again, and, though defeated, he is no
old, helpless king Priam, but still a historical menace, which must have
been a major obstacle to the arousal of aesthetic pity.

42
Suter 2008, 1613, notes that this is a full lament (Pe. 9171037), usually associated with women in
Greek tragedy and society, although men too lament in tragedies.
Aeschylus: Persians 163
In conclusion, most internal references to tragic emotions invite audi-
ences to participate imaginatively in the suffering of the enemy, to pity the
defeated, perhaps in a manner reminiscent of a famous Homeric passage
(Achilles compassion for Priam, to which Aeschylus appears to allude).
Now that the enemy was defeated, the Athenian spectators could have
seen him through the eyes of the chorus, no longer as barbarian and
different, but rather suffering and therefore similar to themselves. At the
same time, the tragedy does not seem to discourage the Athenian spectators
from celebrating their victory, as certain dramatic peculiarities prove, such
as the praise of Athens and the allusions to the frightening Persian army.
Particularly surprising is the use of the motif of memory in the speech of
Darius. Usually recollection functions as an essential element in appeals to
pity in Greek culture, as shown earlier, but here it serves as a reminder to
the defeated Xerxes not to attempt another conquest expedition. It sug-
gests that he should not have attacked, he received just punishment for his
hybristic actions, and thus invites the external audience to disengage from
feeling sympathy.
Overall, then, the internal structure is not incompatible with the arousal
of pity, especially in the mourning for the loss of young by the weak and
old Persians, to which the Athenians could have directly related. Even in
these instances, however, many Athenians may have been too angry or
too preoccupied with their own loss to feel the kind of affinity with the
enemy represented in this tragedy that could lead to pity. The survival of
Xerxes (both historically and in the play), who appears to have deserved
his miserable fate according to Darius, and certainly in the eyes of the
Athenian males in the audience, and who continued to pose a threat to the
Greeks, could not have been compatible with Aristotles requirements for
tragic pity (eleos). Xerxes fall rather fits the description of a type of plot
that Aristotle does not recommend namely a wicked person, falling from
good fortune into misfortune because it causes a response different from
pity, namely fellow-feeling (philanthropon), (Po. 13.1453a13). Fear that real
danger for Athens still lurked in Persia could have prevented the audience
from perceiving the Persians imaginatively as an artistic construct in the
play. If so, spectators could not have seen themselves as similar to the
Persians, in terms of human universals, but rather as dissimilar, in terms of
historical particulars.
chapter 7

Prometheus Bound

7.1 context and interpretations: modern reactions


Prometheus Bound raises different problems than the Persians for the
assessment of the audience responses. The internal structure of the play
constantly presents the spectators various attitudes toward the suffering
Prometheus. My analysis particularly examines how these internal atti-
tudes may have intrigued contemporary audiences, through challenging
the ethical, political, and religious ideas of the time.
Most critics agree that the Prometheus must have aroused compassion for
the Titan, who redeems the human race.1 As G. Murray rightly notes, the
characters appeal to fellow suffering in such a manner as almost to anticipate
the Stoic doctrine of sympatheia, in which the pain of one individual affects
the whole universe.2 Following Lessings theory, Friedrich has argued that
sympathy (Mitleid), in the sense of sharing suffering, best explains the
nature of Aristotelian pity. He concludes that such feeling is prevalent
in the Prometheus Bound, but I have to disagree with this view.3 Even
though Aristotles eleos presupposes involvement, as Friedrich states, it is
also characterized by detachment, both personal and temporal. The one
who pities relates to the sufferer by imagining that he (or his dear ones)
might have endured in the past or endure in the future a similar misfortune.
In the play, however, Prometheus pity for humans leads to self-sacrifice,
not to imaginative reflection on the self. Pity compels the chorus to join
1
To list only a few examples here, Benedetto 1978, 11516, interprets Prometheus character as a
prototype of a benefactor. Trousson 1964 examines how Prometheus has been seen as the heroic savior
of humanity in European thought, from Goethe on, thanks to this drama. Both Winnington-Ingram
1983, 17784, and Sad 1985, 28491, suggest that the audience should have admired Prometheus,
whose heroic character is emphasized in the play and contrasted with Zeus, the prototype of a tyrant.
Likewise, Albini 1985 observes that the audiences sympathy has to be directed toward Prometheus,
since Zeus in the play can only arouse the antipathy of the reader or spectator.
2
G. Murray 1940, 89.
3
Friedrich 1967, 1925, notes that the choruses display Mitleid in the PV and most Sophoclean
plays, but they do not do so in any other surviving Aeschylean tragedy.

164
Prometheus Bound 165
the Titan in his final ordeal. Thus, pity in the play appears to require direct
participation in a sufferers misfortune rather than involvement mediated
by imagination, which Aristotle prefers.
Other critics, however, deem pity an inappropriate reaction to the play,
maintaining that Prometheus is a villain, rightly punished for defying
Zeus.4 This interpretation finds some support in the drama, but internal
expressions of sympathy for the Titan appear to prevail over displays of
antipathy. Could the internal critics of Prometheus have convinced some
Athenian spectators? The voices of the chorus and Prometheus himself
plead for the compassion of the viewer throughout the play. On the oppo-
site side are Cratus and Hermes, whose appearance on the stage is sporadic.
It is highly unlikely that the ancient spectators listened exclusively to the
detractors of Prometheus and, overall, remained unmoved by the tragedys
appeals to pity. Nevertheless, spectators probably had to consider the inter-
nal voices that discredit Prometheus, even so as to reject them. Moreover,
the views of internal audiences opposing the Titan posit thorny issues, such
as the nature of divine justice, guilt, and responsibility.
Prometheus Bound has caused tremendous debates among interpreters.
Scholars have disputed the Aeschylean authorship of the play, on account
of language, style, dramatic content, and staging.5 Furthermore, in the
4
This interpretation maintains, overall, that there is not much difference between the dramatists
handling of the myth of Prometheus and the Hesiodic tradition: the Titan, guilty of insubordination,
only saved a bad human race, which Zeus, the god of justice, would have rightly destroyed. Among
the supporters of this view are, for instance, J. A. K. Thompson 1920, Marenghi 1957. For a more
detailed survey of the history of the interpretations that deny the plays ability to arouse pity, see Sad
1985, 1719.
5
The problem of the authenticity of the Prometheus is beyond the scope of my discussion here.
Convenient summaries of the history of the problem are offered by Griffith 1977, 17, and Sad 1985,
980, with extensive bibliography. While nineteenth-century scholars drew attention to possible
interpolations in the play, W. Schmid 1929 formulated systematic arguments against the authenticity
of the whole play. Meautis 1960 and Herington 1970 tried to dismiss Schmids claims and argued
for the authenticity, emphasizing that the ancient tradition never questioned the authorship. Some
doubts about the Aeschylean authorship were again expressed by Dodds 1973, 26 44, who suggested
that Prometheus was left unfinished by Aeschylus and, perhaps, completed by Euphorion, the son of
the tragedian. Most prominently, Griffith 1977 and West 1979 argue against the authenticity. Sad
1985, 7980, Pattoni 1987, and Stoessl 1988, 1113, incline toward accepting the authenticity of the
play. Whether pro or contra genuineness, most scholars admit numerous peculiarities of the PV, when
compared to other Aeschylean tragedies. The question is whether these particularities are relevant,
when only a fraction of Aeschylean drama has survived as material for comparison. Metrical oddities
include an unusual number of first foot anapests in the trimeters and the presence of dactylo-epitrite
meter, which is not found elsewhere in the extant Aeschylus, but later used by both Sophocles and
Euripides. The vocabulary is less complex than that of the rest of Aeschylus plays (Sad 1985, 2734).
The dialogic prologue is unusual for Aeschylus and common for Sophoclean plays; in addition,
Prometheus resembles Sophoclean characters, who keep to their decision despite external pressure.
For a comparison, see Knox 1964, 4550. The arrival of the Oceanides and Oceanus through air, and
the cataclysm at the end of the play (10802) raise the most serious problems of staging of all Greek
tragedies (Taplin 1977, 2705; 4428).
166 Pity and fear within tragedies
absence of didascalic information, the date of the initial production remains
uncertain. Based on external factors, the temporal limits for the com-
position of the play range from the eruption of Etna in 479/8 bce,
an event to which Prometheus likely refers, to 424 bce, the year of the
production of Aristophanes Knights.6 More recently, studies have dated
the play some time during the second half of the fifth century.7 Finally,
although Prometheus Bound may have belonged to a trilogy, together with
the Pyrophorus and the Lyomenus, neither the content nor the order of
these other two plays in the trilogy can be established with precision.8 Such
uncertainties surrounding the first production of the play hinder specula-
tion about the way in which the historical context might have influenced
the response of the initial audiences.
Certainly many spectators were familiar with the Hesiodic version of
the myth9 and, perhaps, intrigued by the manner in which the playwright
reworked the story of the Titan. The tragedian omits the Mecone episode
(Th. 53564), in which Prometheus divides the sacrificial meat deceitfully,
trying to dupe Zeus.10 In addition to Prometheus stealing the fire for the
benefit of the human race, a common motif in both the Theogony and the
Prometheus Bound, the Titan becomes a veritable benefactor and the savior

6
PV has a Hypothesis, which probably derives from Aristophanes of Byzantium, but this contains
no information about the date and the production of the play. Griffith 1983, 79, notes that the
absence of didascalic information from the Hypothesis could be the result of an accident in
transmission (as in the case of five Sophoclean tragedies), or, perhaps, is due to confusion about
the date and authorship of the play. Therefore, scholars resort to external events for dating the play.
These are the eruption of Etna (479/8 bce or 475/4 Parium Marble), to which the play alludes
(PV 36672), and 424 bce, when two lines of the Prometheus seem to have been parodied in
Aristophanes Knights (7589).
7
Although scholars still have divided opinions with respect to the authenticity of the play, they have
recently agreed on a late date for the play, based on similarities between Prometheus Bound and
Sophoclean tragedies. For example, Herington 1970, 1279, who is a supporter of the genuineness
of the play, dates the Prometheus after Aeschylus second visit in Sicily, 458 bce456 bce. He opts
for this, because of the parallelism in language between PV and Sophocles Ant. and Aj. For the
same reason, Griffith 1983, 33, who doubts the authenticity, proposes 440s bce or even 430s for the
production of the play.
8
Rosenmeyer 1963, 51102, discusses Prometheus as a self-contained play. Griffith 1983, 281305,
analyzes the fragments as well as the ancient testimonies about the Pyrophorus and the Lyomenus
and offers a useful summary of the scholarship on the topic. He proposes the Pyrophorus as
the first play of the trilogy, in which Prometheus could have stolen the fire and brought it to
human beings. This would have been followed by our play, the Desmothes, and, finally, by the
Lyomenus, in which Prometheus obtains his freedom, after Heracles killing of the eagle. For another
possible reconstruction of the order of the plays and the enigma surrounding the Pyrophorus, see
Winnington-Ingram 1983, 18797.
9
Th. 53564, and Op. 4750.
10
Solmsen 1995, 12477, offers the most explicit analysis of how Hesiods account of Promethean
myth is transformed (PV) and discusses, in particular, the absence of the sacrifice of Mecone from
the play.
Prometheus Bound 167
of mankind in the play.11 As Prometheus tells the chorus, he has bestowed
upon mortals all the arts, which they now possess:12
PR. Brace d mq pnta sullbdhn mqe
psai tcnai brotosin k Promhqwv. (5056)
In brief, learn all at once,
Every art, which mortals have, comes from Prometheus.
Overall, the playwright enhances the heroism of Prometheus, while dep-
recating the character of Zeus and deepening the conflict between the
two.13 Therefore, the dramatists departure from the tradition in handling
the topic could have provided the first means of engaging the audience
emotionally in the misfortune of the Titan. Moreover, the existence of
a cult and festival in honor of Prometheus, the giver of fire,14 suggests
that contemporary audiences already admired Prometheus as the protec-
tor of mankind. In fifth-century vase-paintings Prometheus is commonly
depicted in his glorious posture of Fire-bringer, as opposed to enduring his
punishment, a popular theme in the sixth century.15 Hence, the spectators
may have found the plays emphasis on the anguish of Prometheus some-
what disturbing, since they were used to the dignifying representations of
the Titan in contemporary art.

7.2 suffering before the eyes and appeals to pity


The dramatic structure of the Prometheus Bound belongs to a peculiar
type, which does not contain major recognitions or reversals. Instead,
it is based on suffering (pqov), regarded as the third, and probably
the least interesting element of the plot in the Poetics.16 Thus, while
11
Among all kinds of discoveries (PV 45061), through which Prometheus benefits human kind, the
Titan invents writing: combinations of letters, memory of all things, Muse. Winnington-Ingram
1983, 182, has linked this to a line from the Theogony (54), in which Mnemosyne is the mother of
the Muses, the source of oral poetry. By contrast, Prometheus invention of writing is equated with
memory and the Muses (PV).
12
For quotations from this play I will use Griffiths edition (1983). Other gifts to humans are, for
instance, metallurgy (5004) and divination (48499). Boer 1976 likens Prometheus to other divine
inventors in Greek archaic poetry, such as Hephaestus in the Homeric Hymn.
13
As far as the genealogy is concerned, Prometheus is the son of Clymene and Iapetus, and, therefore, a
Titan of second generation (Th. 50711), whereas Zeus is the son of Gaia and thus first generation of
rebellious Titans (PV). For further discussion, see Sad 1985, 188. Secondly, the Hesiodic Prometheus
is a clever trickster (Th. 511, Op. 55), whose machinations do not endanger Zeus power (Th. 511,
613). In this tragedy, conversely, Zeus achieves supremacy only with Prometheus help (PV 199ff.)
and may be overthrown without Prometheus counsel.
14 15
On this, see Parke 1977, 171, and Mikalson 1991, 48. Griffith 1983, 3, n. 10.
16
The final calamity that increases the Titans suffering at the end of the tragedy can hardly be
considered a reversal. Aristotle may have referred to the play (Po. 18.1456a23), unless he talks about
168 Pity and fear within tragedies
discussing recognition (nagnrisiv, Po. 16.1454b191455a21) and
reversal (peripteia, Po. 11.1452a22b13), Aristotle mentions suffering
only in passing:
Trton d pqov. Totwn d peripteia mn ka nagnrisiv erhtai, pqov
d sti prxiv fqartik dunhr, oon o te n t faner qnatoi ka a
periwdunai ka trseiv ka sa toiata. (Po. 11.1452b1013)
The third element is pathos. Of these [elements of the plot], reversal and recognition
have been explained, and suffering is a destructive or painful action, such as deaths
in public, agonizing pains, wounds, and such other things.
Aristotles preference for the first two plot devices over the third could
be explained as follows. Reversal and recognition cause surprise, which is
conducive to pleasure. Furthermore, they seem to arouse emotion imagi-
natively from the text to the audiences, by presenting painful events about
to happen or just happening.17 Suffering, on the other hand, does not have
the potential for surprise and imaginative vision, since the pain is directly
before the eyes, in a concrete manner. Thus, the Prometheus appears to
invite audiences to a kind of pity that is based on the direct sight of the
sufferer.
An internal voice that consistently appeals to the spectators pity in
the tragedy is that of the chorus. The Oceanides fear for the fate of
Prometheus (ddia d mf sav tcaiv, 182). They feel compassion for the
hero to such an extent that they suffer together with him (sunalg,
288)18 and are willing to share his fate, at the end of the play. In the
final scene, Hermes perceives the Oceanides as partaking in the toils
(sugkmnousai, 1059) of Prometheus and tells them to avoid the wrath
of Zeus by running away. Yet, they decide to stand by the Titan and say
I want to experience whatever he does, with him (met tod ti cr

a different tragedy on the same subject. Here, he divides tragedies into four categories: compos-
ite (peplegmnh), which is based on recognition and reversal; rich in suffering (paqhtik);
character-based (qik); and simple (pl), if this restoration is correct, as it seems in light of
24.1459b712), in which he includes Prometheus, Phorcides, and the plays set in Hades.
17
No passage of the Poetics offers any specific elucidation as to why the two components of the
plot are favored over the third. Nevertheless, reversals and narrow escapes (Rh. 2.1371b245), in
which dramatic recognitions often result, are considered pleasurable because they excite surprise,
or wonder.
18
Here the Oceanides become physically and directly involved in the pain of Prometheus, which
differs from the imaginative pity of Aristotle, as I have already suggested. Friedrich (1967) has noted
that Sophoclean choruses also sometimes express direct participation in the suffering of the tragic
hero. The difference is that the Oceanides seem to put their words into practice and truly share the
fate of Prometheus at the end of the tragedy, whereas choruses simply state their desire to do so in
Sophocles.
Prometheus Bound 169
pscein qlw, 1067).19 More extensively, in the first stasimon (397435),
the Oceanides sing how they as well as the whole inhabited world lament
the pitiable pain (lgov oktrn, 435) of the Titan.20 Through this
ode, the chorus appears not only to express its own response to the tragic
action, but also to report the response of a universal audience. As a result,
the spectators may have had the strange impression that the chorus can
perceive their own reaction, which is assumed to be pity.
A striking feature of the play is that Prometheus himself repeatedly
invites both the immediate, internal audiences and larger, external ones to
watch and to sympathize with his plight. Thus, he invokes the earth and
the all-seeing (panpthn, 91) sun to behold his pain:21 look, watch,
behold (desqe, 92; drcqhq, 93; rte, 119); he then requests the cho-
rus to watch him (drcqht, sdesq, 140); and, afterwards, summons
Oceanus: behold the sight (drkou qama, 304). He is further vexed at
heart (dptomai kar, 438), when seeing myself (rn mautn, 438),
and introduces himself to Io, in the third person: you see Prometheus
(rv Promhqa, 612). In their turn, internal audiences often react to the
misfortune only after saying that they have seen him. Thus, the chorus
responds to Prometheus solicitation to watch him:
Lessw Promeqe fober d mosin s-
soiv mcla prosxe pl-
rhv dakrwn, sn dmav esidosai. (1446)
I see, Prometheus, and over my eyes a fearful
mist full of tears came, as I saw your body.
One should make a note here of the unusual physical reaction of the
Oceanides, a fearful mist (fober . . . mcla) of tears, in which fearful
probably relates to an immediate reaction of horror at the sight of the
tormented body (mentioned at 146) of the Titan. But the adjective fearful
is related to crying as well a reaction usually connected with pity and
thus could refer to the chorus anxiety related to what might happen
next to Prometheus. Fear here, then, might be a combination of two

19
See Sad 1985, 303, for the significance of the vocabulary of partaking in suffering in the play.
Grossmann 1970, 402, considers the Oceanides to be ideal spectators, who participate in the
suffering of the tragic hero.
20
The Oceanides declare their own sympathy (397405). To this, they add that every land, from Asia
(41114) to Caucasus (4214), and, further, the sea (4312), rivers (4345), and the underworld (433)
feel grief for the suffering of Prometheus.
21
In Euripides Alcestis, the sun is also mentioned as a witness to tragic suffering: Admetus tells his
dying wife that the sun watches both of them, who have done nothing against the gods to deserve
to die (Alc. 2467); these lines are used as an opening motto in Halls new book on tragedy (2010).
170 Pity and fear within tragedies
varieties, namely horror and anxiety. Likewise, later on, Oceanus answers
Prometheus invitation to look, by confirming, I see (r, 307).22
In addition to the verbal emphasis on his own body as visual display,
Prometheus anticipates the effect of his appearance on others:
toiasde phmonasi kmptomai
pscein mn lgeinasin, oktrasin d den. (2378)
I am bowed by these afflictions,
painful to suffer and pitiful to see.
Similarly, a few lines later, he appraises the response of friendly audiences
at seeing him: it should be pity:
PR. Ka mn floiv leinv esorn g. (246)
In truth, for friends I am a piteous sight to see.
In the former example (238), Prometheus does not specify for whom his
afflictions are pitiable to see, which suggests a generic audience. In the
latter example (246), he does define the attitude (friendly) of the spectators
who feel pity. In both cases, however, Prometheus does not talk about
pity as a reaction of the chorus, or internal audiences in particular, but
rather as a reaction that all spectators should have at seeing his pain.
Such self-referential remarks create an interesting metatheatrical effect.
Even if Prometheus does not address the external audience directly, he
implies it when appealing to the universe to watch him. By presenting
himself as subject to spectacle, Prometheus acknowledges his status as
tragic protagonist and, furthermore, describes the reaction of his audience.
Finally, there is an uncanny feature of Prometheus appeal for pity: no
request of help from others, no favor required. Thus, the pity expected is
that of spectators, an emotion devoid of action.
Tragic emotions as responses are not confined to the fate of Prometheus,
but extend to others in the play.23 Io, for example, joins the internal audi-
ences of Promethean tragedy, as she happens to encounter the immobile
Titan during her tormented wanderings and commiserates with him.24 But
22
Marzullo 1993, 40, has made an important observation: the compassionate connotation of the
verb to look at (esorn) is pervasive in the Prometheus, but unknown to Homer (where the
implication of the verb is always to look at with admiration) and, generally this is the meaning
of the verb in the poetic tradition, including Aeschylus.
23
Menzio 1992, 19, notes the chorus keen interest in the story of Io.
24
Io perceives the affliction of the Titan as similar to hers even before knowing exactly who
Prometheus is (PV 6012) and, later, addresses him with compassion (tlmon Promhqe, wretched
Prometheus, 614). Yet, her own misfortune overwhelms her and obscures her response to the suf-
fering of Prometheus.
Prometheus Bound 171
she is herself another tragic character, whose ordeal started in the past, as
reported in her narrative (63186) and will continue in the future, according
to Prometheus prophecy (696741). Her subsidiary drama, though only
narrated in the play, elicits emotional responses from the chorus as well.
The Oceanides mainly express fear for what has happened to Io: I have
trembled in fear seeing the adventure of Io (pfrik esidosa prxin
Iov, PV 695). This fear derives from consternation, on hearing something
unheard of, the affliction of the horned maiden (PV 68894). It is remi-
niscent of Gorgias shudder in the Encomium both because of etymological
connections (pfrik, PV 695 frkh perfobov, Hel. 9) and because of
content: this variety of emotion comes from hearing and imagining the
adventures of others (fictional characters). Next, Prometheus assures them
that their anxiety will increase, when they hear what will happen to Io in
the future (PV 6967). After the prophecy, the chorus again feel alarm
(tarb, PV 898), at seeing Io (esorsa, PV 899). Though similar in
wording to the initial expression of fear, the emotion has a different con-
notation here. It involves not shock, but rather apprehension that others,
perhaps themselves, might suffer Ios fate. Thus, the third stasimon ends
with the Oceanides prayer never to attract the love of Olympian gods.
While feeling tragic emotions, the chorus also expresses pleasure at listen-
ing to both Ios account and Prometheus prophecy (PV 631, 782). To a
certain degree, the chorus members become an unusual audience on two
levels. While watching the Titan, they also see with the minds eye the
tragic action (prxin, 695) performed by the horned maiden. Through
foreseeing, Prometheus takes the position of the internal audience and
turns into a sole viewer of Ios future vicissitudes. Then, as if he were a
messenger,25 he discloses to the chorus the adventures and the final des-
tiny of Io, who is a casual spectator of his own misfortune.26 In this way,
pity, seeing, and suffering create an intriguing causal chain, which often
blurs the line between internal audience and tragic protagonist in the play.
Prometheus, now a spectacle for everyone, was once a spectator, who
25
By recounting the future hardships of Io, Prometheus performs a narrative function which usually
belongs to choruses in other Greek tragedies. In the first two narratives (PV 696741, 786822),
interrupted by a brief stichomythia, the Titan recounts the prospective wanderings of Io, which
gives a large geographical perspective to this otherwise static drama. In his third narrative (rich in
mythological suggestions, PV 82376), the Titan reveals to the chorus Ios eventual fate, as though
he were a witness of the final stage of her affliction. Customarily, messengers narrate final events,
which occurred in the past, whereas here Prometheus reports the future end of Ios adventures.
26
As Konstan 1977, 71, remarks, Io is the only human interlocutor of Prometheus, in a drama in
which the other characters are exclusively gods or demi-gods. Padilla 1999, 13047, considers the
story of Io in the play as representative of the stages of a girls maturation (alluding particularly to
the fear of marriage) in ancient Athens.
172 Pity and fear within tragedies
pitied Typhoeus, when seeing his punishment (dn iktira, PV 352). Io,
who watches Prometheus, is herself subject to a painful destiny. The play
may have thus left the external audience with an unsettled feeling, as an
internal spectator becomes the sufferer of tragic action and the one who
pities becomes the pitied.

7.3 the political significance of pity and fear


Pity and fear have political and moral implications in the Prometheus Bound.
Pity for the victims of Zeus may lead to rebellion, such as that of the Titans
against the Olympians tyrannical rule. Prometheus suffers above all for
having put mortals first in his pity for them (qnhtov d n okt pro-
qmenov, PV 239). Likewise, those who watch the affliction of Prometheus
and express pity for him might cause their own suffering, by stirring Zeuss
anger. Cratus warns Hephaestus to cease lamenting (qrhnesqai, 43)
over the fate of Prometheus,27 lest you pity yourself one day (pwv m
sautn oktiev pote, 68). Oceanus might incur the animosity of Zeus,
if he gives way to mourning (qrnov, 388) for Prometheus. Even when
simply expressing their pity, characters (Hephaestus, Oceanus) can be sus-
pected of insubordination, and liable to penalties. Audiences were likely
puzzled if they noticed the unusual nature of pity in this tragedy. Gener-
ally, appeals to pity were used to obtain forgiveness or protection, in Greek
culture.28 Plato argues that indulging in pity weakens the moral strength
of the citizens and their ability to act with courage when faced with vicis-
situdes (R. 10.606). Aristotle underscores the philosophical rather than the
political implications of the emotion. In the Prometheus Bound, however,
pity leads to indignation and then to political revolt, which is unparalleled
and, therefore, must have intrigued the spectators.
If pity can inspire courage, since it drives the Titan to defy the Olympian
despot,29 fear of Zeus is associated with cowardice. Toward the end of the
play, Prometheus assures Hermes that he shall not turn woman-hearted,
for fear that Zeus might increase his punishment:
Eselqtw se mpoq v g Div
gnmhn fobhqev qhlnouv gensomai. (10023)
Let it never cross your mind that I, fearing the
will of Zeus, will turn womanish.
27
On Cratus and Bia as symbols of tyranny and social oppression, see Goldhill 1991b, 19, and Bassi
2010, 856.
28
In courthouses appeals to pity are used to obtain forgiveness of the defendant. In literature,
suppliants invoke pity to obtain protection, or, sometimes, forgiveness and closure in a conflict.
29
PV 2345.
Prometheus Bound 173
Prometheus links fear and compromise with effeminate behavior, and
refuses to free himself from the bonds with womanish uplifting (PV
1005). Lamentations of heroes in epic and tragedy are regarded as woman-
ish in Plato (R. 3.387d388a). The Titan gives another explanation for his
lack of fear, his own immortality:
t d n fobomhn, qanen o mrsimon; (PV 933)
Why should I fear, since it is not destined for me to die?

Strangely, at the beginning of the play, Prometheus finds everything that


comes near frightening (pn moi fobern t prosrpon, 127). Thus,
upon their arrival, the Oceanides have to assure him not to fear anything
(mhdn fobhqv, 128), because they approach him with a friendly attitude.
Therefore, it seems, Prometheus himself has learned to bear hardships
better in the course of the play, and to pass from fear to fearlessness. When
advised to abandon the scene and thus avoid the imminent storm, by which
Zeus will strike Prometheus, the Oceanides respond with indignation and
without fear:
Pv me keleeiv kaktht sken;
met tod ti cr pscein qlw
tov prodtav gr misen maqon. (10668)
How can you order me to practice cowardice?
I want to suffer with him, whatever he has to endure
For Ive learned to hate traitors.

