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Start listening today at P-O-D-C-A-S-T-L-I-B-R-A-R-Y. .org. Book 3, Part 2. Enough of the subjects of poetry, let us now speak of the style, and when this has been considered, both matter and manner will have been completely treated.
I do not understand what you mean, said Edimantis. Then I must make you understand, and perhaps I may be more intelligible if I put them out of this way. You are aware, I suppose, that all mythology and poetry is a narration of events either past, present, or to come. Certainly he replied.
And narration may be either simple narration, or imitation, or a union of the two. That again, he said, I do not quite understand. I fear that I must be a ridiculous teacher when I have so much difficulty in making myself apprehended, like a bad speaker, therefore, I will not take the whole of the subject, but will break a piece off in illustration of my meaning. You know the first lines of the Iliad, in which the poet says that Chris' prayed Agamemnon to release his daughter, and that Agamemnon flew into a passion with him.
Whereupon Chris' failing of his object invoke the anger of the God against the Akayans. Now as far as these lines, and he prayed all the Greeks, but especially the two sons of Atris, the chiefs of the people. The poet is speaking in his own person. He never leads us to suppose that he is anyone else.
But in what follows he takes the person of Chris' and then he does all that he can to make us believe that the speaker is not Homer, but the aged priest himself. And in this double form he has cast the entire narrative of the events which occurred at Troy and in Ithaca, and throughout the Odyssey. Yes, and a narrative that remains both in the speeches which the poet resides from time to time in an intermediate passage is quite true. But when the poet speaks in the person of another, may we not say that he assimilates his style to that of the person who, as he informs you, is going to speak.
Certainly. And this assimilation of himself to another, either by the use of voice or gesture, is the imitation of the person whose character he assumes. Of course. Then in this case the narrative of the poet may be said to proceed by way of imitation.
Very true. Or if the poet everywhere appears and never conceals himself, then again the imitation is dropped and his poetry becomes simple narration. However, in order that I may make my meaning quite clear and that you may know more say, I don't understand, I will show how the change might be affected. If Homer had said, the priest came, having his daughters ransom in his hands, supplicating the acains, and above all the kings.
And then if, instead of speaking in the person of crisis, he had continued in his own person, the words would have been, not imitation, but simple narration. The passage would have run as follows. I am no poet and therefore I drop the meter. The priest came and prayed the gods on behalf of the Greeks that they might capture Troy and return safely home.
But begged that they would give him back his daughter, and take the ransom which he brought, and respect the god. Thus he spoke. And the other Greeks revere the priest in a scented, but Agamemnon was roth, and bathed him apart to not come again. Thus the staff and chaplets of the god should be of no avail to him.
The daughter of crisis should not be released, he said. She should grow old with him and Argos. And then he told him to go away and not provoke him, if he intended to get home unscathed. And the old man went away in fear and silence.
And when he left the camp, he called upon Apollo by his many names, reminding him of everything which he had done pleasing to him, whether in building his temples or in offering sacrifices, and praying that his good deeds might be returned to him, and that the Achaeans might expiate his tears by the arrows of the god, and so on. In this way the whole becomes simple narrative. I understand, he said. Or you may suppose the opposite case, that the intermediate passages are omitted, and the dialogue only left.
That also, he said, I understand. You mean, for example, as in tragedy. You have conceived my meaning perfectly. And if I mistake not, once you fail to apprehend before he is now made clear to you, that poetry and mythology are, in some cases, wholly imitative.
Instances of these are supplied by tragedy and coming. There's likewise the opposite style, in which the poet is the only speaker. Of this, the dithoram affords the best example. And the combination of both is found in epic, and in several other styles of poetry.
Do I take you with me? Yes, he said. I see now what you meant. I will ask you to remember also what I began by saying, that we had done with the subject and might proceed to the style.
