|
Horace
|
Horace
Horace, Latin in full Quintus Horatius Flaccus (b. December 65 bc,
Venusia, Italy—d. Nov. 27, 8 bc, Rome), outstanding Latin lyric poet and
satirist under the emperor Augustus. The most frequent themes of his
Odes and verse Epistles are love, friendship, philosophy, and the art of
poetry.
Life
Horace was probably of the Sabellian hillman stock of Italy’s central
highlands. His father had once been a slave but gained freedom before
Horace’s birth and became an auctioneer’s assistant. He also owned a
small property and could afford to take his son to Rome and ensure
personally his getting the best available education in the school of a
famous fellow Sabellian named Orbilius (a believer, according to Horace,
in corporal punishment). In about 46 bc Horace went to Athens, attending
lectures at the Academy. After Julius Caesar’s murder in March 44 bc,
the eastern empire, including Athens, came temporarily into the
possession of his assassins Brutus and Cassius, who could scarcely avoid
clashing with Caesar’s partisans, Mark Antony and Octavian (later
Augustus), the young great-nephew whom Caesar, in his will, had
appointed as his personal heir. Horace joined Brutus’ army and was made
tribunus militum, an exceptional honour for a freedman’s son.
In November 42, at the two battles of Philippi against Antony and
Octavian, Horace and his fellow tribunes (in the unusual absence of a
more senior officer) commanded one of Brutus’ and Cassius’ legions.
After their total defeat and death, he fled back to Italy—controlled by
Octavian—but his father’s farm at Venusia had been confiscated to
provide land for veterans. Horace, however, proceeded to Rome,
obtaining, either before or after a general amnesty of 39 bc, the minor
but quite important post of one of the 36 clerks of the treasury
(scribae quaestorii). Early in 38 bc he was introduced to Gaius
Maecenas, a man of letters from Etruria in central Italy who was one of
Octavian’s principal political advisers. He now enrolled Horace in the
circle of writers with whom he was friendly. Before long, through
Maecenas, Horace also came to Octavian’s notice.
During these years, Horace was working on Book I of the Satires, 10
poems written in hexameter verse and published in 35 bc. The Satires
reflect Horace’s adhesion to Octavian’s attempts to deal with the
contemporary challenges of restoring traditional morality, defending
small landowners from large estates (latifundia), combating debt and
usury, and encouraging novi homines (“new men”) to take their place next
to the traditional republican aristocracy. The Satires often exalt the
new man, who is the creator of his own fortune and does not owe it to
noble lineage. Horace develops his vision with principles taken from
Hellenistic philosophy: metriotes (the just mean) and autarkeia (the
wise man’s self-sufficiency). The ideal of the just mean allows Horace,
who is philosophically an Epicurean, to reconcile traditional morality
with hedonism. Self-sufficiency is the basis for his aspiration for a
quiet life, far from political passions and unrestrained ambition.
In the 30s bc his 17 Epodes were also under way. Mockery here is
almost fierce, the metre being that traditionally used for personal
attacks and ridicule, though Horace attacks social abuses, not
individuals. The tone reflects his anxious mood after Philippi. Horace
used his commitment to the ideals of Alexandrian poetry to draw near to
the experiences of Catullus and other poetae novi (New Poets) of the
late republic. Their political verse, however, remained in the fields of
invective and scandal, while Horace, in Epodes 7, 9, and 16, shows
himself sensitive to the tone of political life at the time, the
uncertainty of the future before the final encounter between Octavian
and Mark Antony, and the weariness of the people of Italy in the face of
continuing violence. In doing so, he drew near to the ideals of the
Archaic Greek lyric, in which the poet was also the bard of the
community, and the poet’s verse could be expected to have a political
effect. In his erotic Epodes, Horace began assimilating themes of the
Archaic lyric into the Hellenistic atmosphere, a process that would find
more mature realization in the Odes.
In the mid-30s he received from Maecenas, as a gift or on lease, a
comfortable house and farm in the Sabine hills (identified with
considerable probability as one near Licenza, 22 miles [35 kilometres]
northeast of Rome), which gave him great pleasure throughout his life.
After Octavian had defeated Antony and Cleopatra at Actium, off
northwestern Greece (31 bc), Horace published his Epodes and a second
book of eight Satires in 30–29 bc. In the first Satires Horace had
limited himself to attacking relatively unimportant figures (e.g.,
businessmen, courtesans, and social bores). The second Satires is even
less aggressive, insisting that satire is a defensive weapon to protect
the poet from the attacks of the malicious. The autobiographical aspect
becomes less important; instead, the interlocutor becomes the depository
of a truth that is often quite different from that of other speakers.