The Oceanides say I have learned (maqon) courage, by which they mean
willingness to undertake the suffering of the one whom they have pitied, a
truly Promethean lesson. Indirectly, the chorus could invite the spectators
to mind this lesson as well. Thus, through tragic pity, the audiences would
learn to become brave, an unthinkable idea for Plato. Moreover, pity can
cause fear to dissipate. This also differs greatly from the Aristotelian theory
in which pity for another is associated with fear for oneself.
Internal audiences, nevertheless, do not respond unanimously to the
sight of Prometheus. Some, such as Cratus or Hermes, show no com-
passion for the bound Titan. Though in a minority, the detractors of
Prometheus resort to moral arguments and invoke civic propriety in order
to explain their emotional indifference or hostility. Most characters (includ-
ing Prometheus) dismiss such views. Yet, the opposite responses likely
presented interpretative difficulties for the external audience. Thus, the
prologue of the play offers an interesting example of the different reactions
of the internal audience. Both Cratus and Hephaestus nail the Titan on
174 Pity and fear within tragedies
a rock. Hephaestus cannot refrain from feeling compassion at seeing the
tortured Prometheus and summons Cratus:
Orv qama dusqaton mmasin. (69)
You see the sight unbearable for the eyes to see.
Again, the reaction here is probably related to revulsion, to the impulse
to avoid the terrible sight. While Hephaestus tries to arouse pity in his
assistant, emphatically saying that he is watching a terrible scene,30 Cratus
looks at the same scene from a completely different perspective:
Or kuronta tnde tn paxwn. (70)
I see one getting what he deserves.
From this point of view, the sight cannot elicit tragic emotion because
Prometheus suffers deserved penalties (tn paxwn). Cratus implies,
therefore, that the Titans ordeal does not meet a precondition required for
feeling pity (for the undeserved). This idea converges with the later Aris-
totelian definition: eleos is stirred by the undeserved suffering of another.31 If
the conviction that Prometheus is guilty determines Cratus to remain piti-
less (nhlv, 42), the same belief does not prevent Hephaestus from becom-
ing emotionally involved. Although Hephaestus admits Prometheus cul-
pability, he is moved to sympathy, nonetheless, by his kinship (xuggenv,
39) and fellowship (mila, 39) with the Titan. Here, the playwright
seems to adopt a traditional dramatic technique of eliciting pity from
the audiences, through showing that, despite animosity, one should nev-
ertheless respond with compassion to the suffering of another. Notably,
both Cratus and Hephaestus find Prometheus guilty of loving humans.
Thus, Cratus is convinced that once the Titan is punished, he will learn
to give up his philanthropic way (filanqrpou . . . trpou, 11). Simi-
larly Hephaestus notes that the torture is what Prometheus receives for his
philanthropic way (filanqrpou trpou, 28). Hephaestus emphasizes
again that Prometheus is not innocent, since he did not fear the wrath of
30
The line provides an extraordinary example of verbal emphasis of the visual, since all four words
belong to the optic vocabulary and are structured on a double figura etymologica (qama and dus-
qaton rv mmasin). Marzullo 1993, 41, n. 3 and 52, n. 20, underlines the lexical peculiarity of
the line, which has no parallels in Aeschylus plays, but several in Sophoclean tragedy. The closest
match is Sophocles (Aj. 1004). I find it interesting that the unbearable sight refers to physical decay
in both plays: the Titan is being tortured (PV) and Teucer cannot bear to look at the decomposing
face of Ajax (Aj.).
31
As it is stated in both the Poetics and the Rhetoric. In the former treatise, for example, pity should
be felt for the undeserved: per tn nxion . . . dustuconta (Po. 13.1453a4); leov mn per tn
nxion. (Po. 13.1453a5).
Prometheus Bound 175
gods and gave honors to mankind beyond what is right (2830). A crime
of this sort may be a matter of perspective: the mythical crime of the Titan
ought to become a reason for gratitude for the external human audience,
who should not find it difficult to sympathize with its savior.
Through the stichomythia between Cratus and Hephaestus, the pream-
ble of Prometheus outlines certain reasons that internal audiences have
divergent responses to the Promethean drama. One is the characters abil-
ity or inability to connect with the Titan. The other concerns the way
in which internal viewers interpret the problem of Prometheus guilt and
the justice of Zeus. Both issues continue to be important throughout the
play. Prometheus welcomes those who can relate to him as friends to watch
his drama, because they react appropriately (246). On the other hand he
worries about malicious spectators, who will be pleased to see him suffer-
ing (1589).32 Indeed, internal audiences often approach Prometheus with
a friendly or hostile attitude,33 which predetermines the nature of their
response (pity or hatred) to his suffering. Thus, the Oceanides proclaim
their favorable attitude, their friendship (fila, 128), even before speak-
ing with the Titan. Oceanus introduces himself as a most reliable friend
(2858), while Hermes ranks among Prometheus enemies (973). From a
metatheatrical perspective, by constantly emphasizing Prometheus friend-
liness for human kind, the tragedy invites the audience to reciprocate the
feeling and thus return compassion to the protagonist.
Ill-disposition toward Prometheus fosters unemotional responses to his
suffering. Though exceptional, these responses are not absolutely subjective
in the tragedy. When inimical characters display no emotion, they justify
their harshness by underscoring the culpability of the sufferer. Thus, Her-
mes regards Prometheus as a transgressor:
tn xamartnt ev qeov fhmroiv
pornta timv, tn purv klpthn lgw. (PV 9456)
I call you, the one who has erred against the gods,
Giving honors to the ephemeral humans, thief of fire.
The problem of Promethean error is not a mere pretext, which malevolent
audiences invoke, in order to account for their hatred for Prometheus. It
32
Schinkel 1973, 1367, notes that part of Prometheus punishment comes from being looked at
by others, which makes it paradoxical that he invites audiences to watch him. In my opinion,
Prometheus summons only friendly spectators, who will have the appropriate emotional response
(pity), whereas he loathes the presence of unfriendly audiences.
33
The only character who does not have any preconceived opinion about the Promethean tragedy is
Io. Hephaestus is an interesting case, as he seems to approach the Titan with some hostility, but
yields to fellow-feeling at seeing Prometheus pain.
176 Pity and fear within tragedies
also preoccupies sympathetic audiences. In the prologue, Hephaestus does
not dismiss the guilt of the Titan, despite feeling sympathy. Furthermore,
even the Oceanides remind Prometheus of his mistake, when they cannot
see any end for his troubles:
dxei d pv; tv lpv; oc rv ti
martev; v d martev, ot mo lgein
kaq donn so t lgov. (25961)
How shall it seem [possible to end your suffering]? What hope is there?
Dont you see
That you have erred? How you have erred is not pleasurable for me
To tell, but for you is pain . . .
To this remark of the chorus, Prometheus replies with an amazing con-
fession. He did make a mistake when helping humans, and yet it was a
voluntary mistake:
kn, kn marton, ok rnsomai (266)
Willingly, willingly, I have erred, I will not deny it.
The idea that someone can err on his own will (kn), repeated in the
text, is puzzling. Error (marta) presupposes that a blamable action is
done somewhat involuntarily. From the perspective of Platonic philoso-
phy, mistakes come from ignorance. Since only the ignorant errs, nobody
makes a mistake willingly (odev kn martnei, Prt. 345d3) and, simi-
larly, nobody is morally bad willingly (kakv gr kn odev, Ti. 86d9).
In fact, a line from the play anticipates this Platonic argument, namely that
errors come from ignorance. Thus, the Oceanides say: it is dishonorable
for the wise to err (sof gr ascrn xamartnein, PV 1039), after
advising Prometheus to give up his stubbornness, listen to Hermes, and
thus avoid the final storm.34 The complex Aristotelian account of error
also implies factual unawareness, even though it may not exclude some
limited culpability of the agent.35 The paradox contained in the startling
assertion of Prometheus could be seen as a subtle counterpoint to the
Hesiodic version of the myth. The phrase I have erred willingly (PV
266) is reminiscent of the Sophistic paradoxes, such as Gorgias fragment
on tragedy. Notably, Hermes addresses Prometheus first with the epithet
34
Marzullo 1993, 34, notes the parallelism between the idea expressed in this line and Platos philoso-
phy.
35
Aristotle states that a tragic hero should not fall into adversity through moral depravity, but through
some kind of mistake (di martan tin, Po 13.1453a910), such as Oedipus. Stinton 1975 still
provides a valuable introduction to the variegated moral implications of tragic error.
Prometheus Bound 177
Sophist (PV 944), perhaps because of the Titans ability to find arguments
to support his actions, which are crooked from the perspective of the sup-
porters of Zeus. In the myth of the sacrifice of Mecone (Th. 53560), Zeus
knows that Prometheus is going to deceive him, and yet willingly allows
the deception. In the play, Prometheus knows that he will appear guilty
in the eyes of Zeus, when aiding the human race, and yet he does so will-
ingly. Semantically, Prometheus does not appear to use the word error
(marta) in the sense of moral mistake (266).36 He admits committing
a deed, against the will of Zeus voluntarily, even though anticipating the
consequences of his action.37 Nevertheless, helping mortals was not uneth-
ical, in his view, although it was going to be perceived as wrong by the
unjust Olympians. The point becomes clearer in the last line of the play,
in which Prometheus summons the audiences:38
Esorv m v kdika pscw. (1093)
You have seen me, how I suffer unjustly.

The Titan precisely rejects here Cratus former suggestion that he would
suffer deservedly. Furthermore, the final words of Prometheus may be
taken as a definitive appeal to the spectators. The audiences can thus see
the tragedy from the right angle and ought not to withhold their pity,
thinking that the Titan is receiving a just punishment. While the debate
over the guilt of Prometheus may have presented intellectual challenges, the
spectators likely responded to the emotional appeals of the play, expressed
not only through the voice of the chorus but also through the Titans
repeated pleas to be viewed compassionately. Prometheus final utterance
tries to remove a last reason for which audiences may not respond with
pity, the idea that he suffers deservedly.
Certain spectators, nevertheless, may have adhered to the image of Zeus
in the Theogony, with his Olympian dignity, rather than accepting the
novel description of the god as a political despot in the play. Even in
the Hesiodic tradition Zeus is prone to anger (Th. 554, 651) and merci-
less toward his adversaries, and yet his rule establishes universal order and

36
This point is well developed by Sad 1978, 97104.
37
Sad 1985, 221, compares the knowledge of Prometheus to that of Cassandra (Ag.) or Amphiaraus
(Sept.), characters who know what will happen but cannot prevent the events. The difference, it
seems to me, lies in the fact that both Cassandra and Amphiaraus cannot take any action, despite
their knowledge, whereas Prometheus changes the course of Zeus plan through his action and
knowledge, although he cannot avoid the consequences.
38
In this case, the invoked spectators are invisible for the external audiences, and yet all-seeing: his
mother (1091) and the air that spreads light to all alike (1092).
178 Pity and fear within tragedies
justice.39 By contrast, in the Prometheus Bound, though never appearing
on the stage, Zeus is described as the prototype of a despot. He does
not give anyone an account of his deeds (324), knows only his own law
(1501, 1867, 4025), is a tyrant among the gods (2215), wants to exter-
minate the human race without a reason (2313), abuses Io, etc.40 The
dramatist may have mitigated this unflattering image of Zeus in the last
play of a trilogy.41 Even so, this characterization of the god could have
appeared shocking to audiences. From a political perspective, Zeus becomes
the embodiment of tyranny, a type of government not long abolished in
Athens. Therefore, some spectators likely were surprised, if not disturbed,
to see the supreme god represented in a manner reminiscent of Hippias
and, ultimately, in a posture associated with the despotism of the Persian
society.42
From a religious perspective, the majority of the audience may not have
been bothered by the descriptions not always flattering of deities in
Greek poetry. Some, however, likely considered the portrait of Zeus in
the drama to be irreverent. Already in the sixth century bce, Xenophanes
of Colophon protested against humanizing deities and ascribing to them
moral flaws.43 Similarly, Plato reproves the poets tendency to depict gods
as immoral or cruel (R. 3.389ab), arguing that the divine can only be good
and just. Beyond the elite philosophers, others may have shared such ideas
about divinity by the fifth century. In Euripides Heracles, the protagonist
does not believe in any phony tales of the poets, because they describe
gods as having affairs, fighting for power, or throwing each other in chains.

39
Solmsen 1995, 85100; 132.
40
As G. Thomson 1973, 301, notes, most characters in this tragedy admit that Zeus is a tyrant and
his government a tyranny, although they may look at Zeus position differently. So Prometheus
reacts to Zeus rule with indignation and disdain (222, 305, 357, 657, 942, 996), Cratus with pride
(10), Oceanus with resignation (310). Podlecki 1999, 10122, shows that Zeus characteristics (PV)
match perfectly the behavioral patterns of a tyrant in Greek culture. Zeus autocratic rule in this
play anticipates later descriptions of tyranny (Ath. Pol. and Pol.).
41
Schmid 1929, 91107, argued that Aeschylus piety would not be compatible with such denigration
of Zeus. Griffith 1977, 33, convincingly dismisses this hypothesis, as there is no reason that a
playwright should present consistent theology in his works. Conacher 1980, 1237, offers a model
for Zeus possible metamorphosis in a last play of a trilogy that may have been comparable to
the transformation of the Erinyes in the Eumenides. However, the existence of a trilogy, whether
Aeschylean or not is not beyond controversy. Overall, on the contradictory treatment of gods and
heroes in Greek drama, see Graf 2007.
42
Baglio 1952 goes as far as to suggest that Zeus allegorically represents Xerxes. Podlecki 1999, 11112,
persuasively dismantles Baglios theory. However, even if nothing points to the dramatists intention
to present an allegory, certain features of Xerxes (Hdt. 3.80) resemble those of Zeus in the play and,
doubtlessly, Athenians associated Persia with despotism.
43
Drozdek 2007, 1526, for example, analyzes Xenophanes critique of the anthropomorphic view of
the gods and places it in the broader context of early Greek philosophy.
Prometheus Bound 179
The last point is probably a direct allusion to the myth of Prometheus or,
generally, to the fate of the Titans:44
g d tov qeov ote lktr m qmiv
strgein nomzw, dsma t xptein ceron,
ot xisa ppot ote pesomai,
od llon llou despthn pefuknai. (13414)
As far as I am concerned, I do not believe that gods
sleep around in beds, in which they should not,
and that they put chains on hands,
I have never thought worthy of belief, nor will I now be convinced
that one god has been the master of another.
If any spectators of the Prometheus Bound shared such views, they may have
dismissed the myth of Prometheus altogether and, perhaps, ignored any
religious implications of the play. Others could have adopted the attitude
of Zeus supporters and seen Prometheus as justly punished,45 in which
case they did not respond with pity.
To conclude, this tragedy invited the audiences to inquire into the
complicated dynamic of emotions when seeing suffering. Fear of suffering,
revealed before an angry Zeus, is cowardly and womanish, according to
Prometheus. Yet, it could be associated with wise caution (Oceanus). Pity
is a foolish feeling, when felt for the deserved affliction of another, in
Cratus opinion. For Hephaestus, it is an emotion coming from friendship,
which surpasses rational considerations of the Titans guilt. Above all and
uniquely, the Promethean pity compels one to fight injustice courageously,
to remedy the misfortune of another even if this implies his or her own
suffering. This kind of pity can be considered the opposite of that discussed
in Platos Republic, the emotion that causes citizens to become weaker and
less able to bear their own suffering. By contrast, eleos in the Prometheus
Bound is an active emotion, which can catalyze rebellion against tyranny.
Some varieties of the tragic emotions in this tragedy can be recognized as
similar to the previous types described by theorists so, for example, most
strikingly, the fearful shudder of the Oceanides who have listened to the
adventures of Io echoes Gorgias fearful shudder (Hel. 9). Many other
internal responses that can be linked to pity and fear in this play have no
44
Gregory 1991, 153, n. 51, provides a summary of the interpretations of these lines, which have been
taken at times as a condemnation of gods, or as a self-referential remark about how poets deal with
myth.
45
Plato, for instance, argues that tragedians should portray gods as just. If deities inflict punishment,
they may do so either because the wrongdoer, such as Niobe, deserves it or becomes better because
of it (R. 2.380a).
180 Pity and fear within tragedies
theoretical parallel. Besides learning to abandon fear for oneself through
pity for another, which is unique, certain reactions seem to combine vari-
eties of fear that appear to be separated in the Poetics: horror at seeing
the tortured body of Prometheus (Oceanides, Hephaestus) can combine
with anxiety for the Titan and perhaps with fear for oneself (Hephaestus).
Unlike the Aristotelian imaginative emotion, which leads to abstract con-
templation of suffering, the kind of pity aroused in the play seems to drive
the spectator to indignation at the fate of the protector of the human race
and, by extension, at the human condition in general. Audiences could
have learned with the chorus (PV 1069) some ethical, political, and theo-
logical connotations of the emotion. Through feeling pity for the Titan, the
spectator may rebel against the misery of human existence, by questioning
whether human suffering is, indeed, an unchangeable, universal datum or,
rather, the caprice of a tyrannical divinity.
chapter 8

Sophocles: Ajax

8.1 a review of interpretations


To effect emotional arousal, the Persians and the Prometheus Bound use
different dramatic techniques, which appear to have presented unique
cognitive and ethical challenges to the audience. The Persians contains a
dynamic plot, with a major change of fortune, but not much variety of
internal voices (exclusively Persian, though with an interesting twist in the
speech of Darius) that interpret the misfortune. Despite a static dramatic
structure, conversely, the Prometheus Bound offers diverse internal views
about tragic suffering. The Ajax combines an eventful plot with several
internal perspectives on the fall of the hero. My study appraises reactions
to this tragedy by examining ways in which the internal models of response
could have shaped the spectators emotions as well as their understanding
of the dramatic action.
Scholars often note that the fall of Ajax, as represented in Sophocles
tragedy, must have driven the ancient audience to pity. One particular
detail likely caused surprise and, perhaps, intense emotion: Sophocles
representation of Ajaxs suicide violates an established tragic convention,
according to which deaths are reported by messenger, and thus the audi-
ence hears directly the painful reasoning that precedes the death of the
hero.1 Nevertheless, some argue that the spectators could not have felt
pity for Ajax, who acts foolishly and, therefore, deserves his fate. Even
though certain scenes in the Ajax, such as those involving Tecmessa, may
have been conducive to pity, some scholars insist, Ajax does not deserve
the audiences sympathy for two main reasons. One argument is that the
hero has committed hybris and, therefore, is justly punished by Athena.2
1
Heath and OKell 2007, especially 3723 regarding the suicide, emphasize the elements of dramatic
surprise. Details of staging and possible reactions to the death before the eyes are also discussed by
Mills 1980 and Konstan (1999b), who takes the Ajax to be a model tragedy for the arousal of the
spectators pity.
2
Kitto 1956, 17996, and Fisher 1992, 31229.

181
182 Pity and fear within tragedies
There is, however, no clear dramatic development in the play to sup-
port this interpretation. Indeed, Athena notes that humans ought to avoid
hybris (Aj. 12733) in connection with the heros plight, but she does so
in rather general terms. The other argument is that Ajax acted unethi-
cally in the play, and this was obvious to the members of the original
audience.3
Several dramatic elements appear intended to stir compassion for Ajax
and to diminish the importance of the problem of heros culpability, which
is often a delicate issue in many Greek tragedies. One of these elements
consists of the discrepancy between the magnitude of Ajaxs fall (his suicide)
and the inefficiency of his deeds (killing cattle instead of his enemies),
which suggests that he suffers beyond due measure. This idea is expressed
within the play (11267). Menelaus denies Ajax proper burial, because he
cannot let prosper an enemy (Ajax) who has killed me (ktenant me, Aj.
1126). To Menelaus claim, Teucer replies ironically, hes killed you? so
you are alive when you have died (zv qann, 1127). Such an exchange
clearly underscores the distinction between Ajaxs intention (to slaughter the
Atreidae) and the result of his action (failure to do so). Most action in Greek
tragedy consists of committing a fear-inspiring deed, which brings about
the bad fortune and likely raises moral problems for the audience, even
when it is done out of ignorance, as Aristotle suggests.4 Paradoxically,
Ajax falls through failing to execute such a dreadful action against others.
Secondly, certain internal audiences deem Ajax unworthy of sympathy, as
it also happens in the PV, by entertaining doubts about the propriety of his
behavior (especially Menelaus in his conversation with Teucer, 105290).
Nonetheless, from early on the internal reaction of Odysseus, who expresses

3
Zak 1995, 21013, offers a version of this kind of interpretation, arguing that Ajax displays cruelty
toward his former peers and insensitivity toward his family. Even though we may sympathize with
Ajaxs belief that he has been unjustly treated, his behavior has nothing commendable: the hero shows
barbarism of the sentiments both under the influence of madness and when regaining his sanity.
Hesk 2003, 1316, gives a useful outline of the main modern as well as ancient views about several
problematic issues raised by the character of Ajax, such as extremism and madness. Much of the
scholarly debate concentrates on whether ancient audiences condemned Ajaxs intention to attack the
Atreidae and Odysseus. Since Ajax feels disgraced after failing to receive Achilles weapons, he deems
his former companions enemies. As Blundell 1989 has shown, to harm ones foe is acceptable in Greek
culture. Based on this, Garvie 1998, 1112, finds the behavior of Ajax completely understandable:
Ajaxs conduct is not far from that of Achilles (Il. 1), who tries to kill Agamemnon and is only stopped
by Athena from doing so. Gardiner 1987, 745, rejects this view. She considers Ajaxs treachery and
sadism when trying to strike the sleeping Atreidae to be different from the conduct of Achilles, who
openly attacks Agamemnon in the Iliad. However, it seems to me, slaughtering an enemy is neither
considered sadistic in the Homeric poems nor shameful, even if the attack is not open combat. For
a more reasonable discussion of the moral implications of Ajaxs attack at night, see Scodel 1984, 17.
4
On this topic, see Belfiore 2000a.
Sophocles: Ajax 183
pity for Ajax, despite being his foe (1216), might have largely dispersed
from the mind of an external spectator questions about whether or not pity
was the appropriate response. Odysseus specifically refuses to withhold his
pity for Ajax, despite being his enemy. The focus of my analysis will be
on pity and fear as internal responses in the Ajax, especially on internal
models of viewing tragic suffering.
Most commentators have dated the Ajax to the decade 450440 bce,
together with early Sophoclean tragedies, such as Antigone and Trachiniae.5
By the time Sophocles play was produced, the myth of Ajax had already
been treated in epic, lyric, and dramatic poetry. In Homers Iliad, Ajax is
one of the most distinguished heroes in the Greek army.6 In the Odyssey
(11.54165), a brief episode refers to the untimely death of Ajax, after the
judgment of arms, which likely formed the theme of other epic poems,7 and
later served as background for Sophocles tragedy. In the passage, Odysseus
tries to appease Ajaxs angry soul in Hades,8 but does so in vain, for Ajax
departs in silence. Sophocles tragedy offers not only formal similarities
but also conceptual parallels to the Homeric poems.9 Above all, Ajaxs
sense of honor in the play resembles Achilles in the Iliad. Both the epic
Achilles and the tragic Ajax are concerned with their reputation and isolate
themselves from the community, after being outraged.10 Consequently, the
dramatic Ajax has been described as the last traditional type of hero. He is
inflexible and follows the Homeric ideal of virtue by defending his honor.
By contrast, Odysseus is seen as embodying a new kind of hero, who is
forgiving, adaptable, and befitting democratic Athenian society.11 Indeed,
5
General discussions surveying the problematic dating of the play are provided, for example, by
Reinhardt 1933, 4270, Kirkwood 1958, 869, Webster 1969, 27, Lloyd-Jones and Wilson 1990,
and Garvie 1998, 68.
6
Helen describes Ajax to the Trojan elders as being the outstanding bastion of the Achaeans
(pelriov rkov %cawn, Il. 3.229). Ajax is not surpassed by anyone else in physical strength, with
the exception of Achilles, and appears in several memorable episodes, such as the single battle with
Hector (Il. 7.224312) and the embassy to Achilles (Il. 9.62942).
7
Other epic poems, such as Aethiopis and the Little Iliad, referred to the death of Ajax, as a result of
the judgment of arms. On this, see, for example, Stanford 1963, 224, Davies 1989, 638, and Holt
1992.
8
He uses several arguments: (a) regrets having won the weapons of Achilles (548); (b) deplores the
fact that Zeus brought destruction on Ajax (559); (c) assures the dead hero that the Achaeans have
mourned for his death as much as for Achilles (557).
9
For example, the farewell scene between Ajax and Tecmessa in the Ajax resembles that between
Hector and Andromache in the Iliad. In both the Iliad and the Ajax, enemies refuse the burial of
a hero and friends or relatives assure it. Detailed examinations of similarities between the Ajax and
the Homeric poems are provided by Kirkwood 1965, 5170, and Garner 1990, 5164.
10
On heroism in Sophocles, judged by the standards of Homeric virtue, see Knox 1964, 67, 1305.
11
Whitman 1951, 656, draws a comparison between the two; cf. Golder 1990. Segal 1999, 14451,
stresses the opposition between the two heroes as a contrast between two kinds of aretai, the
competitive and cooperative.
184 Pity and fear within tragedies
in the tragedy, Odysseus displays unexpected sympathy toward his enemy
and, eventually, secures the burial of Ajax. Yet, through a subtle contrast
between the heroes, Sophocles seems to return to an established literary
motif (pity for the fallen enemy) rather than to illustrate a novel model of
virtue through Odysseus.12
From early on, Greek poetry generally professed the pre-eminence of
Ajax, despite the victory of Odysseus in the judgment.13 In one of his
epinician odes (N. 7.2030, around 480 bce), Pindar declares his intention
to defend the reputation of Ajax, because Homer has unfairly enhanced
the glory of Odysseus. Elsewhere (N. 8.2338), the poet hopes that he
will resemble Ajax, rather than Odysseus.14 The question of which hero
is better may have been raised in a first dramatic rendition of the story
of Ajax, an Aeschylean trilogy,15 and it survived in later philosophical
controversies.16 Given the literary tradition, in which Ajax was pre-eminent
in martial skills, whereas Odysseus in oratorical art, ancient spectators
perhaps expected Sophocles tragedy to be on one side or the other of the
debate, as modern interpreters often do.17 The Ajax, however, does not
present the two characters confronting each other openly, nor does it assess
the superiority of one over the other directly. And this ambiguity may have
left the audience frustrated and, perhaps, speculating on the matter of the

12
Some scholars reject the idea of opposition between old Homeric and new democratic virtue,
correctly in my opinion. Cairns 1993, 240, remarks that Odysseus pity for his foe in the play is
already a characteristic of Homeric heroes (i.e. Achilles attitude toward Priam). Furthermore, it
can be added, the Odyssey (11) prefigures the different positions of the two characters. Odysseus did
not hold any grudge against the unfortunate Ajax, while Ajax remained unbending, even after his
death.
13
Davies 1989, 5867, shows that the theme is already present in epic.
14
Pindar implies that Odysseus has won the contest through his eloquence, but he was not as noble as
his opponent: the unfair behaviour of the Greeks forced Ajax to commit suicide, but the Homeric
poetry honored Ajaxs name (I. 4.359). On the Pindaric praise of Ajax, see Most 1985, 1526.
15
See Mette 1963, 1217, for the surviving fragments.
16
The tone of the debate was set by two speeches ascribed to Antisthenes (fifth century bce), which,
unlike Pindars ode, praise the cleverness of Odysseus over the physical strength of Ajax. Further
details can be found in Stanford 1954, 93100.
17
Modern scholars often declare one hero superior to the other in Sophocles tragedy. To list only
a few examples, from a moral point of view, Odysseus is regarded as better by Kitto 1961, 1213,
Winnington-Ingram 1980, 65. On the contrary, Ajax finally achieves grandeur and our admiration,
according to Kirkwood 1958, 479, and Garvie 1998, 1617. In political interpretations of the play,
Rose 1995, 659, sees Ajax as a model leader and military commander. Conversely, Meier 1993,
16687, thinks that Odysseus best expresses the political ideals of the polis. For persuasive criticism
of such views, which politicize Sophocles excessively, see Griffin 1999, especially 839. The fact
that scholars reach opposite conclusions about the better hero seems to indicate that the play
itself refuses to give a precise answer. As Stanford 1963, 23, has suggested, Sophocles in his Ajax
refused to present a partisan, black and white interpretation of the conflict.
Sophocles: Ajax 185
better hero. Another element of surprise in the tragedy may be the lack
of an agon between Ajax and the Atreidae (and/or Odysseus), which the
audiences could have also predicted in light of the tradition. While omitting
any scene that treats directly the judgment of arms at the beginning of the
play, Sophocles concentrates instead on the internal conflict of Ajax, which
is caused by madness.
In addition to its literary interpretations, the myth of Ajax was likely
familiar to the audience from other sources. It often provided subjects for
visual arts and enjoyed increased popularity in the vase painting of the
fifth century.18 Furthermore, a hero cult for Ajax may have predisposed the
audience to be sympathetic toward the Sophoclean character, as was also
the case with the Titan in the Prometheus Bound. As a cult-figure, Ajax had
a statue in the agora and a temple at Salamis.19 According to Herodotus, the
Athenians prayed for Ajaxs aid before the battle of Salamis in 480 bce.20
Although Sophocles tragedy is not concerned with the cult directly, it does
contain several passages, which the spectators could have understood as
allusions to the consecration of Ajax as a hero.21