Yes, I remember. In saying this, I intended to imply that we must come to an understanding about the memetic art, whether the poets, in narrating their stories, are to be allowed by us to imitate, and if so, whether in whole or in part, and if the latter in what parts. Or should all imitation be prohibited? You mean, I suspect, to ask whether tragedy and comedy shall be admitted into our state?
Yes, I said. But there may be more than this in question. I really do not know as yet, but whither the argument may blow, that there we go. And go we will, he said.
Then, at a mantis, let me ask you whether our guardians ought to be imitators, or rather, has not this question been decided by the rule already laid down that one man can only do one thing well, and not many. And that if he attempts many, he will altogether fail, of gaining much reputation in any, certainly. And this is equally true of imitation. No one man can imitate many things, as well as he would imitate a single one, he cannot.
Then the same person will hard to be able to play a serious part in life, and at the same time be an imitator and imitate many other parts as well. For even when two species of imitation are nearly allied, the same person cannot succeed in both, as, for example, the writers of tragedy and comedy. Did you not just now call them imitations? Yes, I did.
And you are right in thinking that the same persons cannot succeed in both, any more that they can be rhapsodist and actors at once? True. Neither are comic and tragic actors the same. Yet all these things are imitations.
They are so. And human nature, at amentus, appears to have been calling to yet smaller pieces, and to be as incapable of imitating many things well, as of performing well the actions of which the imitations are copies. Quite true, he replied. If then we adhere to our original notion in bear in mind that our guardians, setting aside every other business, are to dedicate themselves wholly to the maintenance of freedom in the state, making this their craft, and engaging in no work which does not bear on this end.
They ought not to practice or imitate anything else, if they imitate at all. They should imitate from youth upward only those characters which are suitable to their profession. The courageous, temperate, holy, free, and the like. But they should not depict or be skillful at imitating any kind of a liberality or baseness, lest from imitation they should come to be what they imitate.
Did you never observe how imitations, beginning in early youth and continuing far into life, at length grown to habit and become a second nature, affecting body, voice, and mind? Yes, certainly, he said. Then I said, we will not allow those for whom we profess a care and of whom we say they ought to be good men, to imitate a woman, whether young or old, quarrelling with her husband, or striving and vaunting against the gods in conceit of her happiness, or when she is in affliction or sorrow or weeping. And certainly not one who is in sickness, love, or labor.
Very right, he said. Neither must they represent slaves, male or female, performing the offices of slaves, they must not. And surely not bad men, or the cowards or any others, who do the reverse of what we have just been prescribing, whose scold or mock or revile one another in drink or out of drink, or who in any other men are sin against themselves and their neighbors in word or deed, as a manner of such is. Neither should they be trained to imitate the action or speech of men or women who are mad or bad, for madness, like vice, is to be known but not to be practiced or imitated.
Very true, he replied. Neither may they imitate smes or other artificers, or oarsmen, or bosoms, or the like. How can they, he said, when they are not allowed to apply their minds to the calling of any of these? Nor may they imitate the naying of horses, the bellowing of bulls, the murmuring rivers and roll of the ocean, thunder, and all that sort of thing.
Nay, he said, if mad to speak forbidden, neither may they copy the behavior of mad men. You mean, I said, if I understand you are right, that there is one sort of narrative style which may be employed by a truly good man when he has anything to say, and that another sort will be used by a man who has an opposite character in education. And what are these two sorts, he asked? Suppose I answered that a just and good man in the course of a narration comes upon some saying their action of another good man.
I should imagine that he would like to personate him, and will not be ashamed of this sort of imitation. He will be most ready to play the part of a good man when he is acting firmly and wisely, in a less degree when he is overtaken by illness or love or drink, or has met with any other disaster. But when he comes to a character which is unworthy of him, he will not make a study of that. He will disdain such a person, and will assume his likeness, if at all, for a moment only when he is performing some good action.
At other times he will be ashamed to play a part which he has never practiced, nor will he like to fashion it, frame himself after the bacer models. He feels the employment of such an art, unless in jest, to be beneath him, and his mind revolts at it. So I should expect, he replied. Then he will adopt a mode of narration such as we have illustrated out of Homer.