The poet delegates to others the job of critic. The denunciations do not
always seem consistent with Horace’s usual point of view, and sometimes
it is hard to tell when Horace is being ironic and when he is indulging
in genuinely serious reflection.
While the victor of Actium, styled Augustus in 27 bc, settled down,
Horace turned, in the most active period of his poetical life, to the
Odes, of which he published three books, comprising 88 short poems, in
23 bc. Horace, in the Odes, represented himself as heir to earlier Greek
lyric poets but displayed a sensitive, economical mastery of words all
his own. He sings of love, wine, nature (almost romantically), of
friends, of moderation; in short, his favourite topics.
The Odes describe the poet’s personal experiences and familiarize the
reader with his everyday world; they depict the customs of a
sophisticated and refined Roman society that is as fully civilized as
the great Hellenistic Greek cities. The unique charm of Horace’s lyric
poetry arises from his combination of the metre and style of the distant
past—the world of the Archaic Greek lyric poets—with descriptions of his
personal experience and the important moments of Roman life. He creates
an intermediate space between the real world and the world of his
imagination, populated with fauns, nymphs, and other divinities.
Some of the Odes are about Maecenas or Augustus: although he praises
the ancient Roman virtues the latter was trying to reintroduce, he
remains his own master and never confines an ode to a single subject or
mood. When he was composing the Odes, Horace was solidly linked to
Maecenas and his circle, and Horace’s political verse seems to express
the ideological commitments of the principate, Augustus’s government. He
denounces corrupt morals, praises the integrity of the people of Italy,
and shows a ruler who carries on his shoulders the burden of power.
Other Augustan themes that appear in Horace’s lyric verse include the
idea of the universal character and eternity of Roman political dominion
and the affirmation of the continuity of the republican tradition with
the Augustan principate. At some stage Augustus offered Horace the post
of his private secretary, but the poet declined on the plea of ill
health. Notwithstanding, Augustus did not resent his refusal, and indeed
their relationship became closer.
The last ode of the first three books suggests that Horace did not
propose to write any more such poems. The tepid reception of the Odes
following their publication in 23 bc and his consciousness of growing
age may have encouraged Horace to write his Epistles. Book I may have
been published in 20 bc, and Book II probably appeared in 14 bc. These
two books are very different in theme and content. Although similar to
the Satires in style and content, the Epistles lack the earlier poems’
aggressiveness and their awareness of the great city of Rome. They are
literary letters, addressed to distant correspondents, and they are more
reflective and didactic than the earlier work. Book I returns to themes
already developed in the Satires, while the others concentrate on
literary topics. In these, Horace abandoned all satirical elements for a
sensible, gently ironical stance, though the truisms praising moderation
are never dull in his hands. The third book, the Epistles to the Pisos,
was also known, at least subsequently, as the Ars poetica.
The first epistle of Book II, addressed to Augustus, discusses the
role of literature in contemporary Roman society and tells of changing
taste. The second, addressed to the poet and orator Julius Florus, bids
farewell to poetry, describes a day in the life of a Roman writer and
discourses on the difficulty of attaining true wisdom. Horace in these
works has become less joyful and less poetic. Poets are quarreling, and
Rome is no longer an inspiration. It is time for him to abandon poetry
for philosophy.
The third book, now called Ars poetica, is conceived as a letter to
members of the Piso family. It is not really a systematic history of
literary criticism or an exposition of theoretical principles. It is
rather a series of insights into writing poetry, choosing genres, and
combining genius with craftsmanship. For Horace, writing well means
uniting natural predisposition with long study and a solid knowledge of
literary genres.
The “Epistle to Florus” of Book II may have been written in 19 bc,
the Ars poetica in about 19 or 18 bc, and the last epistle of Book I in
17–15 bc. This last named is dedicated to Augustus, from whom there
survives a letter to Horace in which the Emperor complains of not having
received such a dedication hitherto.
By this time Horace was virtually in the position of poet laureate,
and in 17 bc he composed the Secular Hymn (Carmen saeculare) for ancient
ceremonies called the Secular Games, which Augustus had revived to
provide a solemn, religious sanction for the regime and, in particular,
for his moral reforms of the previous year. The hymn was written in a
lyric metre, Horace having resumed his compositions in this form; he
next completed a fourth book of 15 Odes, mainly of a more serious (and
political) character than their predecessors. The latest of these poems
belongs to 13 bc. In 8 bc Maecenas, who had been less in Augustus’
counsels during recent years, died. One of his last requests to the
Emperor was: “Remember Horace as you would remember me.” A month or two
later, however, Horace himself died, after naming Augustus as his heir.