8.2 the reluctant spectator: odysseus and his pity


The Ajax opens with fascinating metatheatrical suggestions about the com-
plexities involved in watching a tragic action, emphasizing both similarities
as well as differences between internal and external spectator. In the first
lines of the prologue, Athena tells Odysseus: I have always watched you
(e . . . ddork se, 1). She continues: now I see you (nn . . . se . . . r,
3), wandering by your enemys hut so that you might see (pwv d v, 6)
what Ajax is doing. In the conclusion of her speech, the goddess assures her
favorite that he no longer needs to peer (paptanein, 11) inside Ajaxs

18
For art representation of Ajaxs myth, see for example, LIMC, vol. 1 (1981) 32532. The judgment of
arms was a popular subject for artists from the seventh century bce on. By the early fifth century
the theme of Ajaxs suicide becomes increasingly popular, though the earliest depiction belongs to
the sixth century, perhaps in connection with tragedies on the subject (cf. Garvie 1998, 35, with
bibliography).
19
Several literary sources refer to a cult of Ajax (Hdt. 5.66, Paus. 1.5.1; 1.35.3) and mention a temple
and a festival at Salamis in honor of Ajax.
20
Hdt. 8.64; 8.121.
21
Most prominently, toward the end of the play, the chorus anticipates that the grave of Ajax will
always be remembered (11667); cf. the praises of Salamis (chorus, 5979; Ajax, 85963). Burian
1972 and Henrichs 1993 explore possible suggestions about the cult in the play. I agree with Garvie
1998, 6, and Griffin 1999, 8792, who argue that the Ajax should not be interpreted exclusively as a
reflection of the cult of Ajax.
186 Pity and fear within tragedies
gate, for he may learn from her what has happened. Odysseus responds
to Athena, who is invisible (poptov, 15) to him22 that he has been
trying to find Ajax. Since he heard from an eyewitness (ptr, 29) that
Ajax was running over the plains, with a sword full of blood, he wanted
to follow the trail (cnov, 32)23 and check whether the rumor was true.
As Falkner has suggested, the preamble of the drama mirrors the com-
plicated relationships between internal and external audiences.24 Athena
can symbolize the seeing power of the external audience, as she beholds
the stage without being seen. Odysseus is introduced as the object of the
goddesss gaze (Aj. 1, 3), as well as the object of the audiences sight, and,
at the same time, he is himself a kind of spectator (Aj. 6; 11).25 The pro-
logue strongly suggests a play within a play. As a spectator to Ajaxs
drama, Odysseus may resemble the external spectator, at the beginning of
a performance. He knows something about the subject of the play, but
is anxious to see the protagonist and understand the design of the tragic
action.26 On the other hand, Athena precisely defines Odysseus as internal
audience, about to watch the tragedy from within, while being watched
from outside.
Furthermore, soon afterwards, Athena seems to take the place of the
poet within the drama, as she says to Odysseus: I will show you Ajaxs
illness in full view (dexw d ka so tnde perifan nson, Aj. 66).27
After explaining that Ajax has been in a state of madness, due to her
casting grievous opinions over his eyes (dusfrouv p mmasi | gnmav
balosa, 512), the goddess invites Odysseus to look at his foe, without
being observed, as she will divert Ajaxs gaze:28

22
Most scholars believe that Athena is visible to the audience, while she is invisible to Ajax, thus, for
example, Seale 1982, 144, and Mastronarde 1990. On the other hand, Taplin 1977, 166, suggests
that Athena might be in the orchestra, therefore visible to Odysseus alone.
23
Jouanna 1977 notes the implications of the hunting metaphor in the prologue. Ajax, who hunts the
cattle, is himself hunted by Odysseus, and Odysseus himself is tracked by Athena.
24
Falkner 1999 provides an admirable semiotic analysis of this prologue.
25
Falkner 1999, 182: Odysseus becomes a powerful secondary image of reading, because he is
puzzling over the tracks (305), therefore, metaphorically over the meaning of the story, which
he witnesses. For additional comments on this, see also Falkner 1993.
26
Even after Odysseus has heard the report of an eyewitness (a kind of tragic messenger), he
does not know how to interpret the information and thus finds himself in a situation in which
internal audiences are sometimes put in Greek tragedies; cf. the confusion of the chorus in Aeschylus
Agamemnon, or even the chorus in this play (i.e. the coryphaeus does not understand what Tecmessa
says about Ajax, 270).
27
The metatheatrical effect of this passage, in which Athena appears as author, director, and actor, is
well emphasized by Easterling 1993a, 82, and Falkner 1999, 189.
28
Padel 1995, 705, analyzes the motif of twisting vision in madness and compares the case of Ajax
to other examples in Greek tragedy.
Sophocles: Ajax 187
. . . g gr mmtwn postrfouv
agv perxw sn prsoyin esiden. (6970)
For I will prevent him from seeing your face
By turning away the beams of his eyes.
There is an interesting Homeric parallel for Athenas altering someones
perception so that the person becomes unable to observe the surroundings.
After Euryclea discovers Odysseus scar, she wants to signal Penelope that
her husband is there. Penelope, however, cannot look at the scene, for
Athena has diverted her mind:
d ot qrsai dnat nth ote nosai
t gr %qhnah non trapen . . . (Od. 19.4789)
but she was neither able to look that way nor to observe (him),
for Athena turned away her mind . . .
Ajaxs inability to see resembles the disability of the tragic actor, who
unlike the comedian, cannot, by convention, notice and address the
audience. Athenas proposal can blur the line between external and internal
spectator. If Odysseus accepts the divine offer, then he could see without
being seen, which is a privileged position very similar to that of the external
audience.29 While the goddess is ready to put the plan in practice, surpris-
ingly, Odysseus now hesitates to behold Ajax, even though he was anxious
to see his foe before. In a brief stichomythia (7490), Odysseus pleads with
Athena not to bring his enemy. She tells him to face Ajax, at whom he
could laugh (79), and thus to avoid the charge of cowardice (75). When
Odysseus is still reluctant, she asks:
Memhnt ndra perifanv knev den; (81)
Do you shrink from seeing a crazed man in full view?
Odysseus admits that this is the reason and adds that he would not falter,
had Ajax been sane. Athena reassures him of the fact that he will not be
seen.30 He still remains puzzled: how could Ajax, with the same eyes
(fqalmov . . . atov, 84) see, but at the same time not see him? The
deity clarifies the matter: shell darken his eyes, even if they can still see
(85). Only after this elucidation, Odysseus yields. He will stay to behold

29
Odysseus position is thus similar to that from which Athena herself watched him, at the beginning
of the play.
30
Aj. 83: the goddess interestingly emphasizes that Ajax cannot see Odysseus despite his proximity in
space (plav) and time (nn).
188 Pity and fear within tragedies
Ajax, although, he says, I would prefer to be out of the scene (qelon
d n ktv n tucen, 88).
From a metatheatrical point of view, Athenas alteration of Ajaxs eyes
could be taken as an allusion to a tragic convention. The performer of
tragedy does not see the external audience, but only what happens within
the drama. Hence the confusion of Odysseus could be taken metatheatri-
cally: he cannot comprehend how he could be transformed from internal
spectator (whom Ajax would be able to see) into a different kind of spec-
tator, similar to an external one (whom Ajax would not see). Secondly,
Odysseus initial refusal to accept Athenas offer has puzzled many com-
mentators. Some argue that his hesitation comes from fear of his enemy.31
Odysseus, however, wanted to see his foe before he knew about Ajaxs sorry
plight. Furthermore, he insists that he would not waver under normal
circumstances, and, therefore, the scholiast rules out cowardice as a plausi-
ble explanation, calling Odysseus wise, (mfronov), for his reluctance.32
Others believe that Odysseus needed divine reassurances, because he did
not understand the implication of Athenas proposal, at first.33 Yet, even
after realizing his advantageous watching position, Odysseus accepts the
proposal almost unwillingly (88). Why is it so?
Most plausibly, Odysseus hesitation has something to do with the mad-
ness of Ajax, as he acknowledges (Aj. 812).34 Usually, internal audiences
do not witness madness scenes directly, but hear about them indirectly,
through the narrative of the messengers.35 Thus, the diffidence of Odysseus
could originate in the imminent appearance of a deluded man, in full
view, (perifanv, 81). Odysseus is, perhaps, afraid that he might become
part of the tragic spectacle when seeing the unmediated tragedy of Ajax.
Therefore he wishes he could be detached, outside the scene (ktv,
88). On a larger semantic scale, the prelude of Ajax may be taken as a
comment on tragedy as a genre arousing fear. It signals to the external
spectators that the view about to be seen reflects the instability of human
existence.
31
For example, Garvie 1998 writes that even if Odysseus is not a coward, his reluctance comes from
simple fear and his fear is a measure of Ajaxs greatness.
32
For all quotations of the scholia of Ajax, I use the edition of Papageorgius 1888.
33
Mastronarde 1979, 801.
34
Stanford 1963, 65, follows the scholiast in a sense, saying that: Nobody in his right senses would
want to confront a raving madman of Ajaxs formidable powers. He recognizes madness as the
reason for Odysseus hesitation, but he still implies that Odysseus is afraid of being attacked by
Ajax, who would be more powerful because of his delusion. This cannot explain why Odysseus
remains reluctant to see Ajax, even when he knows that he will not be seen.
35
See, for example, Euripides Bacchae, in which a messenger reports the final, famous scene of
madness (104152).
Sophocles: Ajax 189
In conclusion, the Sophoclean opening draws attention not only to the
similarities, but also to the dissimilarities between external and internal
audiences. Although the internal spectator could become almost like the
external one, unseen by other characters, he still is going to be involved
in the tragic action. Odysseus is not going to look at a tragedy but will
watch a fear-inspiring sight directly,36 without benefiting from the aesthetic
detachment of the external viewer. Perhaps, this dramatic device also serves
as a reminder for the external spectator. He is about to watch a sight, which
will be disturbing, even when seen from a protected place (as Odysseus
implies), so that the spectator should also feel anxiety at the sight of the
entering Ajax.
In all the tragedies that I have discussed thus far, verbal references to
watching the tragic action have played an important role, often leading to
internal emotional responses. In the Persians, to a great extent we see the
army and Xerxes through the eyes of the internal audiences (chorus, Atossa,
reports of messengers). In addition, the visual metaphor contributes to the
reversal, as the Persian army, a fear-inspiring sight at first, becomes worthy
of pity in the end. The Prometheus starts with descriptions of the way in
which internal spectators variously view the Titan, as a tragic sight (Hep-
haestus), or as a spectacle lacking pathos (Cratus). The prologue of the Ajax
deals with the liminal nature of the internal spectator himself, who observes
the tragic action, while being observed in his turn. Moreover, by Athenas
device, Odysseus remains invisible to the protagonist, which alludes to
the tragic convention (separation of tragic characters from their audiences)
and has further dramatic consequences. Thus, Ajax will perform in an
unusual setting, as he will be unaware not only of his external audiences,
but also of an internal spectator within his drama, Odysseus. This creates
the opposite metatheatrical effect from the one suggested in the Prometheus
Bound. When Prometheus starts speaking, he directly addresses his internal
spectators as well as other, universal audiences, which implies the exter-
nal audiences. He displays tremendous awareness of his status as tragic
protagonist, and expects the proper reactions from the viewers, which is
reminiscent of the metatheater of Greek comedy: direct audience address.
On the other hand, when Ajax enters the stage (91), with his vision dis-
torted by madness, he is not only unaware of being watched by an internal
spectator, but also unaware of how a viewer should respond to his plight.

36
This distinction between internal (though empowered) spectator and external audience seems to
escape Falkner 1999, 189, who notes that Odysseus appreciates Athenas artistry of placing him in
the position of empowered spectator but even so he wishes he were somewhere else.
190 Pity and fear within tragedies
Ajaxs inability to see emphasizes the position of the character in Greek
tragedy: incognizance of his audiences, by the design of the poet.
In his conversation with Athena (Aj. 91117), the deluded Ajax boasts
about having killed the two Atreidae and thinks that he is keeping Odysseus
as prisoner inside his tent for torture. Athena begs him not to torment the
wretched man, who supposedly is Odysseus (111). In reply, Ajax says
farewell (112) to Athena. He will let the goddess have her way in every
respect, with one exception, the punishment of Odysseus (Aj. 11213).
Athena pretends to let Ajax enjoy taking revenge on his enemy (114). In
his delusion, Ajax departs convinced that he is going to torture Odysseus,
with the goddesss approval (116). Now alone with the privileged spectator,
Athena addresses Odysseus:
Orv O
dusse, tn qen scn sh; (118)
Do you see, Odysseus, the great power of gods?
As if drawing a conclusion to the previous scene, the goddess emphasizes
the limitlessness of divine power, able to change human destiny. In doing
so, she takes Ajaxs plight only as an example (11920), and raises the
following rhetorical question: who could have found a more accomplished
and prudent man than this one (Ajax), (119)? This implies: and look at
him now. The comment of the scholiast to this is intriguing (at line 118,
Papageorgius, 11):
rv Odusse: paideutikv lgov ka potreptikv marthmtwn ka di
toto pthdev ka t Odusse ka t qeat.
See, Odysseus: the speech [of Athena] is educational, it turns one away from errors,
and therefore it is beneficial to both Odysseus and the [external] spectator.
The gnomic observation of Athena is therefore considered instructive,
(paideutikv), for both Odysseus and the spectator (qeat).37 Clearly,
then, according to the scholiast internal as well as external audiences inter-
pret Athenas words similarly, and so receive a moral lesson. A question
remains: what kind of ethical benefit should both types of spectators infer
from the words of the goddess? The answer appears to be provided by
Odysseus, who reflects on the sad transformation of Ajax as follows:
37
Hogan 1991, 186, wonders about the meaning of Athenas statement as follows: We may ask why
Athena speaks as she does and to whom? Is it possible Odysseus requires this lesson? Can this be her
personal admonition to him? Hogan, like the scholiast, concludes that the words of the goddess
cannot be addressed to the internal audience exclusively, but rather to a general one and compares
these lines (Aj.) to Euripides (Her. 8402), in which Iris talks about the imminent madness of
Heracles, thus showing to all the power of divinities over mortals.
Sophocles: Ajax 191
. . . poiktrw d nin
dsthnon mpav, kaper nta dusmen
qonek t sugkatzeuktai kak,
odn t totou mllon tomn skopn.
r gr mv odn ntav llo pln
edwl soiper zmen kofhn skin. (1216)
. . . I pity him, wretched man, nevertheless,
though being ill-disposed toward me,
because he has been yoked to an evil doom,
by looking at his situation as not much different from my own.
For I see that we all who live are nothing more than
appearances or empty shadow(s).
Despite the enmity, Odysseus feels pity (poiktrw, 121) for Ajax and
explains his emotion through a kind of syllogism, which perfectly fits the
Aristotelian ideal.38 Like Ajax, he is a human being, all human beings are
frail, and therefore his position is not much different from that of his enemy:
he could also suffer a similar (in very general terms) misfortune. Odysseus
does not mention fear here, but he appears to experience the type of abstract
fear that helps the spectator understand the universal human proneness to
suffering and nothingness, which Aristotle links to pity. Remarkably, both
Athena and Odysseus consider not only the individual case of Ajax but also
its general relevance. Furthermore, both use the verb to see not in the
sense of literally watching Ajax, but when they refer to a universal paradigm:
Athena refers to the power of gods, you see (rv, 118), Odysseus to the
fragility of mankind, I see (r, 125).39 In both cases the verb to see
could be translated by realizing, understanding. The internal spectator
metaphorically transfers the tragic sight of Ajax to another vision, the
seeing or understanding of human suffering in general. In the case of
Odysseus, the transfer is made through pity. While the scholiast already
labeled Athenas first words as educational, the goddess concludes with
other gnomic remarks, which could well stand at the end of a tragedy,40
and are in fact echoed by a gnome at the end of this tragedy. She declares
that by looking at such things (toiata tonun esorn, 127), Odysseus
should avoid arrogance (129). Human destiny can change in a day (1312),
38
I have already discussed the connections between Odysseus pity in this passage and Aristotles
description of the emotion in section 4.4.3.
39
Goldhill 2009, 31, puts it well: The difference between Athenes view of the scene and Odysseus
creates a space for the audience to discover its own critical distance from the violent and extreme
words of the stage.
40
Stanford 1963, 127; Ringer 1998, 37, observes: the prologue and the lessons Odysseus has learned
as audience member will help impart closure to the latter half of the play.
192 Pity and fear within tragedies
and deities like modest men (1323).41 Thus the goddess has underscored
once more metaphorical seeing (esorn, 127), as she seems to approve
Odysseus comments. In this instance, pity for the enemy leads to cognitive
inference and provides Odysseus with a broader view of his position as a
human in the universe. The scholiast believes that Athena teaches both
Odysseus and the external spectator an ethical lesson moderation by
revealing human limitations in relation to the divine.42 While Plato may
have rejected the idea of such a lesson coming from pity, many an ancient
spectator could have thought, as later did the scholiast, that this was an
essential lesson provided by tragedy.

8.3 mourning a former self


Upon his first entrance, Ajax was deluded and unaware of his only human
(internal) spectator. On his second appearance, he is sane.43 His words of
greeting to the chorus contain an invitation to watch his plight, behold
me! (desq me, 351), which is reminiscent of the Promethean appeals to
be watched. Afterwards, Ajax acknowledges seeing the chorus, I have
seen (ddorka, 35960), who could help him in the future. Finally,
he explains the sort of aid that he expects from his fellow men: join
in killing me (m sundxon, 361). This is an unusual request for the
chorus to participate in a horrific tragic action, not by showing emotional
support, but in a direct manner. The Peripatetic writer of the Problems has
described the chorus in Greek tragedy as inactive. Sometimes the chorus
seems nonetheless ready to join action. Thus, the Oceanides were willing
to share the fate of Prometheus (PV), which perhaps meant in that case
to endure misfortune passively together with the Titan, and also implied
that they would confront Zeus.
The chorus members respond by advising Ajax to keep religious silence
(efhma, 362), so that he will not suffer more than he already has.

41
Knox 1964, 67, and Blundell 1989, 602, observe the rare occurrence of the terms deriving from
the root sophr- in the surviving plays of Aeschylus and Sophocles. According to Knox, wisdom
(swfrosnh), a noun never used in Sophoclean tragedy, is not a virtue proper to a tragic hero,
who should rather defy common norms.
42
Feder 1980, 5676, and especially 907 for the Ajax, discusses the motif of being wise in Greek
tragedy, arguing that it generally means understanding the human condition as well as the over-
whelming power of the divine. For instance, Pentheus is mad and unwise paradoxically for
refusing to yield to the sacred madness of Dionysus in Euripides Bacchae.
43
Or so I take it, although the point at which Ajax regains his sanity is a matter of scholarly debate
(perhaps his madness includes the suicide), as is the point at which Ajaxs insanity starts (which is
perhaps before Athenas intervention); for a summary of the scholarly opinions on this matter, see
de Jong 2006, 73, n. 1.
Sophocles: Ajax 193
Throughout this exchange, the protagonist demands to be watched and,
at the same time, sees the chorus as potential co-doer of the tragic act. Yet,
Ajax further wants to make sure that his internal audience notes the depth
of his fall:
Orv tn qrasn, tn ekrdion,
Tn n daoiv treston mcav,
n fboiv me qhrs deinn crav; (3646)
Do you see me, the bold man, the one full of spirit
The one [once] fearless among the enemies in battles
So terrible in strength among the un-fearing beasts?
When summoning the chorus to look at him for the first time Ajax used
the plural form, look (desqe, 351), whereas here he employs the singular,
see (rv, 364). The difference in number may indicate that the chorus
should be taken as a group, in the first case, you, sailors of Salamis.44
By contrast, the chorus appears as a more abstract type of audience in the
second instance: you generic watcher.45 Furthermore, initially Ajax alerted
the chorus to his sorry plight (3513). In the latter passage, he wonders
whether the audience sees (364), or understands, the tragic change in his
identity. Thus, once he was fearless (trestov, 365) in battle, among
real foes, and therefore truly heroic. Now he is terrifying (deinv, 366)
among beasts that do not know what fear is, and is therefore subject
to ridicule (glwtov, 367). Ajax uses no temporal distinction, such as
once and now (which I have added) to mark the change, but an implicit
comparison between his past and present is obvious. The audience sees
the heroic Ajax, who is at the same time the ridiculed Ajax. Furthermore,
Ajaxs past and recent attributes are similar not trembling and terrible
(trestov, 365 and deinv, 366). Only the circumstances varied (he fought
against real enemies, then against defenseless cattle). The two postures
of Ajax, once truly fear-inspiring, now ridiculously frightening among
cattle, are reminiscent of the description of the Persian army, which is
initially frightening the enemy and then looking deplorable in Aeschylus
Persians. Like Prometheus, Ajax is concerned that the sight of him may
be laughable, yet unlike Prometheus, he does not directly appeal to pity.
44
As a group, the chorus interests are tightly linked to Ajax; this chorus, therefore, has no other
choice but to be faithful to its leader, unlike choruses who often can watch the suffering of the
protagonist detachedly in other tragedies, notes Roisman 1984, 123.
45
Calame 1999, 12553, examines differences in the way in which the chorus refers to itself as I and
we to suggest the presence or absence of the authoritative voice of the poet in the character of the
chorus. Equally interesting would be a study analyzing the way in which other internal audiences
refer to the chorus (as one or many).
194 Pity and fear within tragedies
Strangely enough, Ajax reiterates Athenas previous words, without realizing
it, and invites the audience to compare (literally see) the former Ajax to
his actual self. This should lead the external spectator to imaginative pity,
of an Aristotelian type, as it previously triggered Odysseus emotion.
In this context, the tragic rule metatheatrically emphasized in the pream-
ble, the disconnection between audience and stage action, may have deeper
implications for Sophoclean drama. At first, the protagonist is metaphor-
ically blind, as he does not visualize his own misfortune. As shown,
on his re-entrance he acknowledges the internal audience and realizes his
tragic status. He seems to have thus undergone a painful self-recognition,
accompanied by a reversal of the self-image. Perhaps this formula self-
recognition is best suited for a heros realization that he has been the
subject of a calamity, which appears to be a characteristic of Sophoclean
tragedy. The epitome remains, of course, Oedipus, in the Oedipus the King.
As Hyllus, another Sophoclean character points out (Tr. 1270), characters
are humanly blind, because they do not see the true actions of gods.
Generally, tragic recognition presupposes that characters discover the iden-
tity of other characters, or the nature of certain situations. Instead, Ajax
recognizes himself here as the subject of tragic spectacle.46 In fact, Tecmessa
briefly reports to the chorus a strange recognition scene (Aj. 31128), in
which the hero has perceived his real plight. Tecmessas account resem-
bles a messengers speech. It consists of a narrative in the narrative, as she
tells the chorus how she told Ajax what happened, and how he reacted to
her story. The scholiast comments (at 312) that the scene is full of pathos
because Ajax, now back in his mind, has to hear from the woman what kind
of things he has done (pnu d peripaqv tn mfronstaton Aanta
par tv gunaikv punqnesqai tna stn praxen atv). One rea-
son for the observation of the scholiast may be that Ajax, a former symbol
of masculinity, learns the truth from a mere woman. Another possibility
is that, in agreement with Aristotles dramatic preferences for imaginative
vision, the scholiast finds this very type of narrative strongly emotional,
and deplores Ajax for having found out the truth about his actions in this
manner.
As Tecmessa recounts, Ajax, back in his senses, forced her to reveal to
him what has happened, while he was mad.47 Though terrified (desasa,
315), she told him the truth. He reacted to the story as follows:
46
For blindness in Sophocles as a metaphor for human limits, see Buxton 1980, 2237, and Benedetto
1983, 11819.
47
Ajax uttered terrible threats against her, unless she should reveal to him all he has experienced
(pn . . . pqov, 313).
Sophocles: Ajax 195
O d eqv xmwxen omwgv lugrv,
v opot ato prsqen eskous g.
Prv gr kako te ka baruycou gouv
Toiosd e pot ndrv xhget cein
%ll yfhtov xwn kwkumtwn
pestnaze tarov v brucmenov. (Aj. 31722)
He broke out into sad lamentations,
Which I had never heard from him before
For he used to explain that such laments
Were befitting a weak and heart-broken man.
But he used to sigh without any sound
of shrill wailing, like a bellowing bull.
The outburst has had no precedent.48 Ajax yields to tragic lamentations,
which he despised formerly.49 Usually associated with choral expression
of pity in Greek tragedy, these lamentations resemble mourning. This
reaction closely resembles that of Odysseus (Od. 8.52131). On hearing
Demodocus song about the Trojan Horse, Odysseus starts weeping, like
a woman whose husband died in battle so that she is taken into slavery, a
woman whose cheeks are full of most pitiful weeping (leeinott ce,
530). As the Homeric hero listens to a song about his own deeds, so Ajax in
the play listens to an account of his deeds. Both lament as if they mourn.
Both appear to feel emotion when they hear their past suffering. However,
Odysseus probably does so through memory, Ajax through imagination
alone, since he does not recall what he has done.
What sort of pathos does Ajax express? If he listened to a story about
the suffering of another, then certainly his emotion would be pity. And yet,
he hears an account of his own deeds. If so, does he feel self-pity?50 To some
extent, he does. The mad Ajax has been another self, so that, in a way, the

48
Padel 1992, 1502, discusses the imagery of the passage. Ajax used to express sadness like a bull,
and later he chases a bull. Furthermore, his prior expression of grief used to be voiceless, a
sign of his isolation. His sharp cries after finding out what happened certainly resemble feminine
expressions of emotion, while the former state befits a virile attitude toward suffering.
49
Ajaxs previous opinion about shrill lamentation, as not befitting decent men, seems to be in
agreement with the Platonic criticism of tragic laments. In Plato (R. 3.387e388a) lamentations
derived from tragic pity should be left for women (especially worthless ones). Cf. Ajaxs later point
that a woman is most prone to wailing (filokiston gun, Aj. 580).
50
In Aristotle, pity is emotion felt at the suffering of another, through imaginative relating to the self
(as similar suffering might affect the pitier, or one of his). In this case, Ajax seems to feel pity for
a distorted self, whose suffering does affect him. Konstan 1999c argues that there is no self-pity in
ancient Greek culture, and he is certainly right in the Aristotelian sense. Most 2004 maintains the
opposite: in certain situations (among which he includes Odysseus crying at Demodocus song) the
Greeks seem to feel self-pity, and I think, he is right, too, only that Aristotle would have probably
called it sorrow.
196 Pity and fear within tragedies
sane Ajax hears about the misfortune of another. However, this misfortune
of another directly affects the sane Ajax and forever tarnishes his self-image.
Thus, through this unique recognition, as if he had been a spectator to his
own tragedy, Ajax appears to bemoan the loss of his former self. The scene
may well have aroused in the audience an Aristotelian type of fear, through
suggesting that anybody is prone to be transformed through suffering.
An interesting subsidiary tragedy is sketched in a speech of Tecmessa
(485524). Trying to prevent Ajax from committing suicide, the concubine
asks him to imagine the calamities that will fall on her and his family.51
She asks him to imagine how she will be taken into slavery when he dies
(495500). Furthermore, Tecmessa visualizes and tries to make Ajax see
with the minds eye how the possible spectators of her fate will talk about
the reversal of her fortune. Thus, Ajax should think about how people
will say: behold (dete, 501) the woman who once belonged to Ajax, the
mightiest of heroes, yet now she is falling into servitude instead of being
envied (5013). She requests that Ajax should feel shame (adesai, 506)
for abandoning his old parents, and urges him to take pity (oktire,
510) on his child.52 So far Tecmessa has wanted Ajax to imagine the future
calamities of his family, and thus feel emotion and change his mind about
suicide. She ends with imploring him to remember even her (sce kmo
mnstin, 520). Then she continues, for a noble man should keep in his
memory (mnmhn prosenai, 521) an experience, if it was pleasurable, and
if, perhaps, she has brought him grace (523). Overall, a noble man (eghnv,
524) does not let the memory (mnstiv, 523) of kindness pass away.
Tecmessas speech presents striking similarities with the Aristotelian
account of the arousal of pity in the Rhetoric. The concubine imagines
her own misfortune (as well as that befalling others who are dear to Ajax)
through using anticipation and memory. Moreover, she attempts to trans-
mit her vision to Ajax, by bringing it before his eyes, pro ommaton, so that
he could feel pity and change his decision.53 Although Tecmessa addresses
her plea to Ajax, she first receives a reaction from the chorus. Indeed, the
chorus responds to her speech immediately, by feeling pity, and wishes that
Ajax had the same reaction:
Aav, cein s n okton v kag fren
Qloim n . . . (5256)
Ajax, I wish you to have pity, as I do too, in my mind.