That is to say, his style will be both imitative and narrative, but there will be very little of the former and a great deal of the latter. Do you agree? Certainly, he said. That is the model which such a speaker must necessarily take.
But there is another sort of character who will narrate anything, and the worse he is, the more unscrupulous he will be. Nothing will be too bad for him, and he will be ready to imitate anything, not as a joke, but in right good earnest, and before a large company. As I was just now saying, he will attempt to represent the role of thunder, the noise of wind and hail, or the creaking of wheels and police, and the various sound of flutes, pipes, trumpets, and all sorts of instruments. He will bark like a dog, bleat like a sheep, or crow like a crock.
His entire art will consist an imitation of voice and gesture, and there will be very little narration. That, he said, will be his mode of speaking. These then are the two kinds of style. Yes.
And would you agree with me in saying that one of them is simple and has but slight changes, and if the harm and rhythm are also chosen for their simplicity, the result is that the speaker, if he speaks correctly, is always pretty much the same in style, and he will keep within the limits of a simple, and more than the other. He will keep within the limits of a single harmony, for the changes are not great, and in like manner he will make use of nearly the same rhythm. That is quite true, he said, whereas the other requires all sorts of harmonies and all sorts of rhythms, if the music and the style are to correspond, because the style has all sorts of changes. That is also perfectly true, he replied.
And do not the two styles or the mixture of the two comprehend all poetry, and every form of expression in words. No one can say anything except in one or the other of them or in both together. They include all, he said. And shall we receive into our state all the three styles, or one only of the two unmixed styles, or would you include the mixed?
I should prefer only to admit the pure imitator of virtue. Yes, I said, at amantis, but the mixed style is also very charming, and indeed the pentamemic, which is the opposite of the one chosen by you, is the most popular style with children in their attendants, and with the world in general. I do not deny it. But I suppose you would argue that such a style is unsuitable to our state, in which human nature is not twofold or manifold.
For one man plays one part only. Yes, quite unsuitable. And this is the reason why in our state, and in our state only, we shall find a shoemaker to be a shoemaker and not a pilot also, and a husband to be a husband and not a daikest also, and a soldier, a soldier, and not a traitor also. And the same throughout.
True, he said. And therefore, when any one of these pentamemic gentlemen, who are so clever that they can imitate anything, comes to us, and makes a proposal to exhibit himself and his poetry, we will fall down and worship him as a sweet and holy and wonderful being. But we must also inform him that in our state, such as he or not permitted to exist, the law will not allow them. And so when we have anointed him with murder, and set a garland of wool upon his head, we shall send him away to another city.
For we need to employ for our soul's health the rougher and severe repowiter storyteller, who will imitate the style of the virtuous only, and will follow those models which we prescribe at first when we began the education of our soldiers. We certainly will, he said, if we have the power. Then now, my friend, I said, that part of music or literary education which relates to the story or myth may be considered to be finished. For the matter and manner have both been discussed.
I think so too, he said. Next in order will follow melody and song. That is obvious. Everyone can see already what we ought to say about them if we are to be consistent with ourselves.
I fear, said Guacán, laughing, that the word everyone hardly includes me. For I cannot at the moment say what they should be, though I may guess. At any rate you can tell me that a song or old has three parts, the words, the melody, and the rhythm. That degree of knowledge I may presuppose?
Yes, he said. So much is that, you may. And as for the words, there will surely be no difference between words which are, and which are not, set to music. Both will conform to the same laws, and these have already been determined by us?
Yes. And the melody and rhythm will depend upon the words. Certainly. We were saying, when we spoke with the subject matter, that we had no need of lamentation and strains of sorrow.
True. At which are the harmonies expressive of sorrow? You are musical, and can tell me. The harmonies which you mean are the mixed or tenderlidian, and the full tone or basslidian, and such like.