51
Cf. Andromaches plea to Hector (Il. 6.40739).
52
This is reminiscent of Priams prayer to Achilles in the Iliad, in which Achilles was asked to be
ashamed before Zeus, and pity Priams old age.
53
Thus, in a way, Tecmessa wants to influence Ajaxs reasoning, through emotional appeal.
Sophocles: Ajax 197
If the chorus is taken to represent the intermediary link between the emo-
tional response within the text and that of the external spectator, such
a comment may have a particular significance. As internal audience the
chorus displays its pity (okton, 525), hoping to transmit it to a dif-
ferent and more important interlocutor, Ajax, and similarly, perhaps, to
the external spectators. But there is a difference: the chorus, not directly
involved in the action, does not have to act as a result of feeling emotion,
whereas Ajax is requested to stay alive and protect Tecmessa on account
of his emotion. Ajax still does not immediately acknowledge sharing the
response of the chorus. Only later, before committing suicide, does he
confess his pity for Tecmessa.54 Even I, he says, who have been incredibly
strong, like iron, have been transformed into a woman in my speech
(qhlnqhn stma, 651), thanks to this woman. And I pity her (ok-
trw d nin, 652), that I should leave her a widow and my child an
orphan (653).
Expressing pity has required, in the heros terms, to be changed into
a woman, a remark that has puzzled commentators.55 This declaration
is reminiscent, nevertheless, of Tecmessas telling the chorus how Ajax
deplored his madness episode. Before that instance, Ajax appears not to
have known the unmanly tragic laments. Here, the hero himself refers
to his verbal display of pity as feminine, and as melting his masculine,
iron heart. Moreover, Ajax surprisingly declares his compassion, and yet he
will soon abandon her.56 While the speech of Tecmessa has succeeded in
arousing emotion, I believe, it fails to convince Ajax to act on this emotion.
Ajax has already mourned the death of his former self. The suicide appears
to stand for a physical fulfillment of the metaphorical end of his heroic life,
which has already happened in his view. Therefore, although Ajax still feels
tragic pity for the consequences of his death on his family, as anticipated by
Tecmessa, he cannot change his mind about the suicide, which likely comes
from a sense of pride as well as shame in front of his peers for losing his

54
Ajaxs expression of pity for Tecmessa (6513) is part of the third monologue of the hero (64692),
which gives the internal audiences the false impression that he will not commit suicide. Whether
he deliberately misleads his listeners or not is the subject of debate. Different scholarly views on
the monologue are summarized by Stanford 1963, Appendix D, 2818, and more recently, Garvie
1998, 1856, with bibliography.
55
Some take the woman transformation in his speech to mean that Ajax signals to his spectators
that his words are false, Knox 1964, 1389. Garvie 1998, 187, also underlines that speech, literally
mouth (stma), could mean edge of a sword and thus prefigure his suicide. Others believe that
Ajax declares his pity only in his speech, not in his behavior, such as Linforth 1954, 1516.
56
On this ground, it has been sometimes argued that Ajaxs pity is deceptive here, as is his whole
speech: the hero only pretends to feel compassion so that he can fulfill his wish (suicide), without
being suspected of doing so (for example, Blundell 1989, 92, and Garvie 1998, who writes one
would like to believe that at least Ajaxs compassion is sincere.).
198 Pity and fear within tragedies
self-image. Ajaxs decision to kill himself, despite feeling pity for his dear
ones, is very similar to that of Hector, who decides to keep fighting against
the Greeks, even though this will lead to perdition and in spite of pitying his
wife, Andromache (Il. 6.44065).57 Many members of the ancient audience
may have thus considered Ajaxs final act noble and befitting the heroic
code. Later on, for instance, Demosthenes lists the suicide of Ajax among
other examples inspiring courage (Funeral Speech 60.30), because the hero
takes his own life when it is no longer worth living.
In the same final monologue, Ajax poses a fascinating rhetorical question:
Hmev d pv o gnwsmesqa swfronen; (677)
How shall we not learn how to be temperate?
Now Ajax knows (678) that an enemy should be hated only to the extent
to which he will become a friend one day, whereas friends may not always
remain friends.58 Interestingly, in the question, the subject is the first per-
son, plural pronoun, (mev, 677), and this lexical choice could be simply
ornamental, or may have a deeper meaning. When asking the question,
Ajax may not simply refer to himself, I, but also to internal audiences and
external ones as well, and generally to all we, human beings. From Ajaxs
example, Odysseus also had seen that we (mv, 125) are all frail crea-
tures, insubstantial shadows. Afterwards, he had a chance to learn from
Athena how men should be temperate (132), since anyones fate could be
reversed in a day. To a great extent, Ajaxs final discourse parallels that of
Odysseus at the beginning of the play. Both Ajax and Odysseus feel pity
(one for a deluded foe, the other for an abandoned wife and child). Both
learn that human affairs are fickle, therefore even enmity and friendship
are relative. In both cases, nevertheless, neither tragic emotion nor tragic
cognition can change ones destiny. In his concluding monologue, Ajaxs
knowledge about temperance seems to be gnomic in nature. Such learning
places the tragic hero in the universal category of human beings, we
(mev), to which all belong, whether audiences or tragic protagonist.
57
In this respect, Tecmessas use of emotional persuasion fails. In certain cases, nevertheless, in which
eleos as emotion conflicts with a sense of pride, the appeals to pity may be only partially successful.
Thus, Andromache (Il. 6.40539), like Tecmessa, succeeds in moving Hector to pity, yet not in
stopping him from his doomed confrontation with Achilles. As Hector explains (Il. 6.44065),
pity for Andromache cannot prevent him from facing death, which would mean losing his heroic
identity in the eyes of the community.
58
See Blundell 1989, 859, for the traditional Greek views on the reversal of friendship and enmity, as
well as the contradiction between this idea in Ajaxs speech and his former beliefs that enemies are
always enemies. Heath 1987, 1957, talks about the manipulation of the internal audiences, who
may think that Ajax has forgotten his hatred for his enemy and therefore renounced the idea of
suicide, whereas external audiences know that he will have to pursue his plan.
Sophocles: Ajax 199

8.4 lack of tragic pathos after the suicide


After the suicide of Ajax, the play deals with the problem of whether
the hero should be granted a proper burial, a theme also common in the
Antigone and Trachiniae. This second part of the drama contains a quarrel
between Teucer, defending the honor of the dead hero, and the Atreidae,
insulting Ajaxs memory. In conclusion, Odysseus intervenes to make sure
that Ajax receives the burial. In addition, he declares that Teucer, his
former enemy, should be now his friend (13767), perhaps fulfilling Ajaxs
intuition: friendship and enmity become irrelevant when misfortune strikes
human beings. The scholiast comments at 1123 on the quarrel between
Teucer and Menelaus and, generally on the dramatic content of Ajax,
following the heros death:
T toiata sofsmata ok okea tragdav met gr tn naresin pek-
tenai t drma qelsav yucresato ka luse t tragikn pqov.
These kind of sophistic arguments are not proper to tragedy.59 For, after the suicide,
[the poet] wishing to prolong the drama, has let it grow cold and loosened the
tragic emotion.
Many modern scholars have considered this observation of the scholiast
and, after interpreting it as an accusation against the lack of dramatic unity,
some have tried to defend Sophocles and to emphasize the importance of
the burial theme.60 The scholiast, however, seems to criticize not necessarily
the compositional structure, but the lack of emotional expression, pathos,
within the last part of the drama, thus implying the absence of emotional
response from the external audience. Furthermore, he suggests that cer-
tain formal elements of the quarrel, clever arguments (sofsmata), are
not usually proper (okea) to tragedy. And, indeed, several interpreters
have found lexical and dramatic elements reminiscent of the agon of Old
Comedy in the confrontation between Teucer and the Atreidae.61 Even if
we recognize these comic elements, a question still remains. Why would
59
A few lines later, when Menelaus (1126) complains that Ajax should not prosper in his death,
after killing him (attempting to kill him), to which Teucer responds that Menelaus cannot talk
about being killed if he is alive (1127), an exchange which I have mentioned earlier in the chapter.
A scholiast comments on this ironic talk about death (1127): this is rather (proper) to comedy than
tragedy.
60
Among scholars defending the unity of the play against the scholiast are, for example, Kitto 1956,
198, and Garvie 1998, 9. Whitman 1951, 778, and Scodel 1984, 202, recognize the formal division
of the play, yet praise the importance of the second part as vindicating the reputation of Ajax.
61
Fraenkel 1920 had already identified formulae in the quarrel that seem to belong to the popular
comic genre of riddles. Poe 1987, 228, provides a detailed analysis of the comic exchange of insults
between Teucer, Menelaus, and Agamemnon.
200 Pity and fear within tragedies
Sophocles opt for this dramatic design? The scholiast believes that the
dramatist wanted to prolong the play, and yet why so? A reason could be
that in previous literary tradition, Ajaxs fall started with a quarrel between
the hero and his foe, Odysseus.62 Sophocles omits the direct confrontation
between the two at the beginning of his play (perhaps as unworthy of tragic
pathos), but replaces it with a surrogate dispute at the end of his drama.
A second explanation, which does not contradict the first, could be that
after an unusual display of pathos within the first part of the tragedy, the
poet wants to loosen the emotional response of his audience. In fact, this
part of the tragedy does not seem particularly designed to stir pity, which
likely is the embodiment of tragic pathos according to our scholiast as well
as earlier Aristotelian standards.
In a dramatic setting similar to the Prometheus, enemies, Menelaus
and Agamemnon, accuse Ajax of wickedness, whereas the well-disposed
Teucer defends the unfortunate hero. Menelaus (105290), for example,
offers clear reasons that should prevent one from feeling sympathy for the
deceased Ajax and could justify denying his burial. Firstly, Ajax betrayed
the bond of friendship when attacking the Greek army, as if he had been
the worst enemy, although he was considered a friend (10524).63 Secondly,
he always used to be insubordinate. At this point, Menelaus generally talks
about the insubordination that generates violations of law and order. His
speech reconsiders the meaning of moderation, a notion that earlier in
the play referred to the relationship between the human and divine and
understanding the mutability of human fate. Menelaus applies this notion
to social norms instead. Laws (nmoi, 1073) cannot function in a city,
unless people have fear (dov, 1074) and respect. An army cannot be
governed wisely (swfrnwv, 1075), unless people have fear and shame
(1076). Since Ajax did not understand civic responsibilities and did not
obey rules, he deserves the label arrogant (bristv, 1088). Later on,
Agamemnon accuses Teucer, the defender of Ajax, of not being moderate
(o swfronseiv, 1259) and of being arrogant (brzeiv, 1258) also because
he breaks social norms (daring to contradict the superiors, though born
from a slave). In this way, the detractors of Ajax try to shift the semantics of
wisdom, from awareness of the limits of human beings, the sense in which
Athena used the notion, to respecting the civic order. In addition, Menelaus

62
See the introduction to this chapter for Ajaxs legend in the epic cycle and Aeschylean trilogy.
63
As de Jong 2006, 93, concludes her essay, each character has a different view about Ajaxs actions
caused by madness: Menelaus interprets Ajaxs attack as enemy combat, but earlier Odysseus,
Athena, the chorus, Tecmessa, and Ajax himself have their own versions of the story as well as their
own moral judgment.
Sophocles: Ajax 201
replaces the Aristotelian tragic fear, explained by human anxiety in the
face of unknown vicissitudes that the future may bring, with fear of civic
disobedience, meaning respect for laws (a Platonic position in the Laws).
Therefore, these hostile exchanges of words between internal audiences
appear to invite the external spectator to see Ajax no longer as a tragic
paradigm of human frailty, causing metaphysical anxiety, but rather as a
civic failure, whose example one should be afraid to follow.
While these accusations of Ajax may have persuaded some of the external
spectators, they are clearly dismantled at the end of the play. Unlike the
internal voices that are sympathetic to Prometheus on emotional grounds
and do not dismiss the critics of the Titan with logical arguments in the
PV, Teucer, for instance, responds to Menelaus specifically: Ajax did not
owe the Atreidae obedience, since he was his own master (10931117).
Moreover, the final intervention of Odysseus almost dictates to the exter-
nal audience to respond with compassion to the fall of Ajax. Remaining
unsympathetic to the suffering of the hero means to be harsher than the
fiercest enemy. Odysseus reinforces the idea that friendship and enmity are
relative notions (135560) and wants to honor Ajax because he himself will
need burial one day (1365), thus again relating the misfortune of his former
enemy to the self, as he did when he first expressed his pity. The chorus
praises him as wise (sofn, 1374). This remark seems to reinforce the
meaning of wisdom as found in the prologue of the play: a feeling of
compassion for another through understanding the universal human con-
dition, which rejects Menelaus version of wisdom relating to social order.
Paradoxically, Odysseus pity, which is based on the philosophical realiza-
tion of the particular being part of the universal and not on the rigid belief
in the social order of the Atreidae, restores harmony in the community and
solves the conflict between the friends and the enemies of Ajax.
Even though the scholiast considered the last part of the play to possess
less pathos, which perhaps meant that it was less conducive to pity, it still
contains several appeals to this emotion. Thus, when the chorus wants to
see the corpse of Ajax (91214), Tecmessa covers the dead and responds that
he is not to be seen (915) and that the sight of the lifeless hero will shock
a friend, such as Teucer (9201).64 A reaction of horror at the sight of the
dead is acknowledged as possible, but generally avoided for the sake of the
viewers here. Tecmessa further exclaims, oh ill-fated Ajax, now deserving
lamentations even from enemies (ka par cqrov xiov qrnwn tucen,

64
She anticipates thus the reaction of Teucer, who exclaims at seeing the corpse of Ajax a sight not
to be seen (Aj. 1004).
202 Pity and fear within tragedies
924).65 This resembles the comment of the chorus in Oedipus the King,
anticipating the first entrance of Oedipus after he has blinded himself:
. . . qama d esy tca
toioton oon ka stugont poiktsai. (OT 12956)
You will soon see such a sight that
it would make feel pity even one who hates him.
The scholiast remarks on the line from the Ajax (924): a climax with
respect to emotion, as even the ill-disposed feel pity (axhsiv per t
pqov, v ka tov dusmenev leen). As a reader, the scholiast is moved
and praises the arousal of pity even in the hostile audience, which seems
to be an important motif within the play. Finally, the Ajax ends with a
gnomic statement of the chorus (141820) echoing Athenas initial gnome.
Mortals know many things when they see them (dosin, 1418). No one
can predict what he will do in the future, before seeing (prn den, 1419).
The conclusion may have induced anxiety in the external audience. Judging
by the play, one could suddenly behold oneself as a tragic spectacle and
we, all, including spectators, are subject to the caprices of fate. Therefore,
the final comments move from the direct vision of the end of Ajax and the
battle for his burial to an abstract sight: the realization of the instability
and fragility of human existence, from the particulars of this tragedy to the
universals of human suffering.
This play constantly reinforces the idea that viewers ought to respond to
tragic suffering with a type of pity that transcends friendship and enmity
and is based on the abstract realization that everyone is prone to misfortune.
This realization also appears to have been at the core of the Aristotelian link
between tragic fear and pity. But Sophocles Ajax goes beyond Aristotle,
who refrained from specifically developing the topic of the morality of the
tragic emotions, to suggest a clear ethical benefit, wisdom (sophrosyne)
derived from pity: contemplating anothers misfortune helps us to esti-
mate our correct place in the universe, our limited powers, and to avoid
arrogance.

8.5 some notes on tragic fear(s): conclusions


to sophocles
Explaining fear as a response to tragedies remains one of the most
thorny problems of the Poetics, and perhaps, more extensively, of modern
aesthetics in general. As I have suggested, according to Aristotle, ideally,
65
This is directly opposite to pitiful to friends, often emphasized in PV.
Sophocles: Ajax 203
the spectators abstract realization of the frailty of human affairs, thus of
his own mortality, should produce tragic fear, and this is prompted by
pity for the tragic character. Characters witnessing suffering within the
tragedies have presented other possibilities so far, but no internal viewer
passes exactly through the psychological process that produces the type of
fear we might expect from reading Aristotles Poetics in connection with
the Rhetoric, although Odysseus pitying his deluded enemy seems to come
closest to the Aristotelian model in the Ajax. Next I would like to examine
briefly other varieties of fear in Sophoclean tragedy.
Oedipus at Colonus offers valuable insights into certain peculiar varieties
of fear provoked by the tragic spectacle and underscores the complex
relation between these various types of fear and pity. The elders from
Colonus, who form the chorus of this Sophoclean play, resemble closely
the external, Athenian audience in several respects.66 Unlike most tragic
choruses, they are not foreigners, but locals.67 Moreover, they treat the
story of Oedipus in a manner very similar to the Athenian contemporary
spectators: they know something about the misfortune of the Theban king,
but they would like to hear the heros direct narrative:
T toi pol ka mhdam lgon
cr zw, xen, rqn kousm kosai. (OC 51718)
Your story is widely spread and never ends,
yet I wish, oh stranger, to listen to its true version.

From a metatheatrical perspective, the chorus resembles the external


audience who has pre-knowledge of the tragic myth but wants to hear
the version of a particular playwright: to hear the correct hearing (rqn
kousm kosai, OC, 518). In anticipating the performance of the tragic
story, the chorus reveals the paradoxical psychology of the listener who is
passionately fascinated with the abhorrent events:
deinn mn t plai kemenon dh kakn,
xen, pegerein
mwv d ramai puqsqai. (OC 51012)
It is terrible, oh stranger, to reawaken
a misfortune long laid to rest,
but, nevertheless, Id love to find out.

66
Beer 2004, 1567, underscores the connections between the chorus, representative of Colonus, one
of the demes of Attica and birthplace of Sophocles, and the external Athenian audience.
67
Travis 1999, 3786, observes that the chorus should relate to both Athenian audiences and to
Oedipus and thus facilitates a connection between the two.
204 Pity and fear within tragedies
The interactions between the chorus and the old, blind king of Thebes
provide a unique example of the emotional tensions inherent in viewing
suffering. Immediately after divulging his identity, Oedipus wants to dispel
the fear (dov, OC 223) that he might pollute the community. The
chorus members request, however, his immediate banishment, so that he,
a polluted foreigner, should not become a burden to Athens (OC 226;
22936). They acknowledge that they pity him and Antigone, but fear for
themselves and, therefore, they cannot offer safe haven:
ll sqi, tknon Odpou, se t x sou
oktromen ka tnde sumforv crin
t d k qen trmontev o sqnoimen n
fwnen pra tn prv s nn erhmnwn. (OC 2547)
But know, child of Oedipus, that we equally
pity you and him for your fortune
but trembling at [the thought of] what might come from the gods
we cannot find the strength to promise more than what weve told you.

In this situation, the internal viewers pity others and fear for themselves.
Should not this be the Aristotelian formula for the tragic emotions? In this
instance, trembling, fear for oneself does not come from an abstract
thought (such as universal predisposition toward suffering) but from a
concrete expectation that Oedipus plight would directly and immediately
affect the observer. Naturally, if the viewer fears that the sufferer might
directly harm him, he cannot feel pity at all. Therefore, commonly, in the
appeals to pity, the sufferer indicates that he or she is harmless. Thus, in
Sophocles Philoctetes, the ailing hero asks the visitors not to be repelled at
his sight (here probably fear is a form of horror or disgust), but to pity
him:

. . . ka m m kn
desantev kplagt phgriwmnon,
ll oktsantev ndra dsthnon, mnon,
rmon de kfilon kakomenon,
fwnsat . . . (Ph. 2259)
Do not shrink from me,
in fear, do not be repelled at my wild appearance,
but talk to me, after pitying a lonely, unfortunate man,
afflicted thus, bereft, without a friend. . . .

Tragic fear, therefore, appears to be incompatible with some common


types of fear, such as horror in this passage from Philoctetes, or the type of
Sophocles: Ajax 205
regular fear that might compel one to flee the suppliant. In the Oedipus
at Colonus, Oedipus underscores his innocence several times and insists
that the chorus ought not to dread pollution. He insists upon the fact that
people (hence, the chorus) fear only his name (noma mnon desantev,
OC 265), not his person or actions (OC 266). He willingly explains the
truth about his mother and father, on behalf of which they feared him
(kfob, OC 269), and maintains that he had acted in ignorance and
should be thus free from guilt, clean, (kaqarv, OC, 548).68
But even if the sufferer can trigger the viewers pity, sometimes the
emotion may still not find fulfillment in action, or in the kind of action
that the sufferer desires. And this is particularly true when the spectator
fears that some misfortune, similar to that of the sufferer, might affect
him immediately. Philoctetes complains that strangers stop from time to
time on the desert island of Lemnos, on which he ails: those people pity
(leosi, Ph. 308) him with words; even give him food and clothing while
pitying him (oktrantev, Ph. 309); but none would give him what he
asks for, namely to take him home. In the Oedipus at Colonus, the elders of
the chorus acknowledge that, indeed, the Theban king is entirely worthy
of pity (pxiov mn, Odpouv, katoiktsai, OC, 461).69 However, they
do not act on account of their pity and do not offer Oedipus immediately
what he hopes for: shelter.70 They suggest instead that he should perform an
additional rite of purification for trespassing the grove of the Eumenides.71
At this point, no doubt, the elders from Colonus are certainly sympathetic
toward Oedipus, are willing to give him advice (OC 4614), and even
would fear on his behalf, (deimanoim n, xn, mf so, OC 492),
in case he failed to appease the goddesses. But they base the outcome
of Oedipus request on his ability to perform the ritual. On the other
hand, Theseus swiftly grants Oedipus a place of refuge, after pitying him
(oktsav, OC 556). Unlike the chorus, Theseus does not seem to be afraid
that Oedipus could harm the city. Furthermore, he connects with Oedipus
through remembering past similar misfortunes his own life in exile

68
On the problem of Oedipus guilt and innocence, see Markantonatos 2007, 8391, and n. 26, for a
review of previous bibliography.
69
As Beer 2004, 157, observes, in the OC, the chorus moves to a more benevolent attitude toward the
Theban king by accepting his innocence, after initially being appalled by the actions of Oedipus
and expressing the same kind of feelings as the chorus of the OT after the king blinds himself.
70
See Hogan 1991, 93, on line 460, for a review of the requests for protection and shelter in the OC.
71
Hass 2003, 1712, offers an interesting perspective on the grove of the Eumenides in the play as
liminal space between life and death. Regarding the ritual of purification, see the commentary of
Jebb 2004, 812, on lines 46773; generally, for this chorus crucial involvement in the action of
the play, see Dhuga 2005.
206 Pity and fear within tragedies
(OC 5616), and ends his initial speech with a general statement on the
brevity of human life that, again, connects him to Oedipus:
xoid nr n cti tv ev arion
odn plon moi so mtestin mrav. (OC 5678)
I know that being a man I have no bigger share
in tomorrow than you do.
This type of reasoning closely resembles Odysseus way of relating to
his former enemy, Ajax (Aj. 1216), namely an abstract realization of the
common mortality shared by both internal spectator and sufferer. The word
fear never occurs in either passage. Yet, this pessimistic awareness of the
unavoidable end appears to contain a latent, almost universal (although
we should perhaps exclude Plato and the Platonic philosophers), kind of
anxiety. This abstract, common anxiety related to inevitable death seems
to dissolve the differences in the tragic examples. Thanks to this, Odysseus
no longer sees Ajax as an enemy in the Ajax; Theseus regards Oedipus not
as a hapless exile, but as a similar human being in the Oedipus at Colonus.72
Within the plays, the viewers acknowledgment of the universal frailty of
the human condition, which likely contains latent anxiety regarding death,
comes with a form of pity without reservation (Odysseus for Ajax, Theseus
for Oedipus). Conversely, other, more immediate and concrete types of fear
(i.e. the chorus in the Oedipus at Colonus), which relate to the spectators
fear that the misfortune of the sufferer might affect him in some form, may
lead to a kind of pity that is not followed by appropriate action.
In conclusion, two features of Aristotles tragic pity seem both important
and, at times, elusive in drama: the time frame and the harmless condition
of the sufferer. Thus, the spectator who pities another should imagine that
he might suffer similarly in the future (or have suffered similarly in the
past) but ought not to imagine immediate similar suffering. By noting that
others, better than us, have suffered, Aristotle suggests, we, spectators, pity
those and feel tragic fear for ourselves, and this process leads to the abstract
realization that we all are prone to suffering and death. These emotions
help us fraternize with the sufferer, at least from the perspective of our
mortality (cf. Odysseus does see himself as similar to Ajax from this point

72
There is an earlier interesting epic parallel, in which Glaucus responds to Diomedes question
about his ancestry with an observation about the frailty of human generations, which pass as fast as
generations of leaves (Il. 6.14551); the two warriors discover some good reasons not to fight each
other, but perhaps this awareness of the universal transitory nature of humanity also helps their
decision. On the connection between the pursuit of glory and the reflection on mortality in this
passage and epic in general, see Goldhill 1991a, 7780.
Sophocles: Ajax 207
of view in the Sophocles tragedies). But tragedies offer other examples
in which observing suffering prompts the viewers to dissociate from the
sufferer rather than associate themselves with him. And dissociation raises
additional ethical problems concerning when, how, and to what degree
the pitier ought to intervene and try to alleviate someone elses misery.
Moreover, the fall of one individual may bring relief to the collective
pain, and the myth of Oedipus illustrates the situation best: the kings
unspeakable, terrible misfortune soothes the pain of the ailing Thebans.
Tragic choruses, for example, may show pity for an unfortunate character,
but this does not lead them to the revelation that they all resemble the
sufferer, who is perceived as unique in his misery: instead they wish never
to experience such suffering, or hope that good behavior can help them
avoid such misfortune. How do these internal tragic emotions relate to
the external spectator? Or do they at all? In depicting extreme pain and
horrific afflictions, Greek tragedies appear to belong to the consolatory
genre, sketched as we have seen ironically in the fragment of Dionysiazusae
by Timocles, and having a long Indo-European tradition, which Aristotle
uses but transforms in his theory. Some internal audiences, then, seem to
reinforce the pitiers dissimilarity from the pitied: in pitying the sufferer,
we (internal and external audiences) may nevertheless keep our distance
and find solace in hoping never to experience similar extreme misfortunes.
chapter 9

Euripides: Orestes

9.1 context and interpretations: a play with


a rather comic end
More than any other tragedy analyzed so far, the Ajax evoked through
plot and certain internal reactions a type of pity that comes closest to
the Aristotelian theoretical description. The spectators were invited to feel
pity through understanding the particular misfortune of Ajax in relation
to human universals and, in this way, to experience anxiety about their
own ephemeral condition. Conversely, as literary critics suggest at times,
Euripides Orestes appears to have departed from Aristotles recommen-
dations. The author of a hypothesis to Orestes, commonly identified as
Aristophanes of Byzantium (third century bce), notes that this drama has
a rather comic denouement, (kwmikwtran cei tn katastrofn, 32)1
and most characters are base (faloi, 44), perhaps in the sense of comic.
This is the term used by Aristotle to describe comic characters. The Poetics,
for example, distinguishes between imitation of noble (spoudaoi) and
base (faloi) people (Po. 4.1448b247; 5.1449a324), the former being
proper to tragedy, the latter to comedy.2 Tragic devices that do not stir pity
and fear receive the labels of not proper to tragedy and rather proper
to comedy in the Poetics and later in the scholia of Ajax. In the Poetics,
double plots bring pleasure to the audience but a pleasure not proper to
tragedy but rather to comedy (oc ath p tragdav don ll
mllon tv kwmdav okea, Po. 13.1453a356), because the tragic proper
1
For a critical commentary on the text of the hypothesis, see the edition of West, Euripides Orestes
(1987), 5960 and 178. West notes at 178 that the expression denouement of comic type occurs not
only in the hypothesis to Orestes but also, almost verbatim, in that to Euripides Alcestis and can be
confidently ascribed to Aristophanes of Byzantium. He agrees with the suggestion of Pfeiffer 1968,
277, who says that the objections to the Euripidean drama, as found in this hypothesis, could in fact
belong to the Peripatetic Didymus (first century bce).
2
Comedy is later defined as mimesis of baser people but not in respect to every type of badness:
kwmda stn sper epomen mmhsiv faulotrwn mn, o mntoi kat psan kakan (Po.
5.1449a323).

208
Euripides: Orestes 209
pleasure comes from pity and fear (Po. 14.1453b12). A scholiast (Aj. 1123)
noted that the arguments of the debate (involving Teucer, Menelaus, and
Agamemnon) were not proper to tragedy, because the poet loosens the
tragic pathos. Therefore, the writer of the hypothesis of the Euripidean
play may well imply in his critique that, ultimately, the tragic action and
the conduct of characters in the Orestes are not emotionally conducive.
Modern scholars do not agree on whether Euripides rendition of the myth
of Orestes would have compelled the spectator to respond with sympathy
for the plight of the heroes.3
If, at times, scholars have doubted that pity was a reaction of the original
audiences in the case of other tragedies analyzed in this book, they have
not questioned whether the general composition of tragic plots could stir
the emotion. By contrast, many argue that the plot itself of the Orestes, an
unusual Euripidean rendition of the myth, could not have aroused pity in
ancient (as well as modern) audiences. A major problem in interpreting
the plot as being overall conducive to pity consists of the transformation of
Orestes and Electra from victims of fate, who are about to die, into makers
of their own destiny, about to kill Helen and harm Hermione. West has
noted that ancient spectators likely felt pity for the plight of Orestes and
his sister, even though they become vengeful at the end of the play, because
it was accepted in Greek culture to harm ones enemy.4 Nevertheless, it can
be argued, most Greek tragedies focus on the suffering of the heroes and
not on their vengeful acts, and this includes other dramatic versions of the
myth of Orestes, such as Sophocles Electra. Moreover, other considerations
may have interfered with the arousal of pity. Audiences could have been
disturbed, for example, by the fact that Helen and especially Hermione
did not directly harm Orestes,5 so that they could not be properly consid-
ered enemies and by the claim that killing women could grant Orestes
heroic glory (1140).6 Mastronarde concludes his recent analysis of Euripi-
des Orestes with the following observation:7 the audiences sympathy is
first strongly engaged and then confused and repelled.
My study of the play will examine specific innovations in Euripidean
techniques of emotional arousal to see if they are truly unusual and, in this
3
Like Aristophanes of Byzantium, some modern scholars imply that the plot of Orestes is not tragic:
for example, Kitto 1961, 348, who calls the play a melodrama, Barnes 1964, and Conacher 1967,
21315. Burkert 1974 emphasizes unorthodox elements of the Euripidean plot in comparison to the
mythical tradition.
4
West 1987, 334.
5
Konstan 2001, 518, argues that pity cannot find true expression within the play, because characters
lack emotional detachment.
6 7
On this, see Schein 1975, especially 623. 2010, 85.
210 Pity and fear within tragedies
case, how they may have intrigued ancient audiences. Euripides originality
will be discussed by looking at internal appeals to pity and fear in the Orestes
in contrast to those found in other tragedies and in contrast to Aristotelian
criteria. Additional aspects of the play as well as of the spectators responses
will be mentioned, such as possible differences between popular and elite
audiences in reacting to elements of surprise, literary allusions, and ethical
issues presented in the tragedy.
The Orestes was first produced in 408 bce8 and became one of the most
popular Greek tragedies throughout antiquity. Direct evidence for the
popularity of the play comes, for example, from a didascalic inscription,
mentioning a performance in 340 bce at the City Dionysia.9 Examination
of the manuscript tradition indicates that the text of the Orestes has been
changed by numerous interpolations of actors, which further suggests fre-
quent performances.10 Aristophanes of Byzantium confirms the success of
the Orestes among popular audiences in the hypothesis, but he suggests a
different reception of the play among the elite:
T drma tn p skhnv edokimontwn, ceriston d tov qesi pln gr
Puldou pntev faloi san. (434)
The play is one of those that are appreciated on stage, but it is inferior with respect
to its characters: all are base apart from Pylades.

This comment is reminiscent of the Aristotelian complaints about the


poets habit of pleasing the taste of the many and not using the best tragic
devices in the Poetics. Most likely, Aristophanes of Byzantium expresses
dissatisfaction with the characters of the play by thinking of the Aristotelian
standards for characterization. This critique finds direct correspondence in
the Poetics, which specifically criticizes Menelaus, one of the characters in
the Orestes:11
pardeigma ponhrav mn qouv m nagkaav oon Menlaov n t
Orst . (Po. 15.1454a289)
An example of unnecessary wickedness of character is Menelaus in the Orestes.

8
As West 1987, 45, notes, there is no reason to doubt this date given by the scholiast (line 371).
9
IG ii. 2.2320.19; Pickard-Cambridge 1968, 109, discusses inscription and its significance. Xanthakis-
Karamanos 1980, 2834, collects evidence for the popularity of Euripidean plays, which includes
epigraphy, references to performances by later authors, parody in comedy, and vase paintings. After
discussing the didascalic information, he concludes that the Orestes was one of the most popular
plays in the fourth century.
10
Page 1934, 415. Diggle 1991 offers the most complete study on the manuscript tradition.
11
For the characterization of Menelaus, see Greenberg 1962.
Euripides: Orestes 211
Other dramatic elements in the composition of this tragedy may have
also displeased those ancient spectators who were fond of Peripatetic literary
criticism, while likely these elements did not bother or may even have
pleased popular audiences. An elitist spectator might have disliked the fact
that Euripides gives the Orestes a happy ending. In this respect, a scholiast
comments (on Or. 1691, Schwartz, 241):12

katlhxiv tv tragdav ev qrnon ev pqov katalei, d tv


kwmdav ev spondv ka diallagv. Oqen rtai tde t drma kwmik
katalxei crhsmenon diallaga gr prv Menlaon ka Orsthn.
The denouement of tragedy dissolves either into mourning or into suffering/
emotion (pathos), whereas that of comedy leads to truces of peace and reconcilia-
tion. Hence it is seen that this drama makes use of a comic denouement, for there
is reconciliation between Menelaus and Orestes.

While almost repeating the observation of the hypothesis (rather comic


end), the scholiast explains more clearly why, in his opinion, the play does
not have a tragic finale: because it does not effect pathos. Interestingly, the
scholiast also mentions as a proper tragic ending mourning (qrnov),
a notion already associated with tragedy by Plato and, perhaps, with the
Aristotelian proper pleasure of tragedy, as I have argued. Immediately
after distinguishing between tragic and comic endings, the scholiast gives
other examples of tragedies, such as Euripides Alcestis and Sophocles Tyro,
which similarly end happily therefore like comedy concluding that such
things are often found in tragedy (Schwartz, 241).13 Despite the preference
of the critics, a happy ending may have been nonetheless a device that most
spectators liked in tragedy by the fourth century bce. An early indication
of this is the comment of Aristotle, who prefers tragedies concluding in
adversity, but feels the need to defend Euripides (for being right to end
most tragedies in misfortune, contrary to what some others believe).14 In
this respect, Orestes is evidently not one of those tragedies that would have
needed Aristotelian defense. Moreover, the final scene of the play depends
on a deus ex machina, the intervention of Apollo. The Poetics recommends

12
For the text of the scholia, I am using the edition of E. Schwartz 1887.
13
This point leads Heath 1987, 17, to believe that the scholiast contradicts himself, because he is
compelled to admit that the phenomenon to which he takes exception is rather common in tragedy.
A tragedy, then, may end happily (though only after troubling vicissitudes). Yet, the scholiast wants
to emphasize not so much the exceptionality of happy ending in tragedy, I think, but rather its
incompatibility with the emotion/suffering (pathos) specific to tragedy.
14
Po. 13.1453a236.
212 Pity and fear within tragedies
that denouements should issue from the plot itself (lseiv tn mqwn x
ato de to mqou sumbanein, Po. 15.1454a37b1) and that the deus ex
machina should be employed only for events outside the drama (mhcan
crhston p t xw to drmatov, Po. 15.1454b23).15 Therefore, a
spectator of Aristotelian persuasion may have wished to see the plot of
the Orestes end in a logical sequence. He would have then found Apollos
appearance undesirable, especially when the god not only interferes in the
dramatic action but stops it abruptly.16 Conversely, many others may have
liked the denouement particularly for the element of surprise involved in
the sudden appearance of Apollo.17
Background for the Euripidean tragedy was provided by numerous lit-
erary sources dealing with the myth of Orestes, such as Homer and other
poems of the epic cycle, the lyric poetry of Stesichorus (Oresteia and Helen
Palinode), and Aeschylus Oresteia, to mention only a few.18 Euripides
ability to use these sources seems to have been unique. As Zeitlin has
demonstrated in an excellent article,19 Euripides does not simply allude to
previous literary tradition, he constructs entire episodes through reference
to tradition and, in particular, through dismantling Aeschylus Libation
Bearers and Eumenides. The scene placed at the beginning of the Orestes,
for example, when the hero sleeps, echoes the opening of the Eumenides as
an inverted reminiscence.20 Here Orestes is asleep and a prayer is made
to the Night, whereas it is the Furies who sleep and Night is the mother of
terrors in the Aeschylean play. Other dramatists used this kind of reference
to previous dramatic tradition, although it is difficult for us to detect the
extent, given the limited number of extant Greek tragedies.21 Nevertheless,
the Orestes extensively and systematically refers to the Oresteia in key scenes,
which may have particular significance, considering that the Aeschylean

15
Lowe 2000, 738, provides a detailed analysis of the expectations for a transparent closure in classical
plot and emphasizes the contrast between Euripides preference for deus ex machina and Aristotles
preference for a probable, logical ending.
16
As Goward 1999, 1267, remarks: it is only in three tragedies, IT 1437f., Hel. 1642f., Or. 1625f.,
that the god actually puts an end to the action with the cry, Stop. It seems that the Aristotelian
ideal of logical flow of plot is most extremely violated by this type of deus ex machina, in which
Apollo orders the heroes to cease (pasai, Or. 1625) their action. Some modern critics consider
Apollos intervention completely inadequate, truly unable to solve the conflict between the city and
Orestes. Thus, for instance, Dunn 1996, 15961.
17
Arnott 1983, especially 268 for the end, presents ways in which the dramatic surprises of this play
may have enticed the audience. Quijada 1991, 228, underscores the fact that the Orestes, more than
any other Greek tragedy, is built on a series of visual surprises.
18
Useful discussions of Euripides drawing upon the literary tradition in the Orestes are offered, for
example, by Reinhardt 1960, 22056, Wolff 1968, and, more recently, Wright 2005, 56157.
19 20
Zeitlin 1980. As Zeitlin 1980, 55, puts it.
21
Aeschylus already seems to have done so, by alluding to the Phoenissae in the first line of the
Persians.
Euripides: Orestes 213
trilogy may have been revived around 420,22 and thus been fresh in the
memory of the audience. Euripides appears therefore to be inviting the
spectators to compare his play to the Aeschylean dramatic treatment. This
could lead the audience to a unique type of cognitive pleasure, which is
based on reasoning this is that. Reaching pleasure comes, according to the
Aristotelian formula, from watching the tragedy as imitation, mimesis, of a
fearful and pitiable action. Instead, or perhaps in addition, the spectators of
the Orestes enjoyed likening two types of mimeses through inferring how the
Euripidean imitation of myth relates to the Aeschylean: this is how Euripi-
des refers to that Aeschylean scene. In Aristotles opinion, mimesis generally
produces cognitive pleasure, derived through reasoning (this is that), but
tragic mimesis has an additional component, which is emotional. When the
spectator, then, focused on how Euripides Orestes imitates Aeschylus tril-
ogy, he would feel delight through recognizing similarities and differences
between the two. This is a cognitive type of pleasure, similar to noting the
resemblance between a painting and the original model, yet it does not
involve also painful emotions, which tragic imitation of an action should
do, according to Aristotle. Such a type of pleasure is involved in parody.
Perhaps one of the reasons that Aristophanes makes Euripides a target of
parody is because he senses that Euripides himself used techniques of par-
ody to allude to his precursors. This may also explain why comic poets
seem particularly interested in the Orestes.23

9.2 an optimistic opening gnome: not fear-inspiring


The Orestes opens with an explanatory prologue, delivered by Electra,
which first contains a gnome:
Ok stin odn deinn d epen pov
od pqov od xumfor qelatov,
v ok n rait cqov nqrpou fsiv. (13)24

22
West 1987, 31, proposes that the Oresteia was first put on stage in 458 bce but probably performed
again around the 420s.
23
A synopsis of the comic interest in the play is provided by Arnott 1983, 13. Wright 2008a, 1012,
makes an intriguing suggestion, namely that in the Orestes Euripides parodied his own play, the
Andromeda, in the scene between the Phrygian and Orestes. See also Wrights earlier article (2006)
and his book (2008b), 11530, for a discussion of literary allusions and metatheatricality in the
Orestes.
24
Kovacs 2003, 736, appraises an alternative reading proposed by a scholiast, which is not followed
by Cicero and by most modern editors. This proposes in line 2 of the prologue the accusative instead
of the nominative: xumforn qelaton, in which case the translation would be it is impossible to
name any word so terrible, any god sent-disaster . . . etc. Further, Kovacs considers the possibility
of an v instead of d in the same line which would give the standard periphrastic comment, v
epen pov, to say so, and thus would include a strange relativist aside of the playwright.
214 Pity and fear within tragedies
There is no story that frightening to tell
Neither suffering nor misfortune brought by a god,
That human nature might not take up as a burden.
In most Greek tragedies, a gnomic statement of this sort would be placed at
the very end (as is the case in the Ajax) or, sometimes, in choral odes antici-
pating or following a major episode.25 The function of such aphorisms was
likely to arouse fear in the spectators by emphasizing the uncertainties of
human destiny, as suggested by Aristotles Rhetoric. Ancient audiences were
probably surprised by this unusual position of the gnome in the Orestes,
which appears to reverse the normal order of tragic display. Euripides
does not start with the particulars of the heros misfortune to suggest the
universals of human condition, but rather with the universals to explain
the particulars of his story (pov, 1). Furthermore, the meaning of the
gnomic utterance may have intrigued some spectators, as the later testi-
mony of Cicero suggests:
Itaque non sine causa, cum Orestem fabulam doceret Euripides, primos tris versus
revocasse dicitur Socrates:
Neque tam terribilis ulla fando oratio est
Nec fors, nec ira caelitum invectum malum,
Quod non natura humana patiendo ecferat.
Est autem utilis ad persuadendum ea quae acciderint ferri et posse et opportere enu-
meratio eorum qui tulerunt. (Tusc. 4.29.63)
Therefore it is not without reason that, while Euripides was putting on the Orestes,
Socrates is said to have asked to repeat the first three lines [ . . . translation of the
three lines Euripides Orestes 13, see above].
For the reckoning (enumeratio) that whatever things happen both can and must
be endured is useful for argumentation as it is useful the counting of those who
have endured such things.
Certainly, the fact that Socrates wanted to hear again the aphoristic open-
ing of the Orestes cannot be proven historically.26 Yet, Cicero gives us the
sense that he and probably others before him found some unique mean-
ing in these first lines of the play. The significance of the gnome is no
25
There are, of course, exceptions, such as Sophocles Trachiniae (13), opening with a gnome about
the fickle nature of human destiny and Euripides Heracleidae (15), opening with a gnome more
optimistic in tone, relating to a just mans ability to help others, even if he is in misfortune.
26
Although Pickard-Cambridge 1968, 274, does not deny the possibility of such an incident, he is
rather surprised by it: Socrates himself is said to have called for a repetition of the first three lines
of the Orestes, which contain a not very profound observation, but Cicero who tells the story does
not say what happened.
Euripides: Orestes 215
longer that mankind is prone to suffering, never knowing future vicissi-
tudes, which would have inspired fear, as usual in Greek tragedy. It is rather
that human nature can endure future hardships (as the Ciceronian com-
ment stresses: misfortunes can be withstood (ferri), people have endured
them (tulerunt)), which brings a message of hope to the opening of the
Orestes. Interestingly, both the gnome itself and Ciceros comment recall
the idea of tragedy as a type of consolation, present in Timocles and having
an old Indo-European origin: we can bear any fate because others, before
us have done so, even when they were afflicted with greater misfortunes
than we are. Aristotelian argument on how an orator could inspire fear
by showing that people are such that are prone to suffering and others
have suffered (R. 2.1383a712) both echoed and reversed the consolation
technique. Yet, it is important to notice that, in most Greek tragedies, such
gnomic statements apparently maintain the Aristotelian sense, reminding
people of their own mortality and nothingness, but this particular gnome
in the Orestes abandons the usual pessimism and returns to an encouraging,
consolatory tone.

9.3 competing for pity


In the opening scene, Helen expresses sympathy for the suffering of Elec-
tra, whom she calls unfortunate (tlaina, 73), pain for the death of
Clytaemnestra (I sigh, lament, stnw, 77, azw, 80) and pity for
Orestes, wretched (mleov, 90), who is ill, being pursued by the Erinyes.
Furthermore, Helen would like Electra to reciprocate her compassion and
free her from fear (fbon lsasa dv, 104). She explains that she is
afraid (ddoika, 103) even of going to make libations for her deceased sis-
ter, because the city of Argos still holds a grudge against her for starting
the Trojan War. Electra refuses her any favor and, as if competing for the
spectators pity, shows why she alone deserves sympathy. Her suffering is
before the eyes and does not need any verbal explanation:
Elnh, t soi lgoim n ge paros rv; (81)27
Helen, why should I tell you what you see in front of you?
By contrast, Helen and Menelaus are, in reality, fortunate (makara
makriov, 86).28 Furthermore, Electra draws attention to another detail
27
Electra makes, however, an additional argument to describe verbally her suffering (2534), saying
that her eyes melt from tears for her crazed brother.
28
For the use of such words in this play compared to other Euripidean tragedies, see McDonald 1978,
23351.
216 Pity and fear within tragedies
proving that Helen pretends to mourn the death of Clytaemnestra, while
being in fact concerned only with her image:
dete gr krav v pqrisen trcav
Szousa kllov; . . . (1289)
Have you seen how she has shorn her braids along the edge
To save her beauty?
The scholiast wonders whether Electras question, starting with have you
seen (dete, 128), addresses the internal or the external audiences and opts
for the latter (128, Schwartz 110):29
T edete nt to doi tiv n . . . Enioi d fasi tav dmws tata lgein. O d
prv t qatron, ka meinon.
Have you seen [is used] instead of one might see . . . Some argue she says these
to the servants [chorus members]. Others, though, argue that she addresses the
theater, which is better.
Similar exclamations (see, look) that could be addressed to both internal
and broader, universal audiences occur in other tragedies as well. In the
PV, the Titan invited everyone to see his suffering. In Sophocles Ajax
and OT such appeals were made at the end, to reinforce the spectators pity.
The difference is that Electra invites audiences to see the scene not in
order to arouse pity, but rather to prevent them from feeling the emotion
for another character who asks for it, which is not the customary technique
of arousal of emotion.

9.4 the vision of the erinyes


At the beginning of the play, Orestes suffers from some kind of illness,
in which exhaustion follows moments of hallucination.30 He seems to
be barely alive when sane31 and struggles with the Furies when seized by
madness. Electra, his only help, tries to cure him, explaining that his crazed
visions of the Erinyes are only an invention of his mind:
Orv gr odn n dokev sf ednai. (259)
For you see nothing of what it seems to you that you see clearly.

29
Bain 1975 discusses this particular comment of the scholiast together with other similar examples.
30
Smith 1967.
31
When she is first approaching the sleeping Orestes, the chorus tells Electra to check if her brother
has not already died (katqann, 209); on this, see also Chong-Gossard 2008, 1215. Menelaus
thinks he sees a ghost when he first encounters Orestes (385).
Euripides: Orestes 217
As this comment implies, Electra doubts the real presence of the Furies, the
vengeful goddesses, who try to exact religious retribution in the Aeschylean
trilogy. She suggests instead that her brother suffers only from a psycholog-
ical disturbance, perhaps related to his remorse for killing Clytaemnestra.
Moreover, Electras reaction as internal audience becomes fascinating when
compared to Odysseus response to Ajaxs madness in the Ajax. Odysseus
did not dare to look at the deluded Ajax, not because he thought that Ajax
saw real things while hallucinating but because he felt that his enemys
misfortune could befall anyone and that it reflects universal human frailty.
Odysseus reaction, his wish to stay out, metatheatrically mirrored the
complicated connections between internal and external spectator when
watching the tragic action. By contrast, Electra wants to pull Orestes out
of his delusion, which she defines as such, while, at the same time, sig-
naling to the external spectator that the heros suffering is only an effect
of a dramatic illusion. The sight of a madman frightens the viewer in the
Ajax,32 whereas the same sight leads the internal spectator to skepticism in
the Orestes. After not being able to rescue Orestes from his hallucinations,
Electra concludes:
Kn m nos gr ll doxz nosen,
kmatov brotosin pora te ggnetai. (31415)
Even if one is not ill, but it seems to him that he is,
anguish and helplessness occurs for the mortals.

Pain is the effect of delusion, if the madman believes in it, Electra implies,
even though his vision is not real. And, from a metatheatrical perspective,
painful emotions will be the effect of dramatic illusion, if the spectator
chooses to believe in the tragic vision.
At the same time, audiences (both internal and external) do not see the
Erinyes directly, but through the eyes of Orestes, which is in accordance
with Aristotelian preference for no direct visual effect.33 Orestes, a spectacle
himself, internally watches a spectacle, and threatens to kill his visions if
they do not move out of his sight (cwrv mmtwn mn, 272). This likely
intrigued the external spectators who would not know what to believe. As
Padel has put it, Is Euripides Orestes a madman whose madness is that
he sees Erinyes? Or a man punished by goddesses, visible seemingly only to

32
Similarly, Orestes strangely asks Pylades whether he is reluctant (knseiv, 793) to stay in his
company for fear that he may catch his madness. The same word, reluctance, was used by
Odysseus to refuse Athenas proposal to watch Ajax.
33
In Aeschylus Eumenides, the Erinyes are, of course, seen on the stage.
218 Pity and fear within tragedies
him, and only when they inflict on him bursts of madness?34 The only way
in which the external audience can see the Erinyes consists of fancying
them and sharing the vision of Orestes, who imagines them. Thus, despite
the warning of an internal spectator (Electra), the audience can decide
to imagine the Erinyes. Ancient commentators consider this Euripidean
device to be absolutely thrilling. Longinus takes as the perfect example
of poetic phantasia 35 the scene in which Orestes prays to his mother not
to send the Furies, while at the same time he starts having visions (Or.
2557):36
ntaq poihtv atv eden Erinav d fantsqh mikro den qesasqai
ka tov koontav ngkasen. Esti mn on filopontatov Eripdhv
do taut pqh, manav te ka rwtav, ktragdsai. (Subl. 15.23)37
Here the poet himself saw the Erinyes and compelled the listeners almost to see
what he has imagined. For Euripides makes most strenuous efforts (lit. is hard
working) to render tragically these two emotions: madness and feelings of love.
Longinus praise of Euripides is strongly reminiscent of the Aristotelian
observation that the most convincing (piqantatoi) are those poets
(and/or actors, tragic characters) in the grip of emotions (n tov pqhsin),
because they best convey feelings (Po. 17.1455a302), which continues with
the following point:
Di efuov poihtik stin maniko totwn gr o mn eplastoi o d
kstatiko esin. (Po. 17.1455a324)
Poetry is the work of a gifted person or of a madman, the former [kind of poets]
are easily molded [adapting themselves to different characters], the latter [kind of
poets] are good at becoming ecstatic.
In this passage of the Poetics, the poets madness likely concerns the artistic
ability to go beyond the ordinary state of mind (to become ekstatikos)38 and
to imagine strong passions, which so become embedded in poetry. This is
what Longinus seems to believe that Euripides has done when he represents
34
Padel 1992, 1889.
35
Webb 1997 provides a valuable survey of rhetorical and poetic imagination in the ancient world.
36
Longinus offers a second example, that is the moment when a shepherd describes to Iphigenia (IT
291) the behavior of a madman who is prey to the same delusion (Erinyes attacking him). This man
turns out to be Orestes.
37
The use of the word listeners (koontav) for audience perhaps implies (as in the scholia of Aj.)
that the spectators do not see the vision of Orestes, but imagine it through listening to the heros
words.
38
The Aristotelian use of the word here does not involve in any way diminishing the merit of the
artist, as it does in Platos writings (as the poet who becomes ek-static may be inspired but has no
knowledge of what he is saying).
Euripides: Orestes 219
the Furies in the Orestes: the tragedian himself saw (had a vision of ) the
Erinyes and so almost forced (ngkasen) the audience to share it,
through showing the protagonist in the middle of his madness.
The scholiast also seems to incline toward this interpretation, as he writes
(on line 257, Schwartz 124): Orestes in a state of enthusiasm imagines that
he sees the Erinyes (tv E rinav nqousiastikv fantzetai rn).
The use of the term enthusiastically is rather strange in this context.
One has first to be ekstatikos out of ones sound mind to then become
enthusiastikos, enthusiastic (i.e. possessed by divine will, inspired), in
Greek culture. It is the poet who inspires the protagonist and ultimately
the audience with the hallucinations of the Erinyes, thus creating a chain
of vision. Perhaps not all spectators were pleased with the absence of visible
Furies on the stage. Some may have felt frustrated for not being able to look
at the Erinyes directly during the performance of the Orestes and compare
the visual effects to those of Aeschylus Eumenides. Such spectators perhaps
did not bother at all to imagine the Furies, together with Orestes, since
they were only an illusion, as Electra has noted. For the Aristotelian type of
spectator, nevertheless, Euripides technique is the best, as it fuels Orestes
and viewers alike with inspiration to discern with the eyes of the mind the
unseen Erinyes. This triggers the emotional participation of the internal
audiences: the chorus responds to the scene of Orestes madness with pity
(leov, 333) and deplores the fear-inspiring toils (deinn|pnwn, 3423)
that came over the house of Agamemnon, like stormy gusts. The presence
of the vengeful goddesses on the stage pertains to well-known, yet particular
details of the Oresteian legend.