These then, I said, must be banished. Even to women who have a character to maintain they are of no use, and much less to men. Certainly. In the next place, drunkenness and softness and indolence are utterly unbecoming the character of our guardians.
Utterly unbecoming. And which are the softer drinking harmonies? The onion he replied, and the lydian. They are termed relaxed.
Well, and are these of any military use? Quite the reverse, he replied. And if so, the dorian and the fridian are the only ones which you have left. I answered.
Of the harmonies I know nothing. But I want to have one warlike, to sound the note or accent which abrave man utters in the hour of danger and stern resolve. Or when his cause is failing. And he is going to wounds or death, or is overtaken by some other evil.
And at every such crisis meets the blows of fortune with firm step and a determination to endure. And another to be used by him in times of peace and freedom of action. When there is no pressure of necessity, and he is seeking to persuade God by prayer, or manned by instruction and admonition. Or on the other hand, when he is expressing his will, ignest to yield to persuasion or entreat to your admonition.
And what represents him, when by prudent conduct, he is attained his end. Not carried away by his success. But acting moderately and wisely under the circumstances. And acquiescing in the event.
These two harmonies I ask you to leave. The strain of necessity and the strain of freedom. The strain of the unfortunate and the strain of the fortunate. The strain of courage and the strain of temperance.
These I say, leave. And these, he replied, or the dorian and fridian harmonies of which I was just now speaking. Then I said, if these and these only are to be used in our songs and melodies. Shall we not want multiplicity of notes or a panharmonic scale?
I suppose not. Then we shall not maintain the artificers of liars with three corners and complex scales. Are the makers of any other many strange curiously harmonized instruments? Certainly not.
But what do you say to flute makers and flute players? Would you admit them into our state when you reflect that in this composite use of harmony the flute is worse than all the stringed instruments put together, even the panharmonic music is only an imitation of the flute? Clearly not. The remain only the lyre and the harp for use in the city and the shepherds may have a pipe in the country.
That is surely the conclusion to be drawn from the argument. The preferring of Apollo and his instruments to Marcius and his instruments is not at all strange, I said. Not at all, he replied. And so, by the dog of Egypt, we have been unconsciously purging the state, which not long ago we termed luxurious.
And we have done wisely, he said. Then let us now finish the purgation, I said. Next, in order to harmonies, rhythms will naturally follow, and they should be subject to the same rules, for we ought not to seek out complex systems of meter or meters of every kind, but rather to discover what rhythms are the expressions of a courageous and harmonious life. And when we have found them, we shall adopt the foot and the melody to words having a light spirit.
Not the words to the foot and melody. To say what these rhythms are will be your duty. You must teach me, as you have already taught me the harmonies. But indeed, he replied, I cannot tell you.
I only know that there are some three principles of rhythm out of which magical systems are framed, just as in sounds that are four notes out of which all the harmonies are composed. That is an observation which I have been made. But what sort of lives there are, several of the imitations I am unable to say. Then I said, we must take Damon into our councils, and he will tell us what rhythms are expressive of meanness, or insulates, or fury, or other unworthiness, and what are to be reserved for the expression of opposite feelings.
And I think that I have an indistinct recollection of his mentioning a complex, critic rhythm. Also, idactilic, or heroic. And he arranged them in some manner which I do not quite understand, making the rhythms equal in the rise and fall of the foot, long and short, alternating. And unless I am mistaken, he spoke of an Iambic as well as of a trochaic rhythm, and assigned them the short and long quantities.
Also, in some cases, he appeared to praise or censure the movement of the foot quite as much as the rhythm. Or perhaps a combination of the two. For I am not certain what he meant. These matters, however, as I was saying, had better be referred to Damon himself.
For the analysis of the subject would be difficult, you know? Rather so, I should say. But there is no difficulty in seeing that grace or the absence of grace is in effect of good or bad rhythm. None at all.
In book three, part two.