9.5 not so tragic pity and fear


In all the tragedies discussed so far, internal audiences have expressed dif-
ferent views about the tragic action. These views are usually contradictory:
sympathy or lack of sympathy for the suffering of the protagonist. Thus, in
the Prometheus Bound, Hephaestus finds the sight of the tormented Titan
pitiable, while Cratus and Hermes do not. In the Ajax, the sight of the
dead hero does not move Menelaus and Agamemnon, whereas it compels
Odysseus to act on pity and grant proper burial to his deceased enemy.
Therefore, the external audience is presented with two opposite models of
response one is pity, the other lack of pity and the former emotional
model is more strongly emphasized than the latter. Comparatively, in the
Orestes, the internal reactions of the audiences belong to a more complex
spectrum. The same characters may shift their positions on the same issue,
220 Pity and fear within tragedies
and this makes it much more difficult for the external spectator to adopt
one internal view as opposed to another.
A crucial event, Orestes killing of his mother Clytaemnestra to avenge
the death of his father Agamemnon, precedes the action of the play, but
it is constantly revived through the remarks of internal audiences. The
topic raises complicated ethical and religious problems for the spectators
(internal and likely external), who have to grant the young hero absolution
from crime before responding with pity to his misfortune. Unlike in other
tragedies, internal audiences do not quite know how to feel about the
death of Clytaemnestra and act as if they were searching for the appropri-
ate emotion. Orestes himself initially feels shame (adv, 460) to appear
before the eyes (v mmata, 461) of his grandfather, Tyndareus. Nonethe-
less, by trying to explain the reasons for killing his mother, Orestes passes
to excessive boldness (qrasn , 607), as Tyndareus notes. The hero
emphasizes first his in-between, liminal position, which is so often the
case with tragic hamartia. He stands both within and outside sacred law:
unholy (nsiov, 546) for shedding the blood of his mother but holy
(siov, 547) for being justified in doing so. After accepting in this way
some responsibility for his deed, Orestes denies any guilt, arguing that he
obeyed Apollos ordinance and, therefore, the god has made a mistake not
I (kenov mart, ok g, 596). Tyndareus insists that the victim alone,
his daughter, deserves pity. He wonders what his murderous grandson felt
when Clytaemnestra was pleading for her life and adds:
. . . g mn ok dn tke kak
dakroiv gront fqalmn ktkw tlav. (5289)
Poor me, even without seeing that horrible scene [the actual killing]
I melt my old eye away in tears.
Tyndareus is moved to tears through imagining the murder scene and even
without seeing it directly, which is the best way to arouse pity, according
to Aristotle. Here, the mention of eleos is made to divert any possible
sympathy for Orestes and turn the feeling exclusively toward the deceased
Clytaemnestra.39 This concerns directly an internal spectator, Menelaus,
(534), asked not to intervene before the city of Argos on behalf of Orestes,
who deserves death for his crime and is hated by the gods (531). At the
39
Tyndareus, nevertheless, condemns Clytaemnestra too, saying that she has died deservedly
(ndika, 538), which should not be conducive to pity, but he argues that she should have not
been murdered by her son (539). He further threatens Menelaus (625) and accuses Electra (615) of
inciting Orestes to commit matricide. Thus, overall, Tyndareus tries to dissuade the audience from
responding with sympathy.
Euripides: Orestes 221
same time, this plea may also influence the external spectator and it is very
similar to Electra invoking pity for herself while she proves that Helen is not
worthy of such an emotion at the beginning of the play. Both Tyndareus
and, previously, Electra appeal to pity and, at the same time, try to dissuade
the spectator from feeling the emotion.
Finally, Menelaus responds initially with sympathy for Orestes, whom
he calls unhappy man (mleov, 447) and whom he is ready to help in
misfortune. Yet, he becomes confused after hearing the debate between
Orestes and Tyndareus:
Eason n maut ti sunnoomenov
p trpwmai tv tchv mhcan. (6345)
Let me be! Im thinking about something in my mind,
Im at a loss about which alternative I should turn to.
Aristotles criticism of Menelaus in the Poetics as being inconsistent with-
out necessary reason (m nagkaav) appears to be somewhat unfair, as
the character thinks analytically (sunnoomenov, 634), trying to decide
what course of action he should take. In Greek tragedies, nevertheless, it
is highly unusual to have a character responding with sympathy toward
ones misfortune and then hesitating to maintain that feeling or to act on
it (without having reasons to think that helping the pitied could affect one
negatively), and this perhaps explains the Aristotelian reaction.40 Eventu-
ally, Menelaus contrasts two conflicting emotions that people might feel
toward Orestes: there is pity and also angry resentment (nesti d oktov,
ni d ka qumv, 702). He vaguely promises to defend Orestes before the
assembly (70416), implying that communities should benefit more from
acting with compassion than from doing the opposite. Orestes, however,
does not believe Menelaus words (71721). Orestes murder thus does
not simply divide the internal audiences into those sympathetic and those
hostile to him, but stirs reactions that range from shame and defiance
(Orestes himself ), to anger (Tyndareus), to pity, confusion, and hesitation
(Menelaus).
A messenger brings Electra and the chorus news from the trial at Argos
(866956). The trial described in the messengers narrative presents sev-
eral possible outcomes, but the winning proposal is a death sentence
for Orestes and his sister, which has been occasionally interpreted as a
40
Other possibilities regarding Menelaus fault have been pointed out by Kyriakou 1998, who
suggests that Menelaus does not return the favor that he owes to Agamemnon: he does not help his
brothers children, his kin (philoi); for a development of this argument, see also Konstan 2006,
1803.
222 Pity and fear within tragedies
reflection of Euripidean pessimistic views about Athenian democracy.41
Indeed, the messenger recounts the trial in a dramatic manner, presenting
each of the five speakers, their discourses, and the reaction of the assem-
bly, to conclude that justice has not triumphed. A simple farmer (920)
proposed the acquittal of Orestes and Electra and seemed convincing to
decent men (crhstov e lgein faneto, 930). The same verdict was
suggested by Orestes, who, nevertheless, failed to persuade the crowd
(ok peiq milon, 943). Therefore, a sharp contrast is drawn here between
the elite, who understand sound reasoning, and the crowds, who do not.
Furthermore, the condemnation of the young hero provides Euripides with
the means of returning to traditional devices of emotional arousal. In antic-
ipation of his trial, in a conversation with Pylades, Orestes imagines how
people might pity him:
Or. Ka tiv n g m oktseie
Pu. Mga gr egnei sou.
Or. Qnaton scllwn patron.
Pu. Pnta tata n mmasin. (7845)
Or. And someone might pity me.
Py. For your nobility.
Or. And being indignant at my fathers death.
Py. For all this is before (peoples) eyes.
The invitation to pity is made in Aristotelian terms, as Orestes plight is
before the eyes, and based on logical argument (Agamemnons death was
unfair). When announcing the death sentence and the decision of Orestes
to commit suicide instead of being stoned, the messenger warns Electra
that seeing her brother will be heartbreaking:
Pikrn qama ka prsoyiv qla. (952)
Bitter spectacle and painful sight.
Anticipating that something terrible is about to happen increases pity
according to Aristotle and later commentators. And here, too, the chorus
41
Pellling 2000, 1657; 1848, offers the best suggestions: the Orestes might, indeed, reflect the poets as
well as his audiences disappointments with recent historical events, such as the Sicilian expedition,
the oligarchic revolution, and the democratic counter-revolution. To an extent the play portrays
a gloomy world: as participants in the trial debate are despicable, so afterwards young aristocrats,
Electra and Orestes, fail to win our sympathy when they take Hermione hostage. On the other
hand, Euripides views seem to remain optimistic as his characters express trust in comradeship (Or.
8046, 1072) that could overcome all hardships. For a more extensive analysis of this last aspect,
see also Rawson 1972.
Euripides: Orestes 223
does respond with pity immediately after hearing about the sentencing of
Orestes: pity, pity (leov, leov, 968), and, furthermore, invites us all to
contemplate the tragic fate of Agamemnons children:

Eqnh polpona, lesseq v par lpdav


mora banei. (9778)
Much toiling nations of people, look how Moira
transgresses expectations.

The invocation addresses all audiences and places the misfortune of the
heroes in the perspective of human suffering, in general. This scene could
stir the Aristotelian kind of tragic emotions: pity through anticipation
of the heroes death (as Orestes and Electra are about to die), and fear
(as tragic suffering pertains to the universals of the human condition).
Euripides, however, decides to add an episode, in which he manipulates
again the conventional techniques of emotional arousal.
But the play does not continue, as we might anticipate. Instead of
committing suicide, Orestes, Electra, and Pylades decide to die nobly or
even escape, by killing Helen, and, later on, by taking Hermione as hostage.
They plan to trick Helen into believing that they would die, move her to
tears, and then kill her. Thus, Helens emotional response to a tragedy
that of Orestes and Electra leads her, a sympathetic viewer, to her own
disaster. Yet, Orestes imagines that Helens pity will not even be genuine
but it will have the desired effect (to entrap her) anyway:

Pu. gouv prv atn qhsmesq pscomen


Or. st kdakrsai, g ndoqen kecarmnhn. (11212)
Py. We will bemoan our sufferings to her
Or. So that she would cry, though rejoicing inside, in her heart.

In this manner, the heroes want to stage a drama (featuring their own
imminent death) to bring perdition to one of their (internal) spectators,
who responds with pity to their plight. Later on, Electra is afraid, fear holds
me (fbov cei me, 1255) that Orestes and Pylades might not succeed in
murdering Helen. Yet, this is not the abstract tragic fear that something
terrible might happen to yourself or one of yours but rather a different
emotion: anxiety that a plan to do something terrible to someone else
might not succeed. Hermione becomes a victim of the plot and is taken
hostage when yielding to Electras appeal to pity:
224 Pity and fear within tragedies
. . . trafesa mhtrv n ceron mv
oktiron mv kpikofison kakn. (13401)
. . . You who nursed in the arms of my mother
pity us and release us from our woes.
If hostage scenes appear elsewhere in Greek tragedies,42 appeals to pity to
entrap someone appear to be a specialty of Euripides, and they probably
shocked ancient audiences.43 The initial murderous plan fails, as Helen
vanishes into thin air while being attacked by Orestes. Pity for another can
bring ruin to the self.
Afterwards, Orestes interrogates a Phrygian slave, whom he threatens
to kill but ultimately spares (151828).44 The scholiast remarks on this
scene (on line 1521, Schwartz 230): these things are rather comic and low
(lit. pedestrian) (tata kwmikter sti ka pez). While bringing
on stage a messenger who belongs to a group of slaves is not unusual for
Euripides,45 the interaction between the frightened slave and Orestes is
strange. Orestes mocks the Phrygians fear of death, which is usually a pro-
found and serious theme in Greek tragedies. He wonders, for example: why
should you, a slave, fear Hades, who will deliver you from lifes miseries
(dolov n fob tn +idhn, v pallxei kakn; 1522). The Phrygian
responds: everyone, even a slave fears Hades (1523). This exchange is,
perhaps, an ironical allusion to Achilles words in the Odyssey describing
the underworld: it would be better to be a servant among the living than
king among shadows (Od. 11.48791). Several parodic elements, alluding to
Euripides own Andromeda (Wright 2006; 2008a), and perhaps to tragic-
epic tradition, add to the comic taste of the episode. From an Aristotelian
perspective, which likely explains the comment of the scholiast, the scene
has not much to do with tragic fear: a low-class character, supposed to
suffer, suffers and is about to die (no major reversal or surprise here). But
he does not even die, since Orestes suddenly decides not to kill him: there
42
Creon, for instance, briefly takes Antigone as hostage and threatens to seize Oedipus (OC 81897).
43
Konstan 2005b, 517, makes an interesting argument that the characters in this play lack the
necessary detachment required for the appropriate formation of pity. I shall provide similar examples
from Euripidean tragedies, in which pity is used for manipulation, in the next section.
44
The most detailed treatment of the Phrygian messenger scene is provided by Porter 1994, 183213.
Wright 2008a underscores the comic nature of the entrance of the slave and the possible use of a
mechane, which is reminiscent of Socrates coming on stage in Aristophanes Clouds. Wissmann 1997,
35560, discusses the fear of the Phrygian slave through the fifth-century cultural expectations for
a barbarian, to behave like a coward and be effeminate, but she notes that Orestes himself risks
appropriating these undesirable characteristics.
45
On this, see Porter 1994, 194, and footnote 57.
Euripides: Orestes 225
is no major surprising turn in the plot to assure a narrow escape (which
Aristotle might have endorsed), but only an inexplicable change of mind
(which Aristotle certainly despised).
At the end of the play, Menelaus re-enters without understanding the
plot to which he belongs. He has heard that his wife is not dead but
vanished, yet he cannot trust such a messengers speech: it must be an
empty rumor, announced by someone deluded by terror (Or. 15589). He
finds the whole matter, as devised by Orestes very ridiculous, comic
(polv glwv, 1560), and perhaps he should feel fear, but does not know
what has been done, or dramatized (t crma drsai; parakalev
gr ev fbon, Or. 1583).46 The plot designed by Orestes and his friends
appears to be a distorted version of a usual tragedy. Its creators have no
control over the outcome, as, for example, the killing of Helen does not
take place, a deluded messenger announces that someone did not die, and
an internal spectator does not know whether he should be afraid. Ulti-
mately, Apollos intervention ends the confusion and explains the dramatic
events.
As the peculiar uses of emotional appeals and expressions at the end of the
tragedy suggest, the Orestes proposes to the audience a type of pleasure that
is different from Aristotles oikeia hedone, which comes from tragic pity
and fear. The audience could feel pleasure and cognitive stimulation from
the numerous dramatic surprises. The idea that one can escape tragic fate,
despite all odds, is certainly enjoyable, but sets the tone for optimism, which
is very different from both Aristotles expectations for tragic fear and most
other gnomic statements in Greek tragedy. Euripides does not completely
abandon traditional invocations to pity and fear, which are present before
and immediately after Orestes death sentence. Orestes encounter with the
Erinyes is in accordance with the Aristotelian preference, inviting to pity
not through direct visual effect, but through imagination. The dramatist,
nevertheless, plays with the convention, suggesting infinitely more possible
reactions to tragic events: feeling pity for someone might lead to lack of
pity for another (as Electra and Tyndareus imply) or even lead one into
trouble (as happens to Hermione). A slave can fear death too, but need
not die. These possibilities do not belong to tragedy but rather to
comedy, as ancient literary critics declare constantly. Perhaps they are
right in the sense that such devices were not common in tragedy before
Euripides.
46
This is the type of confusion that characters often experience in the New Comedy of Menander.
226 Pity and fear within tragedies

9.6 the trap of pity: orestes, medea, and


helen particularities of the tragic emotions in
euripidean drama
Pity is an emotion based on the possibility that the pitier might be in a
situation similar to the pitied some day, or that he has suffered similarly,
according to Aristotles definition in the Rhetoric. On the other hand, the
pitier should not fear that he or she will become the sufferer on account of
the pitied. Therefore, proof that the sufferer is harmless often becomes an
essential condition for the arousal of pity, as we have already observed in
Sophocles Oedipus at Colonus. Several Euripidean plays, however, propose
an unsettling scenario, in which granting pity brings personal ruin. In
the above-mentioned scene from the Orestes, Electra successfully stirs her
cousins emotion with the following appeal: pity us and alleviate our mis-
fortunes (oktiron mv kpikofison kakn, Or. 1341). While Electra
and her brother indeed find themselves in a terrible situation, they can still
endanger Hermione, and indeed they entrap her as soon as she responds
with pity. In fact, in regular situations, according to Aristotles Rhetoric,
the pitier has to relate to the pitied by fearing, i.e. imagining or remem-
bering a similar calamity. Yet, the pitier should not fear directly the person
in misfortune. If the pitier fears directly the suppliant, he should not act
on account of his emotion of pity (i.e. to provide help, shelter, etc). Now
Hermione seems unaware of exposing herself to harm when she responds
to her cousins plea. In other instances, the pitier vacillates between the
impulse of acting on his emotion for another and the instinct of self-
preservation. The most famous example of this sort occurs in Euripides
Medea. Creon, the king of Corinth, enters the stage and orders Medeas
exile, aware of her anger toward Jason and likely resentment toward the
royal family (Med. 2716).47 He openly admits: I fear you (ddoik s,
Med. 282).48 In fact, the banishment of the heroine is the direct result of
Creons acting on account of his fear. Naturally, Medea tries to dissipate the
impression that she might be dangerous, saying that she has been unfairly

47
Johnson and Clapp 2005, 140, take the scene in the Medea as a reflection of social awareness that
the appeal for compassion also contained the potential for abuse; there was always the risk that a
treacherous suppliant should arouse pity to perverse ends. For further political implications of the
appeal to Creon, see also Luschnig 2001.
48
Generally in this tragedy, Medea remains fear-inspiring to the internal characters, despite her
troubles, and this has an effect on us as audience. As Rabinowitz 1993, 127, has noted: Medea is
frightening even when she is sympathetic; and an important part of the plays effect is that even
when she is terrifying we cannot forget that we found her sympathetic.
Euripides: Orestes 227
rumored to be clever and vengeful (Med. 292306), and asks Creon not
to dread her (m trs v, Med. 307). The king responds:
Kr. lgeiv kosai malqk, ll sw frenn
rrwda moi m ti boule v kakn. (Med. 31617)
Creon: You are saying things that are sweet to hear, but
panic overcomes me that you might plan something terrible in your mind.
The rare term that I have translated as panic (rrwda, Med. 317) has
been associated with physical reactions, such as shrinking from a snake.49
It seems to indicate a strong, instinctive reaction to the potential destruction
coming from Medea, and this for Creon surpasses the logic of her com-
forting arguments. Even though the kings fear persists, Medea becomes
successful in her request to a degree: she receives an extension, one more
day in Corinth, as she implores pity for her children (take pity on them,
oktre d atov, Med. 344). Her plea uses a well-known technique in
arousing the benevolent emotion. It starts with a reminder of the affinity
that connects her as a suppliant to him: he is a parent too (Med. 344), and,
it seems understood, his children could also suffer a similar misfortune.50
Indeed, Creon allows Medea to stay one more day, aware that he might
be making a mistake (xamartnwn, Med. 350), which indeed he is, and
hoping that she might not be able to accomplish the terrible things that he
fears (Med. 356). The scene provides a very unusual case in which fear for
himself conflicts with pity for another and in which pity wins, nevertheless.
Unlike Hermione, who appears unaware of what might happen to her if
she shows mercy, Creon debates with himself and decides to take a risk.
Medeas success relies on her ability to divert Creon from direct fear (of
her) for himself and his own family, and lead him to a more abstract type of
apprehension: that her children suffer undeservedly and so might his own
offspring. The irony is that Creons daughter will suffer as a consequence
of his misguided pity.
The examples of treacherous manipulation of pity become even more
disturbing in the scenes from the Orestes and the Medea, as the pitied
truly find themselves in terrible situations, but the sufferers are neither

49
Mastronarde 2002, 224, on line 317, notes that only Euripides uses this term for extreme fear.
Harding 2006, 222, suggests the following physical manifestations for the verb (orrodein), to break
out in cold sweat, to shrink back in fear and offers possible etymologies for the term as well as
usages in Greek prose (Herodotus, Plato) and poetry (Euripides, Aristophanes).
50
Janko 2008 argues that Medea also manipulated the ancient (external) audiences and us, modern
audiences, into feeling pity for her because of her misfortune but then made us regret our emotion
when we observe her murderous actions at the end of the play.
228 Pity and fear within tragedies
helpless nor harmless.51 The suffering of the pitied is real and therefore
triggers the emotion of the viewers. Nevertheless, it seems, certain internal
spectators (Hermione, Creon) ought not to respond with pity because
they could be still be harmed by the sufferer. The question that such
cases raise is whether or not the pitier should act on account of his or
her emotion. This, on the surface, ought to concern only the internal
spectator and cannot be directly relevant to the external viewer, who cannot
intervene in the play anyway. Nevertheless, Euripides Helen, elevates the
problem to a new level metatheatrically,52 as a play within a play exposes
the mechanisms through which tragedy elicits pity from the audience. In
this play, set in Egypt, at the court of King Theoclymenus, Helen, who
never went to Troy, is reunited with her husband Menelaus, returning
from the Trojan War, which was fought for a replica of his wife, created
by Aphrodite. Like a veritable tragedian, Helen invents a scenario to tell
Theoclymenus: Menelaus has died during a shipwreck, and therefore she
needs a ship to perform a funeral at sea, as required by Greek custom. The
king agrees with her plan. A messenger explains to Theoclymenus that,
after the ship set sail, Menelaus and his people overpowered the Egyptians
and escaped. Yet, for a moment, the staged funeral was believable to the
Egyptian crew. As the messenger recounts, when the Greek sailors were
about to embark on the funereal ship, Menelaus, pretending to be a slave
who escaped the shipwreck (that supposedly killed Menelaus), acted as
follows:
Prosepe dlion okton v mson frwn
W tlmonev, pv k tnov nev pote
%caidov qrasantev kete skfov;
r %trwv pad lmenon sunqptete,
n Tundarv pav d pnta kenotafe.
o d kbalntev dkrua poiht trp
v nan croun Menle pontsmata
frontev. (Hel. 15429)
[Menelaus] addressed them displaying a show of deceptive pity
in the middle of the assembly: Oh, wretched sailors, from what
Achaean ship do you come after shattering your boat?

51
Assael 2001, 7392, has shown the confusion between appearance and reality, existence and non-
existence in several Euripidean plots, which she links to the thought of Parmenides and the Sophists.
Similarly, it seems, what may have appeared to be culturally appropriate conditions for arousing
pity prove not to be so in certain tragedies of Euripides.
52
Lada-Richards 2003, particularly 279 for Helen, discusses instances of self-referentiality
and metatheatricality in Greek drama that might reflect socially negative attitudes toward
theater.
Euripides: Orestes 229
But let us bury the son of Atreus who has perished
and whom the daughter of Tyndareus is giving a funeral in absence
They, shedding tears in a feigned way,
embarked carrying sea-offerings for Menelaus.

The expression bringing into public view (v mson frwn, Hel. 1542)
seems to imitate a formula used in Athenian political life.53 What Menelaus
brings forth publicly is the treacherous pity (dlion okton, Hel. 1542).
What kind of pity? Presumably, the speaker wants to stir the Egyptian
viewers to pity for the fate of the Greek sailors, under the pretext that they
have lost a mighty leader. The cause of the emotion is not real, hence the
epithet treacherous (dlion), a situation that brilliantly alludes to the
aesthetic emotion produced by theatrical performances: pity stirred by
tragedies is never based on real reasons. A first set of internal audiences,
the Greek sailors, play along shedding tears in a feigned way (kbalntev
dkrua poiht trp, Hel. 1547).54 In the context, the adjective used
to denote feigned (poiht) carries an interesting additional sugges-
tion, made by the poet. Moreover, tears represent an emotional reaction
prescribed by the creator (Helen) of this mini-tragedy. Indeed, the scene
mimics what dramatists do: they invent a pitiable story and then use the
internal audiences to indicate the appropriate emotional response, such as
weeping.
The greatest irony comes next, in the confession of the messenger who
narrates the entire incident at sea. He and the other Egyptians, a second
set of internal audiences to the burial of Menelaus, did not respond with
pity to the deceitful show but rather with suspicion (poya, Hel. 1549)
that so many mourning Greeks were embarking on the ship. They kept
silent, however, and, following the orders of Theoclymenus (Hel. 15513),55
obeyed the Greek leading man. Therefore, it is not yielding to a weak
emotion that brings the Egyptian crew to perdition and allows the escape of
Helen and Menelaus but rather the obedience to their commander. Unlike
Hermione (Orestes) and Creon (Medea), the internal Egyptian spectators
in the Helen are doomed not because they act from their pity but because
they do not follow their impulse to stop the funeral procession, even as

53
On this and alternative readings, see Burian 2007, 230, following Diggle on line 630; 286 on line
1542; Cf. LSJ, ii b.
54
Segal 1993, 65, provides a fascinating discussion of instances of weeping in Greek tragedies, which
can be the sign of either authentic emotion or of feigned compassion (e.g., E. Hec. 9535).
55
As internal spectator, Theoclymenus himself seems convinced of the authenticity of Helens mental
anguish (Hel. 1192), even though there is no indication that he shares her grief; on the contrary, it
serves his purpose that she has lost her husband and thus he could marry her.
230 Pity and fear within tragedies
they do not buy into the poetically fabricated emotion. Overall, the scene
from the Helen mirrors uniquely the process of acting in a drama, and
alludes to the internal displays of emotion that were intended to trigger
the emotional reactions of the external spectators.
The unsettling potential of pity to entrap the pitier, as exposed in these
Euripidean plays, has fascinating political implications. In all instances, a
possible unresolved conflict exists between the pitier and the pitied. The
best, or perhaps I ought to say not to sound Aristotelian the most
amazing examples of pity in epic and tragedy come from instances in which
the pitier is able to overcome the enmity and sees the sufferer no longer as a
foe but as a fellow human being. The standard models remain Achilles pity
for Priam in the Iliad and Odysseus pity for Ajax in Sophocles tragedy. As
I have suggested, in these examples, the pitier relates to the sufferer in an
abstract way, which likely presupposes a kind of general apprehension with
respect to the fragility of human beings in general. Not differently from
his foe, the pitier realizes, with anxiety, he is prone to suffering and death,
the inescapable human fate. The pitier, nevertheless, cannot fear that his
own misfortune might occur because of the pitied. What if he does? The
interesting case of Creon in the Medea suggests that one should not yield
to pity if the sufferer poses a direct threat to him. Had Creon not granted
one more day to the wretched woman and her children, would his own
daughter have survived? Not every form of fear for oneself is therefore
compatible with pity. On the contrary, a form of immediate fear for oneself
appears to be directly opposed to granting pity, and this conflict between
the two emotions creates complicated ethical problems. Not to grant pity
seems to be a justified course of action when pity may endanger the pitier,
as happens with Creon. Nevertheless, what if someone appraises a situation
wrongly and falsely believes that an innocent victim threatens his survival?
To offer an example, in Euripides Trojan Women, the Greeks perceive
Astyanax, the son of Hector and Andromache, as a future threat, because
they are convinced that he would avenge his father if he reaches adulthood.
Therefore, they decide to kill the child. Andromache painfully imagines
how her little boy will be thrown off the cliffs and no one will be there to
pity him (Tr. 7559). Is this a right course of action or sheer cruelty? The
murder of an innocent child certainly seems to be an excessive action in
this particular context. But the decision of not responding with pity for the
sake of self-preservation can be, at times, justifiable, and displays of pity
become especially problematic during war time. Should one spare the life of
an enemy when the enemy can strike back later? Problems related to pity
for the enemy and self-preservation in Euripides may be a reflection of the
Euripides: Orestes 231
ethical problems that challenged the Athenians during the Peloponnesian
War and shortly afterwards. Thus, for an interesting parallel, one may read
Lateiners fascinating analysis of the appeals to pity and their results in the
narrative of Thucydides.56 During the conflict as well as toward the end of
the fifth century with its ruthless Hellenic politics, requests for pity from
city-states and individuals, often accompanied by invocations of the gods
and the humanity of the opponents, not only remain unanswered but also
often anticipate the ruin of the suppliants. A unique type of philosophical
anxiety, so to speak, makes it possible to pity the enemy: it consists of
a sorrowful realization of the universality of suffering. Most commonly,
fear that an enemy, even a defeated enemy, might seek revenge if he is
shown mercy must have commonly prevented the formation of pity on the
battlefield.

9.7 general conclusions: pity and fear in tragedies


Seeing with the minds eye, imagining, in Aristotles theory is the essential
feature in the formation of pity: the emotion relies on ones ability to relate
to the suffering of another by envisioning a future or past similar misfor-
tune with respect to the self. Furthermore, as far as dramatic virtuosity
is concerned, Aristotle prefers tragic plots that are so well designed that
they can be imagined even without being directly seen. In this respect, the
orator or dramatists ability to bring the narrated or fictional events before
the eyes of his audience often depends on a kind of timing: anticipating
a misfortune about to happen or recounting one that has just happened.
Independently from the Aristotelian recommendations, Greek tragedies
appear to contain surprisingly frequent verbal references to seeing and
sight. Characters explain how they should be seen (Prometheus) or explain
how they see others and, consequently, how they feel about them. Mes-
sengers often narrate horrible things that they have just seen. People fear,
or anticipate seeing, terrible events, about to occur. There is, of course, a
simple, practical reason for this emphasis on visual explanations in ancient
drama. The actors were wearing masks and thus the audiences could not
observe directly the actors facial expressions of pain, joy, disgust, etc, as
they often do in modern productions.57 Nevertheless, all these pairs of eyes
seeing within tragedies guide the imagination of the external spectators or
readers into specific ways of perceiving the tragic action. Finally, in several

56
Lateiner 2005, especially 8797.
57
Wiles 2007, 180285, emphasizes the unique features of the ancient theatrical masks.
232 Pity and fear within tragedies
instances (e.g., PV), the internal invitations for everyone to behold can
be understood as both addresses to the internal audiences and to broader,
external audiences: those are usually strong verbal indicators that suffering
is before the eyes, a situation that enhances eleos according to Aristotles
Rhetoric, and ought to arouse pity in tragedies as well.
While philosophers had very little to say about the ethical consequences
of pity, the examination of the emotion in tragedies is especially rewarding
in yielding important observations in this respect. Pity, linked to the
abstract realization of human frailty, which corresponds closely to the
Aristotelian preference, is directly associated with wisdom (sophrosyne) and
moderate behavior (Ajax). Furthermore, pity can remove fear and bolster
courage to fight for the weak and persecuted (PV), the opposite of the
Platonic assertions about the emotion in the Republic.
But the expressions of pity in tragedies also raise ethical questions. A
first problem is that of merit. Has someones suffering been deserved or
undeserved? This leads to the question of whether pity is appropriate
or not. This problem does not seem to have deeply preoccupied theo-
rists. Aristotles chief interest is in describing types of plots that success-
fully arouse pity in the audience and not the moral dilemmas that may
surround the formation of pity. In his reform of the common cultural
understanding of emotions, Plato suggests that pity is not an appropri-
ate emotion even when someone suffers undeservedly: Socrates does not
appeal to it in the Apology and Phaedo can not feel the emotion before
the tragic death of the philosopher. Tragedies, nevertheless, constantly
raise questions of responsibility. What is the role of the pitied person in
causing his/her own suffering? The Persians committed hybris and brought
on themselves their painful defeat in Aeschylus play; Prometheus defied
Zeus; Ajax attacked his former comrades. Do they deserve pity? Almost
always certain internal viewers suggest that pity should not be an appropri-
ate response to the sufferer. The internal debates over the reasons for
feeling pity offered an interesting subject of ethical reflection for the
external spectator: the degree to which the sufferer deserves his or her
misfortune.
A second ethical problem raised by the expressions of pity in tragedies
concerns the appropriate action that should follow our emotion for
anothers suffering. In the Homeric poems, responding with pity to some-
ones suffering is usually followed by some type of action (granting a favor,
helping in battle, sparing a life). In tragedies, sometimes action in this sense
of aiding, on account of pity, is not possible or expected; such is the pity of
Odysseus in the Ajax, an emotion generally reflective of human frailty but
Euripides: Orestes 233
not leading to any concrete action.58 And this, obviously is the case with the
external spectator who feels the aesthetic emotion. But, beyond this, tragic
characters are constantly faced with dilemmas about what to do, when they
feel pity. Thus, one could pity but do nothing on account of the emotion,
and that should perhaps be the right decision in certain cases, as the chorus
thinks in Sophocles Oedipus at Colonus or as Creon rightly believes in
the Medea. But when one takes action, the problem becomes how much
and in what way helping another could affect the self. Prometheus and
the Oceanides seem ready to sacrifice themselves for the sake of others,
but benevolence as a result of pity can certainly be abused, and the fate
of Creon in the Medea proves this point. Naturally, the spectators cannot
intervene in the suffering represented on the stage. Nevertheless, Plato
seems concerned with the effect that pity for others can have on the self
perhaps particularly when someone, the spectator, cannot do anything to
alleviate the suffering. Tragedies offer models of exploring both the causes
and the effects of pity, and this process ought to have been of interest to
fifth-century Athenian audiences. When is pity legitimate and how should
one act on its account? The answers to such questions must surely have
preoccupied the Athenians who had to deal with weaker allies. Of course,
tragedy almost never provides the solution but rather dramatic reflections
of the problems.
Fear, particularly fear of death, was entirely rejected by Plato, and there
was no exception when such an emotion was inspired by poetry. A particular
type of fear, that inherent to an extent in the very formation of pity,
seems to have been preferred by Aristotle as an effect of tragedy. As I
have suggested, the Poetics not only recommends what types of plots best
produce the two favorite Aristotelian emotions, but also appears to dismiss
the dramatic devices that might arouse unwanted varieties of pity or fear.
Thus, the Aristotelian right variety of tragic fear seems to be an abstract
kind of apprehension: a realization that we are all prone to suffering, which
occurs while we pity others. Of course, tragedies displayed other kinds of
internal expressions of fear, and certainly stirred other varieties of fear in
the spectators.
A type of immediate horror must have been produced by the presence of
monsters on stage, such as that of the Erinyes in Aeschylus Eumenides.
Children did probably not faint nor did women have miscarriages as the
late silly anecdote in the Vita goes,59 but unusual grotesque creatures likely
58
I mean pity may lead to no direct action, such as helping the pitied, although one could probably
argue that Odysseus pity stops him from laughing at his wretched foe.
59
Vita 9; for details on the horror effect of some Aeschylean plays, see Gurd 2004.
234 Pity and fear within tragedies
produced instinctive horror in ancient audiences, as they still do today.
There was probably a direct visual aspect of horror, which Aristotle is not
interested in theorizing, as he prefers the imaginative element of fear. At any
rate, the Aristotelian preference for a source of fear based on imagination
rather than on direct visual effects seems to have been adopted by later
critics, as, for example, Longinus, who praises the representation of the
Erinyes as mental visions of Orestes in Euripides tragedy rather than
as directly visible monsters. Overall, there must have certainly been fewer
opportunities for the ancient spectators than for the modern to feel horror
and revulsion, as killings, maiming, and other atrocities took place off
the stage by convention, and were recounted by messengers. However, I
find it interesting that characters in the tragedies surveyed may describe
their own reaction of revulsion to something that the external spectators
should not see but might catch a glimpse of, such as the corpse of Ajax, the
tortured body of Prometheus, or the recently self-blinded king Oedipus.
The sight not to be seen is usually an expression of horror of internal
viewers, sometimes signaling to the external audience to imagine, or expect
to see, a disturbing sight.
Reactions of fear in the plays perhaps reflected at times the fears
of the external audience, as Rehm (2003) has suggested: not having a
place of refuge (OC), being taking prisoner of war, etc. In this sense,
Aeschylus Persians contains perhaps the most interesting type of imitation
of historical anxiety: the old, weak Persians, the chorus, and the queen
mother await with tremendous anxiety to discover the outcome of the
battle of Salamis, an emotion which the helpless Athenian population,
evacuated from Athens to Troezen, likely experienced before the battle.
However, many other types of fear represented in tragedy often have causes
that did not directly concern historical audiences, although, of course, I
do not deny the psychological taboos related to them: the possibility of
incest and killing among kin. Contemplating especially such frightening
and unusual situations, in which relatives murder each other and kings fall,
Aristotle believes and especially when they follow a probable sequence but
happen unexpectedly can lead the spectators of tragedy to a special kind
of syllogism. Others, better humans than I, have suffered, and I pity them; I
am also human, so I might suffer too, thus I fear. This emotional syllogism
consists of sad yet pleasurable realization of the fragility of human kind,
similar to the pleasure of mourning. Odysseus in the Ajax appears to come
closest to this response to anothers suffering, although his reasoning in the
play is more schematically presented than in the Aristotelian psychology.
But the same extreme tragic suffering could give the spectators solace
Euripides: Orestes 235
rather than enhance fear, as Timocles jokingly suggests in a fragment and
as the optimistic gnome in the Orestes suggests. It is important to note
that other types of fear expressed in tragedies were labeled at times by
ancient commentators and scholiasts as not tragic, most likely under the
influence of the Aristotelian theory. The fear of the Phrygian slave in the
Orestes becomes emblematic in this respect: coming from a low character,
who is a coward and expected to suffer, the slaves fear of death likely
produces no wondrous shudder in the audience.
Finally, I would like to underline the complicated interactions between
the two tragic emotions that are at times illustrated in tragedies. Fear for
oneself and pity for another do not always complement each other easily. In
order for the two pathe to produce the desirable Aristotelian combination,
the pitier has to fear for himself (or his own) a similar kind of misfortune
that the pitied endures, but this fear cannot be immediate and cannot be
related directly to the pitied. The pitied cannot be feared as a possible
source of misfortune. Rather, the pitier has to consider that he may suffer,
as the pitied does, and do so as a kind of abstract possibility: by imagining
or remembering. Simply put, there are two types of fear, sometimes in
conflict: one incompatible with pity, the other conducive to pity. Direct
fear does not prompt pity because, when feeling this, one thinks that the
sufferer can either still harm one directly (Creon fearing Medea), or, more
generally, that the misfortune of the sufferer can somehow spread and affect
one (the chorus in Oedipus at Colonus responding to Oedipus). Abstract
fear, on which aesthetic fear seems to be based, occurs when one does not
directly fear the sufferer; it may not require any action (although it may
not exclude it), and seems to be based on a type of fatalistic understanding
of the human proclivity to suffering, which leads to pity.
Some of the most fascinating scenes in Greek tragedy deal precisely with
the tension between the pitier and the pitied. And, in this respect, Sophocles
and Euripides differ radically in representing the dynamics of the two tragic
emotions, at least as far as our examples permit an appraisal. In Sophocles
Ajax, pity comes as a surprising response that dissolves personal direct
fear, replacing it with an abstract fear or apprehension of the fragility of
the human condition, in general. The standard model is Odysseus pity
for his deluded enemy: this emotion comes from a subtle syllogism that
allows the pitier to see beyond conflicts and to relate to his former foe
through imagining similarities in suffering. Interestingly, in this case pity
itself cannot be followed by action: Odysseus cannot aid his wretched
foe in any specific way. And in this respect the emotion resembles the
response of the external spectator to a tragedy on stage: no direct result. In
236 Pity and fear within tragedies
a less tense situation, in the Oedipus at Colonus, for example, the chorus
hesitates to act on account of its pity for fear that the exiled Oedipus might
harm the community. Yet, as Theseus shows, pity, with action following
the emotion, namely offering a place of refuge to the Theban king, is
not only the appropriate emotional reaction but a reaction that receives
rewards. While Sophocles raises the problem of the appropriate distance
between the pitier and pitied on account of direct fear (OC, Philoctetes),
pity generally brings reconciliation together with a painful realization of
the similarities between the pitier and the pitied who were former enemies:
their petty disagreements ought to be forgotten, since both are prone to
suffering and ultimately destined to die.
In sharp contrast, in several tragedies of Euripides pity can often prove
not to be the appropriate reaction and can lead to the destruction of the
pitier. Even when the pitier and the pitied are not directly in conflict (e.g.,
Helen versus Orestes and Electra in the Orestes), pity can have devastating
consequences. The pitied may look helpless and harmless, and yet this
helplessness often hides some secret power that can hurt the pitier. Creon
seems paradoxically aware of this, but he is still unable to act on account of
direct fear and to protect himself and his family when he grants Medea her
wish. In such instances, the abstract fear that necessarily links the pitier to
the pitied in universal terms inadvertently drives away the concrete, direct
type of fear related to self-preservation. Thus, Creon pities Medea because
he connects with her on a kind of general, universal level, while fearing
in an abstract manner: she has children, and they are in an extremely
unfortunate situation; similarly, he has a child, too, who might suffer one
day. Yet, even as he yields to this imaginative fear, he fails to act on account
of the appropriate, concrete emotion. In this case, pity, which usually
dissolves conflicts in universal terms, causes the pitiers immediate disaster.
Aristotles tragic fear seems to be abstract in nature and could not lead
the audience to any regrettable actions. And this was the only kind of emo-
tion that the Athenians could have felt when they saw tragic performances.
Or was it? Certainly, all tragedies represented human suffering, which the
audiences could fear in an abstract way, and the spectators pity for the
dramatic events could not lead to any direct actions. But, what happened
when drama raised the problem of how to treat fallen enemies, such as
Euripides Trojan Women, a problem so familiar to the Athenians during
the Peloponnesian War? In observing the expressions of fear on the stage,
Athenian spectators were probably reminded often of their own concrete
anxieties, which pertained more to the historical context than to the uni-
versal, and in which suffering did not invariably lead to pity. Ultimately,
Euripides: Orestes 237
tragic fear based on the realization of universal suffering dwarfs concrete
fear, which relates to self-preservation, because there is no ultimate personal
survival. This aesthetic emotion, however, could not be transferred easily
from the stage to the battlefield. Some Euripidean tragedies illustrate with
realism the need to maintain a concrete type of fear for oneself that assures
survival rather than an abstract, universal type of fear that connects us with
all others, even with our enemies, and leads us to noble pity but perhaps
also to perdition.
appendix

Catharsis and the emotions in the definition of


tragedy in the Poetics

Before ending this book, I feel obliged to examine several interpretations


of the definition of tragedy in the Poetics, even though the topic is not
essential to my analysis of the tragic emotions, which has concentrated on
the psychology of the audience and on pity and fear as internal responses
to suffering in tragedies. The fascination with the notion of catharsis,
comes to a great degree, it seems to me, from a hope that the enigmatic
word in the definition of tragedy hides a full reply to Platos critique of
the effect of poetry in the Republic, and that it also provides an ethi-
cal redemption of the audience either through the emotions or despite
them. On these things, otherwise, Aristotle has been generally and stub-
bornly silent in the Poetics. My study has had a rather practical purpose,
namely to reconstruct some concrete Aristotelian features of tragic pity and
fear.
Aristotle reshaped traditional ideas about tragedy to assess his own opin-
ions about the structure and effect of tragic genre. Perhaps no other sub-
ject has caused as much scholarly debate as the Aristotelian definition of
tragedy, which associates pity and fear, the emotions commonly reported
as the audiences response to tragedy in Greek culture, with the enigmatic
notion of catharsis:1
stin on tragda mmhsiv prxewv spoudaav ka teleav
mgeqov coshv, dusmn lg cwrv kst tn edn
n tov moroiv, drntwn ka o di paggelav, di lou ka

1
Scott 2003 and Veloso 2007 have recently revived the argument that there is no room for catharsis
at all in the definition of tragedy in the Poetics, as the passage is corrupt. In addition, Veloso 2007,
2802, argues that the words pity and fear in the definition appear to be part of the catharsis gloss, so
they should be eliminated as well. I find certain points in Velosos article convincing, yet not quite
sufficient to overthrow the tradition. At any rate, my analysis of the Aristotelian tragic emotions in
this book does not rely on the presence and interpretation of catharsis in the definition, and it would
not be influenced by the removal of the controversial term, and/or by the removal of pity and fear
from the definition.

238
Catharsis in the definition of tragedy in the Poetics 239
fbou peranousa tn tn toiotwn paqhmtwn kqarsin.
(Po. 6.1449b248)
Tragedy, then, is mimesis of an action which is elevated, complete,
and of magnitude: in language embellished with distinct forms in its
sections, [using] enactment and not narrative, and through pity and
fear producing the catharsis of such emotions.
Controversy surrounds the significance of catharsis and its connection with
the tragic emotions, since the term is not further elucidated in the treatise.2
In the literature preceding Aristotle, the word and its family cover a series
of medical, religious, and philosophic connotations.3 Various translations
have been accordingly attempted for catharsis in the Poetics, from cleansing,
to purification, to intellectual clarification.4 Furthermore, although the
term occurs in other Aristotelian works,5 and most notably in the Politics,
Book Eight, in a passage that deals with music, the relationship between
these texts and the Poetics is not entirely clear.6
Given the lexical ambiguity, scholars have tried to infer the sense of
catharsis by addressing broader questions about the definition of tragedy.
How did Aristotle characterize the tragic emotions and the way in which

2
If we accept the traditional presence of catharsis in the definition, another philological problem
occurs. Should the genitive in the phrase of such emotions (toiotwn paqhmtwn) be considered
objective or subjective? In other words, it remains uncertain whether catharsis affects the emotions,
or the emotions produce catharsis.
3
The study of Moulinier 1952, 14276, shows the various lexical ramifications of the word; generally,
the term means removal of damaging substance and restoration of balance. To the use of the term
in medicine, with the strict sense of purgation, the Pythagoreans have probably added a religious
meaning, which could have been known to Aristotle, as suggested by Wehrli 1945, 84. Finally, a
cognitive facet of catharsis has been noted in connection with the Epicureans by Nussbaum 1986,
38990. Plato combines the medical and religious senses of the term, perhaps because medicine
becomes often a form of ritual for the Greeks, perhaps under the influence of Pythagorean thought.
He recommends the removal of the evils of the soul through purification, catharsis, of philosophic
inquiry (Sph. 227d, 228d; cf. Phd. 67ce, 69cd). More recently, the collection of essays edited by
Vohler and Seidensticker 2007 reappraises the meaning of the word in various areas, such as biology,
medicine, music, etc.
4
In this respect, as Halliwell 1998, 199, well puts it: translations of katharsis bring with them various
connotations that only obscure further the comprehension of this enigmatic issue. For the inescapable
fact is that we dont know enough, even with the help of Politics, to find even a loose equivalent for
the Greek term.
5
Belfiore 1992, 291320, has examined the use of catharsis in the sense of physiological discharge in
various Aristotelian works (GA 578a 2630b; Ph. 194b 36; Metaph. 1013b; HA 572b) and tried to link
this usage to the more philosophical occurrences of the term in the Poetics and Politics. See also Rapp
2007 for a reconsideration of the topic, with bibliography.
6
I will discuss the use of the term in the Politics, which has sometimes been held as a model for
catharsis in the Poetics. Nevertheless, Aristotle treats dissimilar subjects in the two works and it is
unlikely that catharsis would describe the exact same aesthetic effect. For the subject, see Lord 1982,
11938, especially 1368. Distinctions between Aristotles poetic and musical catharsis were drawn
earlier by Bywater 1909, 152.
240 Catharsis in the definition of tragedy in the Poetics
they affected the audience? To what degree was he replying to Platos cri-
tique of tragedy? What was the connection between pathemata, mimesis,
and hedone in the response to tragedy? Not much scholarly agreement,
however, has been reached with regard to these matters. Different answers
to the same question and more emphasis on one or another issue have led
to diverse interpretations of catharsis. The following survey of scholarship
is intended to outline theoretical difficulties involved in the dispute over
the catharsis clause and not to find a new solution for it. The lack of
scholarly consensus about the meaning of the definition of tragedy reflects
deeper uncertainties about interpreting the arousal of spectators emotions
in the Poetics. My analysis has addressed this latter topic from a differ-
ent perspective, mainly a comparative discussion of Aristotles Poetics and
Rhetoric.

homeopathic, medical view


Bernays has advanced a theory,7 which construes the definition of tragedy
on the basis of the following remark about catharsis in the Politics. In the
passage, after discussing the education of the young in general, Aristotle
evaluates the role of music:
Famn d o miv neken feleav t mousik crsqai den, ll
ka pleinwn crin (ka gr paideav neken ka kaqrsewv
t d lgomen tn kqarsin, nn mn plv, plin d n tov
per poihtikv romen safsteron trton d prv diagwgn
prv nesn te ka prv tn tv suntonav npausin). (Pol.
8.1341b3641)
And we say that we ought not to use music on account of only one
of its benefits, but because of several (for we employ it for education
and catharsis and what we mean by catharsis we state in sum now,
but we will speak of it more clearly in the Poetics and third with
regard to the general activity of leisure, including both relaxation and
rest from activity).
Listed among the benefits of music, catharsis will be a notion described
more clearly in the treatise on poetry, we are assured. This promise has not
been fulfilled in the Poetics, at least not in the Poetics that has been handed
down to us.8 Nevertheless, Bernays took the allusion as a proof that Aristotle
7
Bernays 1880.
8
Scholars have been puzzled by Aristotles parenthesis, asserting a fuller explanation for catharsis in
the Poetics. Most commonly, it has been suggested that Aristotle did want to clarify the term in the
second book (on comedy) of the Poetics: e.g., Rostagni 1945, 45, and Montmollin 1951, 1746, but
Halliwell 1998, 190, convincingly argues against this view.
Catharsis in the definition of tragedy in the Poetics 241
refers to an absolutely identical phenomenon, namely emotional purgation,
when using catharsis in both the Poetics and the Politics. He found further
support for his hypothesis in an account of types of harmonies, which
follows the quoted passage of the Politics. While some melodies should
contribute to education, because of their ethical component, others arouse
and inspire emotions:
O gr per nav sumbanei pqov yucv scurv, toto n
psaiv prcei, t d tton diafrei ka t mllon, oon leov
ka fbov, ti d nqousiasmv ka gr p tathv tv kinsewv
katokcimo tinv esin, k tn d ern meln rmen totouv,
tan crswntai tov xorgizousi tn yucn mlesi, kaqis-
tamnouv sper atreav tucntav ka kaqrsewv tat d
toto nagkaon pscein ka tov lemonav ka tov fobhtikov
ka tov lwv paqhtikov, tov d llouv kaq son pibllei
tn toiotwn kst, ka psi ggnesqa tina kqarsin ka
koufzesqai meq donv. (Pol. 8.1342a415)
For an emotion that occurs strongly in some [souls], exists in all, but it
differs in being less or more [fervent], for example, pity and fear, and
again enthusiasm. For some people are inclined to being possessed by
such motion, and we see them under the influence of sacred songs
when they use melodies which put their soul into a state of frenzy,
being restored by sacred melodies, as if they have received medical
treatment and catharsis. This same experience necessarily happens to
people who are inclined to pity and fear, and to those who are in
general inclined to be emotional, and to others, to the extent that
a share of these things falls to each person; and all receive a certain
catharsis and relief with pleasure.
The link between cathartic music and emotions, such as pity and fear in this
passage of the Politics,9 is certainly reminiscent of the definition of tragedy,
through pity and fear effecting the catharsis of such emotions (di lou
ka fbou peranousa tn tn toiotwn paqhmtwn kqarsin, Po.
6.1449b278). And yet, is there more than a simple verbal correspondence
between the two? Bernays concentrated on the function of cathartic music
as homeopathic purgation in the Politics: melodies drive audiences to sacred
enthusiasm, but, at the same time, enthusiastic melodies drive them back
to a normal state, like a medical treatment and catharsis. He argued that the

9
The reference to the two emotions occurs twice in this text. Firstly, eleos and phobos parallel mystic
exuberance, enthusiasm. Secondly, catharsis and relief with pleasure soothe those disposed to feel
such emotions (lemonav, fobhtikov). Plato correlates music with enthusiasm sometimes (e.g.,
R. 3.411ab; Lg. 2.659de, 7.790, etc). Belfiore 1986 saw in these Platonic passages a possible source
for Aristotles description of musical catharsis.
242 Catharsis in the definition of tragedy in the Poetics
same process operates in the Poetics, in which catharsis means purgation
of pathological emotions aroused by tragedy in the audience. Bernays
interpretation, whether accepted or rejected, has greatly influenced the
scholarship on the topic. Flashar chiefly developed a view of catharsis as
medical purgation, by maintaining that the emotions themselves alter the
physical condition of human beings. Tragic pity and fear, therefore, have
physiological effects which catharsis would alleviate in the spectator.10
The model of medical catharsis proposed by Bernays and Flashar11 has
been seriously challenged in recent years. Belfiore has dismissed the home-
opathic effect of music in Book Eight of Politics, and, by extension, any
kind of homeopathic catharsis.12 Her argument relies on the fact that Aris-
totle, who was preoccupied with medical issues, always prescribed allo-
pathic not homeopathic treatments (for instance, health means balance
of opposites).13 In this respect, there is no indication in the Politics that
the same melodies incited and, then, restored the listeners to the normal
state. Even if Belfiores point is not altogether embraced, and scholars still
sustain the homeopathic reading of the passage in the Politics,14 there are
other problems with equating catharsis with cure, or removal of emotional
outbursts.15 If catharsis means the removal of a disturbed emotional state
in the Politics (8.1342a415) and, similarly, in the definition of tragedy,
as Bernays has asserted, pity and fear would be pathological in nature.
There is no allusion, however, to the abnormality of tragic emotions
in the Poetics.16 Furthermore, even in the Politics, the primary sense of
catharsis is not medical but religious, concerning a ritual. These are major

10
Flashar 1956, 48, concludes that catharsis in the Poetics clearly has a practical, medical meaning:
Durch die medizinische Begrundung dieser Auffassung erhalt nun aber auch das Wort kqarsiv
in der aristotelischen Tragodefinition einen tieferen und pragnanteren Sinn.
11
In the past, many adopted the view of medical catharsis as relevant for the Poetics without much ques-
tioning it; so, for example, Bywater 1909, 1535, Lucas 1968, 285, Schadewaldt 1970, Fortenbaugh
1975, 22.
12
Belfiore 1992, 3206. Homeopathic treatment means restoring health through an antidote that
contains ingredients that are similar in nature to those that have caused the illness initially. Allopathic
treatment consists of health restoration through medicine that contains ingredients that are opposite
to those causing the illness.
13
Top. 1392b21; Belfiore 1992, 30614.
14
The homeopathic sense is linked to a ritual of purification: blood to clean blood pollution (Hrclt.
fr. 5, D). With some reservations, prestigious scholars, such as Janko 1987, 19, and Halliwell 1998,
1923, opt for a homeopathic and religious catharsis (Pol. 8).
15
For a concise, persuasive criticism of the outlet theory of catharsis, as formulated by Bernays and
his disciples, see Halliwell, Appendix 5. Interpretations of Katharsis, 1998, 354.
16
If Bernays had been right, there would not have been much difference in the way in which Plato
and Aristotle understood tragic pity as harmful to the spectator. This is obviously not the case.
Aristotle does never suggest that tragic emotions could be pathological, but, on the contrary, he
emphasizes that tragedies ought to arouse emotions throughout the Poetics.
Catharsis in the definition of tragedy in the Poetics 243
objections to Bernays outlet theory, which, therefore, cannot account for
the catharsis clause in the Poetics. At any rate, does this mean that Bernays
was completely unreasonable to connect catharsis in the Politics with the
Poetics? Scholarly opinion is divided. Some believe that any correspondence
between the two passages should be ruled out, because catharsis describes
different phenomena in each case.17 Others admit that the reference to
catharsis in the Politics has importance for the Poetics, but the relation
between the two texts is not as simple as Bernays has supposed.18 I incline
toward the latter view, for several reasons. Book Eight of the Politics antic-
ipates a further explanation of catharsis in a poetic work, which would be
pointless if the term referred to completely different notions. In addition to
catharsis, the excursus on music in the Politics mentions eleos, phobos, and
hedone, which are all fundamental concepts in the Poetics. The difficulty
lies in the fact that neither in the Poetics nor, indeed, in the Politics does
Aristotle define catharsis.19

ethical balance
According to this interpretation, Aristotle gives a subtle answer to Plato,
who rebuked tragic pity as well as its effect on the audience. Catharsis should
be understood as tempering or reducing the tragic passions of the spectator
to their right measure.20 The view is much indebted to Aristotelian ethics,
which defines virtue as a mean between extremes and, in particular, to a
certain observation made in the Nicomachean Ethics:
Lgw d tn qikn. Ath gr sti per pqh ka prxeiv, n to-
toiv stin perbol ka lleiyiv ka t mson. Oon ka fobhqnai
ka qarrsai ka piqumsai ka rgisqnai ka lesai ka lwv
sqnai ka lupeqnai sti ka mllon ka tton, ka mftera
ok e. T d te de ka f ov ka prv ov ka o neka ka v de,
mson te ka riston, per st tv retv. (EN 2.1106b1623)
And I am talking about moral virtue, for this is concerned with
emotions and actions, and in these there is a possibility of excess,
17
The argument is that catharsis as used in the context of musical education (Pol.) has no relevance
for catharsis (Po. 6), which deals with the structure of tragedy; thus, Else 1957, 231. For an extensive
discussion, see Golden 1992, 514.
18
Halliwell 1998, 193.
19
In the controversial passage (Pol. 8), catharsis is not, in fact, explained. It is used once as a term of
comparison (those in mystic frenzy are soothed by melodies, as by medicine or catharsis). Secondly,
it is stated that all who feel emotions (to some degree or another) experience catharsis. Thus, there
is a correlation between emotions and catharsis, as in the definition of tragedy in the Poetics, but it
remains unclear how the cathartic process operates.
20
Early suggestions for this theory are made by Finsler 1900, 10623, and Rostagni 1945, 423.
244 Catharsis in the definition of tragedy in the Poetics
deficiency, and mean. For instance, it is possible to be afraid, to be
bold, to desire, to be angry, to pity, and, in general, to feel pleasure
and pain either more or less than one should and in both cases in
an improper way. But to experience those feelings at those times and
occasions when they are appropriate and toward those objects and on
those grounds and in such manners that are appropriate, is both what
is best and represents the mean that is a sign of virtue.
House considers this passage to be the key to understanding the catharsis
clause in the Poetics and writes: A tragedy rouses the emotions from
potentiality to activity by worthy and adequate stimuli; it controls them
by directing them to the right objects in the right way; and it exercises
them, within the limits of the play, as the emotions of the good man
would be exercised. When they subside to potentiality again after the
play is over, it is a more trained potentiality than before. This is what
Aristotle calls kqarsiv.21 Similarly, Janko argues that catharsis ought to
be taken as balance of emotions in the definition of tragedy and finds
additional evidence in post-Aristotelian sources.22 Proclus, for example,
remarks that Plato expelled tragedy and comedy illogically from the city,
since it is possible through them to satisfy emotions in due measure, and
that, for this reason, Aristotle and others criticize the Platonic dialogues,
while defending tragic genre.23
The view of catharsis as emotional mean has some appealing features. It
places the ambiguous definition of tragedy in the context of Aristotelian
ethics. Secondly, it gives a simple answer to the tantalizing question of
how Aristotle responds to Platos critique of tragic emotions. Nevertheless,
this interpretation remains highly speculative at a closer examination, since
there is no explicit passage in the Poetics itself to sustain it. Indeed, Aristotle
often states in the Poetics that tragedy should arouse pity and fear, or be
concerned with the imitation of the fearful and pitiable,24 but never that
it should teach the audience how to moderate tragic emotions. Janko
21
House 1956, 10911. Halliwell 1998, 1936, adopts to some extent this view but suggests a balance
between emotion and cognition, rather than simply emotional balance.
22
Without absolutely discounting the possibility of a medical catharsis (Pol. 8), Janko 1984, 13942,
subsumes it to ethical mean; more extensively, Janko 1992.
23
The exact quotation is given by Janko 1992, 3479, together with a commentary and other examples.
Thus, Iamblichus (On Mysteries 1.11) states that by observing others suffering (pathe) in both tragedy
and comedy, we can check our own emotions (pathe) and make them more moderate, and the
Tractatus Coislinianus (3.9) talks about a balance in both tragedy and comedy. For further evidence
supporting the idea of ethical catharsis, see Nardelli 1978. Belfiore 1992, 28590, reconsiders the
examples of post-Aristotelian authors, offered by Janko, and concludes that these cannot explain
the meaning of the catharsis in the Poetics. These later sources simply demonstrate the fact that
critics have understood Aristotelian poetic theory as a reply to Platos condemnation of tragedy.
24
For example, Po. 6.1449b27; 9.1452a23; 13.1452b32.
Catharsis in the definition of tragedy in the Poetics 245
proposes a specific example (Po. 14.1453b369) to plead the ethical reading
of catharsis.25 While discussing types of plots, Aristotle notes: The worst
is for someone to be about to act knowingly, and yet not to do so: this is
both repugnant (or polluted, miarn) and un-tragic (o tragikn), since
it lacks suffering (paqv).26 However, it seems to me, this is not a remark
directed to the audience who should not feel pity and fear in such instances,
as Janko suggests. Instead, it is simply an observation that no one can feel
the correct type of emotions, because plots involving such instances are not
appropriate for tragedy. Janko is doubtlessly right to emphasize that there
are certain dramatic conditions that arouse the appropriate tragic emotions.
It seems interesting to me that the term polluted (miarn) is assimilated
here to un-tragic, more specifically to lacking emotion. By analogy,
the opposite word pure (kaqarn), which never occurs in the Poetics but
may be understood as an antonym of polluted (miarn), could mean
arousing emotions.
The passage in the Nicomachean Ethics, which House appreciates, refers
to what is the normal emotional response or the appropriate degree of
emotion in various circumstances, an issue that Book Two of the Rhetoric
also discusses at length. But the Poetics does not seem to deal with the
question of whether or when it is appropriate for the audience of tragedy
to feel pity and fear. Clearly, in this treatise, while watching tragedies,
the spectators should feel these emotions, which are appropriate in such
circumstance,27 and tragic plots ought to arouse pity and fear. Ironically,
some scholars, who suggest that Aristotle most strongly opposes Plato
(by regarding catharsis as medical purgation, or as tempering emotions),
presuppose, in fact, that Aristotles assumptions about tragic emotions
were very similar to Platos: emotions would be harmful to the spectator,
or excessive, so that catharsis should purge or temper them.
While stressing the problems related to the ethical view, I am not denying
that the Poetics responds to Plato in a way. Nonetheless, Aristotle does not
always address the problems raised by Plato directly. Sometimes, he chooses
to dismiss a Platonic point by shifting the focus of the discussion.28 It seems

25
Janko 1992, 341.
26
Polluted (miarn) is also described as lacking emotions, precisely the pitiable and fearful
elements in another passage of the treatise (Po.3.1452b356).
27
A good discussion of this is provided by Lear 1992, 327, who writes: Tragic katharsis cannot be
a process that is essentially and crucially corrective: that is it cannot be purgation, in so far as
purgation is something pathological or noxious; it cannot be purification of some pollution; it
cannot be education of emotions.
28
In this respect, the whole Aristotelian ethical theory is an example. Aristotle dismisses the entire
Platonic approach to the matter the quest for the supreme good to shift to an analysis of a
246 Catharsis in the definition of tragedy in the Poetics
to me that this happens in the case of tragic emotions, whose positive
function he restores implicitly, not explicitly. Thus, instead of directly
rejecting Platos idea that pity would weaken the Athenian audiences,
Aristotle simply insists in the Poetics that tragedies ought to awaken pity
and fear (implying that they are good for the audience). Furthermore, I
am not arguing against the ethical implications of the emotional arousal,
which I have emphasized in my analysis, but only suggesting that Aristotle
prefers not to underline the ethical implications of pity and fear in the
Poetics. In the definition of tragedy, catharsis itself is probably a retort to
Plato.29 And yet, the term appears to be too equivocal to be read as the core
of Aristotelian argument against Plato: the spectators moral purification
through emotions.

dramatic clarification
Else formulated a theory, according to which catharsis refers not to the
audiences reaction, but rather to the structure of tragedy itself.30 Tragic
characters experience pity and fear, emotions that lead to recognition and,
then, clarification, catharsis, of tragic action. In the definition of tragedy,
the emotions do not pertain to the audience, but to the internal structure
of the plays. As Else puts it, at 229: di lou ka fbou: the preposi-
tion can perfectly well mean through (a sequence of ), in the course of,
referring not to an emotional end effect with which we leave the the-
ater, but to pity and fear as they are incorporated in the structure of the
play by the poet. Therefore, dramatic clarification, catharsis, occurs when
it is inferred that the agent involved in tragic events is not polluted
(miarn), because he has acted in ignorance.31 Elses argument that tragic

practical type of happiness. The idea of good is not relevant to his ethics, since a transcendent
good cannot be attainable (EN 1.1096b1097a). As Aristotle adds with irony, it is not easy to see how
a weaver or carpenter could become better by contemplating the absolute good (EN 1.1097a811).
29
Nussbaum 1992, 281, is probably right to say that catharsis in the definition of tragedy would
have seemed an oxymoron to Plato. I cannot agree with Nussbaum, though, that this is because
catharsis has an ethical meaning in the Poetics. Regardless of the exact meaning, Aristotle places
catharsis in a poetic context that would have been unacceptable to Plato, who uses it for pure,
philosophical knowledge.
30
Else 1963, 22432.
31
Else 1963, 43350. The ethical nuance still exists in Elses interpretation. Else extensively investigates
the concept of miasma, pollution, and catharsis as a ritual of purification of murderous acts, by
looking at Plato (Lg. 9.865a869e, 9.871a874d), and Aristotle (EE and EN). Yet, he concludes
that the moral problems of pollution and purification do not concern the spectator but the tragic
characters. So he writes at 4378: The spectator or reader does not perform the purification any
more than the judges at Delphinion or in Platos state did so. The purification, that is the proof
of the purity of the heros motive in performing an otherwise unclean act, is presented to him and
Catharsis in the definition of tragedy in the Poetics 247
emotions have nothing to do with the spectator cannot be sustained and
numerous passages from the Poetics contradict it (for instance, the whole
emphasis that the proper pleasure should come from the emotions cannot
work in Elses scheme). Nevertheless, his conviction that the emotions are
embedded within the plot is not entirely mistaken. Aristotle explicitly says
that pity and fear should be built into the tragic plot (Po. 14.1453b1314).
Thus, Else is right to draw attention to this peculiarity of the Poetics,
which seems essential for understanding the Aristotelian aesthetic theory.32
Several aesthetic concepts in the Poetics do appear to concern the inter-
nal structure of tragedy itself. Others adopted Elses suggestions, with the
additional observation that clarification of tragic plot must be perceived
not only by characters within the play, but also by external audiences.33 In
a recent version of this interpretation, Husain considers catharsis to mean
achievement or completion in a tragedy, which makes the sequential,
causal events of the plot clear.34 Like Else, she returns to describing catharsis
as intrinsically referring to the structure of tragedy and excludes external
audiences.
Halliwell has summarized the objections that can be raised against this
view.35 The dramatic-clarification theory ignores the passage from the Pol-
itics and, generally, does not explain the relationship between tragic emo-
tions and catharsis. Further criticism regards the opinion that catharsis
would concern exclusively the events of the plot, not the spectators. Clar-
ification of tragic action cannot be understood only within tragedy, but
should also be obvious to the external audience. Despite these errors,
the dramatic interpretation has, in my opinion, some important merits.
Firstly, it departs from the speculative problem of how Aristotle may have
responded to Plato and turns instead to the structure of tragedy, which is,
indeed, the focus of the Poetics. But the structural analysis goes so far as

his conscience accepts and certifies it to his emotions, issues a license, so to speak, which says: You
may pity this man, for he is like us, a good man rather than a bad, and he is kaqarv, free of
pollution. It is interesting to compare the difference between Else and Janko in viewing the same
word, polluted.
32
However, Else does not seem to notice that there may be a correspondence between emotions
expressed within tragedy and the arousal of emotion in the audience.
33
Goldstein 1966 and Anton 1985.
34
Husain 2002, 123, interprets tragedy in the Poetics in terms of the Aristotelian Metaphysics: tragedy
belongs to the category of substance (osa) and attains its own perfection through catharsis.
Although Husains arguments do not fully convince me, her approach seems, to an extent, a justified
reaction against an overwhelming tendency of modern scholarship to subordinate the Poetics to
Aristotles ethical or political theory.
35
Halliwell 1998, 356. Detailed objections are raised against Elses theory, in particular, for being
limited to complex plots and not convincing as it regards the issue of pollution, etc.
248 Catharsis in the definition of tragedy in the Poetics
proclaiming tragedy a world in itself, which is certainly an exaggeration.36
Secondly, it emphasizes that pity and fear are embodied in the structure of
tragedy. This crucial element of the Poetics posits an interesting connec-
tion between the emotional response within tragic action and outside it.
Thirdly, it does not imply any negative connotations for the tragic emo-
tions, while the other theories do (pity and fear have to be purged in the
medical view of catharsis or moderated in the ethical mean theory).
And this seems to be in accordance with the text of the Poetics.

cognitive pleasure
Scholars who support this view understand catharsis as intellectual clarifica-
tion, felt by the audience when watching tragedy (as mimesis) and inferring
its structural and (or) moral meaning.37 The interpretation is based on
the following reasoning. The pleasure of tragedy comes from pity and
fear, through mimesis (Po. 14.1453b1113). A certain pleasure, which people
derive from mimesis in general, comes from learning:
T te gr mimesqai snfuton tov nqrpoiv k padwn st ka
tot diafrousi tn llwn zwn, ti mimhtiktatn sti ka
tv maqseiv poietai di mimsewv tv prtav, ka t carein
tov mimmasi pntav. (Po. 4.1448b59)
For it is innate in human beings, from childhood, to engage in mimesis,
for in this respect, humans differ from other animals: man is the most
mimetic of all, and it is through mimesis that he develops his earliest
understanding, and it is equally natural that everyone enjoys mimetic
objects.
36
Thus Else thought that Aristotle only dealt with the dramatic elements of tragedy, but he discussed
ethical matters in this structure, such as the guilt of Oedipus. Husain saw tragedy as similar to
metaphysical substance (osa), not as a relative category (prv ti). Yet, the structure of tragedy
can have meaning only in a relationship with something, it seems to me, i.e. in relationship with
audiences.
37
Golden is certainly the most fervent proponent and has developed arguments for this view in several
articles, summarized in his book 1992, 539. Nussbaum 1986, 3901, suggests that catharsis should
combine the spectators intellectual understanding of the tragic plot with an ethical learning from
tragedy. Lear 1992, 117, also links intellectual catharsis to some moral learning. His points rejecting
the medical and ethical views of catharsis are excellent, but his conclusion is a puzzling remark at
3345, The world of tragic events, must, Aristotle repeatedly insists, be rational . . . The events in
a tragedy must be necessary or plausible, and they must occur on account of one another. In so far
as we do fear that the tragic events could occur in our lives, what we fear is chaos: the breakdown
of primordial bounds which links person to person. For Aristotle, a good tragedy offers us this
consolation: that even if the breakdown of the primordial bonds occurs, it does not occur in a world
which is in itself ultimately chaotic and meaningless. Would watching an ordered calamity give
then the spectator some kind of moral satisfaction, or the illusion of control, according to Aristotle?
It does not seem so. Finally, another interpretative model comes from connecting intellectual
clarification with the dramatic view of catharsis. Thus, Nicev 1982, 1015, suggests that catharsis
might describe the process by which the spectator understands the truth about the tragic agent.
Catharsis in the definition of tragedy in the Poetics 249
Catharsis, therefore, must refer to the cognitive pleasure felt by the audience
while understanding the tragic plot. This hypothesis can be appreciated for
the way in which it connects several concepts of the Poetics, such as mimesis,
hedone, and pathe, in the attempt to explain catharsis. As in the case of the
dramatic interpretation, the proponents of cognitive catharsis ponder the
text of the Poetics, but they do so without neglecting the relation between
this and other Aristotelian works.
But numerous problems remain unsolved. What role do the tragic emo-
tions play in the spectators clarification and how exactly do they relate
to pleasure?38 At times, the evidence of Politics is ignored or rejected,
although the passage does not necessarily contradict the ideas of the cogni-
tive interpretation.39 As suggested, catharsis (Pol. 8.1342a416) was simply
compared with a medical treatment and not defined in the discussion
of music. The last sentence states that everybody (emotionally involved)
experiences relief and catharsis with pleasure, hedone. The association of
catharsis with pleasure, in particular, seems to be close to the correlation
made by the clarification theory in the Poetics. A more serious objection to
this view is that learning (literally in the plural, maqseiv, Po. 4.1448b7
8) derived from mimesis appears to refer to only an elementary level of
knowledge. Then, why would scholars identify catharsis with intellec-
tual clarification? Aristotle, indeed, underscores the coherence of the plot,
which is an essential point in the cognitive theory, but he also emphasizes
the arousal of pity and fear in the Poetics. Again, the question of how
emotions and reasoning relate remains unanswered. Thus, it seems to me,
the proponents of this view well argue that the definition of tragedy should
be seen only as part of an Aristotelian argument and correlated with other
aesthetic concepts in the Poetics. Nevertheless, I do not believe that this
view demonstrates the meaning of catharsis. It does not explain how the
process of catharsis functions exactly, as no interpretation does overall, at
least not with certainty. Since Aristotle does not provide us with enough
clues in this respect, any theory of catharsis relies on an argument from
silence.
I have only sketched notable views about the catharsis clause in the
definition of tragedy. As this survey suggests, scholars not only dispute the
sense of the term (as it is often stated, the catharsis debate), but also
38
Sometimes, even supporters of the cognitive theory realize that they do not solve the problem
of tragic emotions. Simpson 1988, for example, tries to solve the difficulty by supplementing the
intellectual clarification with moral purification of the emotions.
39
Halliwell 1998, 355, criticizes Golden for willingly ignoring the evidence of the Pol. 8 and thus, by
extension, all the proponents of the clarification theory. It is true that Golden rejects (1992) the
passage. Others, however, who adopt the cognitive view, do not find the Pol. 8 to be in disagreement
with their ideas; so, for instance, Lear (1992).
250 Catharsis in the definition of tragedy in the Poetics
several essential concepts of Aristotelian poetic theory. To take only the
example of tragic emotions, some believe that Aristotle directly responds
to Plato.40 Plato states that tragedy invites audiences to surrender to pity
and, therefore, makes the spectators less able to control emotions in real
life (R. 10.606). Aristotle, then, would oppose Plato by saying (a) that
tragedy helps audiences to discharge pity and fear (medical, or outlet
theory of catharsis), or (b) that tragedy helps the audience, by education
about pity and fear, so that spectators can discipline their emotions in real
life (ethical-mean theory of catharsis). It is paradoxical that the supporters
of such views, who seek for a strong, anti-Platonic answer in the definition
of tragedy, suppose that Aristotles understanding of tragic emotions would
be very similar to Platos. Thus, pity and fear have to be either expelled,
or moderated in the spectators. On the other hand, the dramatic view
of catharsis mainly takes pity and fear as attributes of the tragic action,
which does not explain how these emotions would affect the spectator.
The cognitive theory is less preoccupied with the problem of emotions,
which would be subordinate to intellectual clarity gained from tragedy.
To a great extent, all these interpretations of catharsis raise the question of
what Aristotle thinks about the effect of tragedy on the audience.41 As the
meaning of catharsis itself is perhaps unattainable, I have tried to turn to a
more practical type of analysis of the emotions which is an Aristotelian
thing to do, after all.
40
Salkever 1986 sees in the Aristotelian description of catharsis, as well as in the entire poetic theory
of Aristotle, a response to Plato. He argues that Platos use of the term catharsis leads us to
understanding Aristotles definition of tragedy, in which catharsis may well signify a type of political
enlightenment of the collective audience as opposed to Platos philosophical clarification of the
individual.
41
This question was already raised in connection with catharsis by Haupt 1915.
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Index

Achilles, 12, 15, 345, 41, 56, 57, 122, 125, 126, 133, Ben-Zeev, 3
138, 144, 159, 162, 163, 183, 224, 230 Bernays, 2402, 243
acting, 7880, 92 Bharata Muni, 29, 31
actuality, 88
actualization, 88. See also energeia Calame, 147
Aeschylus, 25, 45, 142, 148, 151, 155, 184, 212, 233, Carcinus, 79, 84
234 catharsis, 43, 135, 238, 239, 243, 246, 249
aesthetic, 212 chorus, 146, 147, 207
aesthetic emotion, 47, 16, 22, 137 Cicero, 214
Agamemnon, 30, 200, 209, 219, 220 Clytaemnestra, 215, 217, 220
Ajax, 57, 124, 125, 181, 183, 184, 185, 192, 194, 198, Colonus, 203
200, 206, 217, 230, 232, 234 comedy, 60, 145, 189, 208, 211, 225
alien pleasure, 115 Comic (rasa), 32
Andromache, 100, 198, 230 completion (tlov), 118
anger, 77 consolation, 132, 207
anticipation, 121, 123, 222 courage, 44, 47, 534, 58, 123, 172, 198, 232
Antigone, 38, 149, 204 cowardice, 66, 172
Antiphon, 44 Cratus, 26, 165, 172, 173, 179, 189, 219
anxiety, 16, 170, 180, 189, 201, 202, 206, 223, 231 Creon (Antigone), 38, 149
apate, 6, 48, 49, 50, 59 Creon (Medea), 226, 227, 229, 230, 233, 235,
Aphrodite, 132, 228 236
Apollo, 211, 220, 225 Crotty, 15
appearance. See phantasia
Aristophanes (comicus), 156, 166, 213 Darius, 161, 163
Aristophanes of Byzantium, 208, 210 deception, 48. See also apate
Aristotle, 2, 9, 18, 19, 20, 23, 25, 31, 33, 35, 39, deimos. See terror
702, 73, 76, 90, 96, 103, 137, 143, 144, 145, deinon, 18, 193, 203
162, 172, 202, 206, 208, 218, 220, 226, 231, Dio Chrysostom, 89
233, 236, 238 Diomedes, 132
on tragic performances, 81 distress, 39
Astyanax, 230 Donadi, 45
Athena, 124, 181, 185, 190 doxa, 97, 98, 158
Athenians, 142, 146, 152, 155, 157, 158, 160, 185, dread, 16, 17, 41
203, 231, 233, 236 Dryden, 35
Atossa, 159, 160, 161, 189, 234
audience, 1, 2, 5, 6, 13, 42, 48, 49, 66, 71, 119, 125, Electra, 209, 213, 215, 216, 221, 222, 223, 225, 226,
130, 209 236
Augustine, St., 102 eleos. See pity
Else, 117, 2467
before the eyes. See pro ommaton emotion, 34, 11, 50, 73, 99
Belfiore, 107, 242 enargeia, 121

275
276 Index
energeia, 98, 110, 112 horror, 17, 113, 132, 137, 170, 180, 204, 234
envy, 77 House, 244, 245
epic, 83, 116, 144 Husain, 247
ergon, 112, 117 hybris, 94, 159, 161, 181, 200, 232
Erinyes, 215, 216, 219, 225, 233, 234
Erotic (rasa), 32 imagination, 46. See also phantasia
Eumenides. See Erinyes indignation, 77
Euripides, 26, 143, 178, 208, 213, 218, 225, 226, Indo-European, 23, 29, 132, 134, 136, 138, 207, 215
230, 235 internal audiences, 135, 142, 143, 148, 169, 170,
Euryclea, 187 173, 186, 188, 198, 207, 216, 229, 232
experience, 130 Io, 169, 170, 178, 179
expression theory, 45
external audiences, 136, 147, 148, 170, 175, 186, Janko, 2445
188, 198, 199, 203, 216, 234 joy, 39

Falkner, 186 karuna, 32, 33, 34


fear, 1, 7, 1520, 23, 30, 39, 46, 66, 68, 70, 72, 93, Kim, 1415
99, 121, 131, 169, 180, 200, 203, 204, 206, Konstan, 13, 14, 15, 17, 18, 72, 157
232, 234, 235
of death, 53, 54, 55, 65, 137, 233 lament, 65, 132, 133, 172, 173, 195
Fear, 233 Lear, 2, 71
fear-reverence, 68 Logos, 37, 39, 42, 43, 59, 136
Flashar, 242 longing, 41, 42, 47, 133
Fortenbaugh, 73 Longinus, 101, 218, 234
Friedrich, 164 Loraux, 152
fright, 16, 44
Furies, 114. See also Erinyes, MacDowell, 45, 46
Furious (rasa), 32, 33 Marvelous (rasa), 32, 35
Mastronarde, 209
Ghosh, 32, 35 Medea, 226, 227, 235, 236
gnomic statement, 95, 124, 214, 215 memory, 120, 121, 123, 126, 161, 163, 196
Goldhill, 11 Menelaus, 182, 199, 200, 201, 209, 210, 215, 219,
Goldman, 21 220, 221, 225, 229
Gorgias, 6, 25, 3751, 55, 59, 63, 75, 133, 135, 136, metaphor, 86, 107
143, 146, 149, 171, 179 miaron, 34, 245, 246
Gudrun, 132, 133, 134, 138 mimesis, 22, 34, 61, 66, 67, 102, 104, 107, 113, 127,
128, 213, 248
Hall, 145, 152 mimetic, 22, 62, 93, 98, 102
Halliwell, 2, 17, 18, 22, 71, 92, 105, 108, 247 mixed pleasures, 60
hamartia, 38, 220 monstrous, 113, 114, 132
Hammer, 15 Most, 15, 18
hatred, 38, 47 mourning, 64, 125, 127, 131, 137, 138, 172, 195,
Heath, 11, 212, 108 211
Hector, 57, 100, 122, 159, 198, 230 Murnaghan, 147
hedone, 105, 249. See also pleasure Murray, 164
Helen, 26, 37, 38, 44, 209, 215, 221, 223, 225, 228,
229, 236 Nussbaum, 14, 15
Hephaestus, 26, 172, 173, 176, 179, 189, 219
Heraclitus, 56 Oceanides, 168, 169, 171, 173, 175, 176, 179, 192,
Hermes, 122, 165, 168, 173, 175, 219 233
Hermione, 26, 209, 223, 225, 226, 227, 229 Oceanus, 26, 169, 172, 175, 179
Heroic (rasa), 32 Odious (rasa), 32, 33, 34
Hesiod, 30, 45, 48, 166 Odysseus, 48, 56, 124, 125, 182, 183, 184, 185, 190,
Homer, 12, 1415, 30, 345, 41, 132, 159, 163, 183, 195, 198, 199, 201, 206, 217, 219, 230, 232,
187, 212, 224, 230, 232 234, 235
Index 277
Oedipus, 9, 92, 194, 202, 203, 204, 205, 207, 234, proper pleasure. See oikeia hedone
235, 236 Pucci, 15
oikeia hedone, 21, 103, 107, 108, 114, 119, 121, 127, pure pleasures, 61
131, 134, 211, 225 Pylades, 210, 222, 223
oiktos. See pity
opsis, 80, 82, 84, 85, 96, 100, 113, 217 Queen (Persian). See Atossa
Orestes, 26, 209, 212, 215, 216, 220, 221, 222, 223, Quintilian, 102
224, 225, 236
rasa, 312, 34
Padel, 217 reception theory, 5
pain, 12, 60, 111, 217 recognition, 106, 168, 194
Pan, 30 Rehm, 20, 234
panic, 17 remembrance, 131, 160, 161
Paris, 37, 38, 44 reversal, 106, 168, 189, 196
Pathetic. See karuna Roberts, 16
Pathetic (rasa), 32 Rosenbloom, 153
pathos, 50, 73, 75, 146, 194, 195, 199, 201,
211 Salamis, 151, 156, 160, 185, 234
Patroclus, 57, 123, 125, 126 scholiast, 24, 100, 101, 188, 194, 199, 201, 202,
Peleus, 122 209, 211, 216, 219, 224
Penelope, 187 Segal, 146
perfection. See completion (tlov) sensational. See monstrous
Persians, 142, 153, 155, 156, 157, 158, 160, 161, 162, shudder, 40, 171, 179
178, 193, 234 Sifakis, 128
personification, 29 sight, 45, 171, 231
Phaedo, 67 Sigurd, 132
phantasia, 98, 100, 101, 121, 127, 132, 158, 218, 231 Socrates, 52, 53, 57, 58, 67, 69, 137, 144, 214,
philanthropia, 137 232
loving humans (Prometheus), 174 Sokolon, 19
philanthropon, 131, 163 Sophocles, 26, 101, 124, 142, 181, 183, 199, 209,
Philoctetes, 89, 204, 205 226, 230, 233, 235
philosophy, 54, 55, 57, 67, 69, 137, 144 sophrosyne, 201, 202, 232
phobos. See fear sorrow, 39, 43, 134
Phobos (personification), 30 Sparta, 30
Phrygian slave, 224, 235 spectacle, 194, 202, 217. See also opsis
Phrynichus, 148, 153, 154 speech. See Logos
Pindar, 49, 184 Sternberg, 14, 15
pity, 1, 1415, 22, 38, 39, 47, 64, 66, 68, 70, 72, suffering, 10, 38, 47, 57, 63, 91, 95, 124, 129,
76, 90, 100, 125, 131, 161, 164, 171, 174, 179, 133, 138, 167, 171, 196, 203, 206, 207, 228,
197, 203, 206, 209, 226, 230, 232, 235 231
Plato, 1, 19, 20, 25, 42, 524, 55, 56, 57, 5865, supervening pleasure, 130, 131
669, 93, 118, 125, 133, 135, 137, 143, 144, 149, syllogism, 129, 191, 234
1567, 172, 176, 178, 192, 232, 233, 238, 243,
245, 250 Tecmessa, 181, 194, 196, 201
pleasure, 42, 43, 51, 59, 60, 110 Terrible (rasa), 32, 33
plot, 115, 118, 163, 167 terror, 17, 41
Plutarch, 30 Teucer, 182, 199, 200, 209
potentiality, 88 Theoclymenus, 228, 229
Priam, 12, 41, 122, 125, 133, 138, 144, 161, 163, 230 Theophrastus, 145
pro ommaton, 78, 85, 86, 88, 90, 98, 100, 123, 132, Theseus, 205, 206, 236
160, 196, 231 Timocles, 1335, 138, 207, 215,
Prometheus, 26, 142, 164, 166, 169, 170, 172, 235
179, 185, 189, 192, 201, 216, 219, 231, 232, Titan. See Prometheus
233, 234 tragedy, 50, 59, 71, 80, 83, 112, 116, 119, 144, 145,
as Sophist, 176 188, 192, 208, 211, 225, 238, 246
278 Index
Tragedy, 138 wisdom, 58. See sophrosyne
Tyndareus, 220, 221, 225 Wissmann, 19
Wittgenstein, 12
universal, 128, 130
Xenophanes, 56, 178
vision, 47, 191, 217 Xerxes, 142, 151, 154, 157, 158, 159, 161, 162, 163,
visual effect. See opsis 189

Walker, 74 Zeitlin, 212


Wardy, 48 Zeus, 142, 160, 165, 166, 168, 172, 173, 177, 179,
West, 29, 132, 209 192, 232

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