He was buried on the Esquiline Hill near Maecenas’ grave.
During the latter part of his life, Horace had been accustomed to
spend the spring and other short periods in Rome, where he appears to
have possessed a house. He wintered sometimes by the southern sea and
spent much of the summer and autumn at his Sabine farm or sometimes at
Tibur (Tivoli) or Praeneste (Palestrina), both a little east of Rome. A
short “Life of Horace,” of which the substance apparently goes back to
Suetonius, a biographer of the 2nd century ad, quotes a jocular letter
he received from Augustus, from which it emerges that the poet was short
and fat. He himself confirms his short stature and, describing himself
at the age of about 44, states that he was gray before his time, fond of
sunshine, and irritable but quickly appeased.
Influences, personality, and impact
To a modern reader, the greatest problem in Horace is posed by his
continual echoes of Latin and, more especially, Greek forerunners. The
echoes are never slavish or imitative and are very far from precluding
originality. For example, in one of his satires Horace wrote what looks
at first like a realistic account of a journey made to Brundisium
(Brindisi, on Italy’s “heel”) in 37 bc. Two of the incidents, however,
prove to have been lifted—and cleverly adapted—from a journey by the
earlier Latin satirist Lucilius. Often, however, Horace provides echoes
that cannot be identified since the works he was echoing have
disappeared, though they were recognized by his readers.
Another disconcerting element is provided by Horace’s own references
to his alleged models. Very often he names as a model some Greek writer
of the antique, preclassical, or Classical past (8th–5th centuries bc),
whom he claims to have adapted to Latin—notably, Alcaeus, Archilochus,
and Pindar. Modern critics have noticed that what unites Horace to
Alcaeus is a particular kind of allusion: Horace begins his poem with a
translation of lines from his model. The critical term is motto.
Similarly, Horace has a subtly allusive relationship to Archilochus,
which can be seen in the aggressively iambic character of the ending of
some of the Epodes and the placing of Archilochean mottoes (usually at
the beginning) in other Epodes. Horace’s relationship to Pindar, the
greatest exponent of the choral lyric, is not so easy to define. It
seems that Horace admires Pindar for his sublime style and aspires to
that ideal in his most serious poems. Yet Horace’s style of writing is
much nearer to that of the more “modern,” refined, and scholarly Greek
writers of the Hellenistic, Alexandrian period (3rd and 2nd centuries
bc), though to these (as to certain important Latin predecessors) his
acknowledgments are selective and inadequate.
If this continuous relationship with the literary tradition is borne
in mind, together with certain other factors that preclude wholly direct
expression, such as the political autocracy of the time and Horace’s own
detached and even evasive personality, then it does become possible,
after all, to deduce from his poetry certain conclusions about his
views, if not about his life. The man who emerges is kindly, tolerant,
and mild but capable of strength; consistently humane, realistic,
astringent, and detached, he is a gentle but persistent mocker of
himself quite as much as of others. His self-portrait is also a
confession of an attitude that descends from melancholy to depression.
Some modern critics believe that he may have been clinically depressed.
His attitude to love, on the whole, is flippant; without telling the
reader a single thing about his own amorous life, he likes to picture
himself in ridiculous situations within the framework of the appropriate
literary tradition—and relating, it should be added, to women of Greek
names and easy virtue, not Roman matrons or virgins. To his male
friends, however—the men to whom his Odes are addressed—he is
affectionate and loyal, and such friends were perhaps the principal
mainstay of his life. The gods are often on his lips, but, in defiance
of much contemporary feeling, he absolutely denied an afterlife. So
“gather ye rosebuds while ye may” is an ever recurrent theme, though
Horace insists on a Golden Mean of moderation—deploring excess and
always refusing, deprecating, dissuading.
Some of his modern admirers see him as the poet of the lighter side
of life; others see him as the poet of Rome and Augustus. Both are
equally right, for this balance and diversity were the very essence of
his poetical nature. But the second of these roles is, for modern
readers, a harder and less palatable conception, since the idea of
poetry serving the state is not popular in the West—and still less
serving an autocratic regime, which is what Horace does. Yet he does it
with a firm, though tactful, assertion of his essential independence.
Not only is he unwilling to become Augustus’ secretary, but, pleading
personal inadequacy, he also gracefully sidesteps various official,
grandiose poetic tasks, such as the celebration of the victories of
Augustus’ admiral Agrippa. And he refers openly to his own juvenile
military service against the future Augustus, under Brutus at Philippi.
He himself ran away, he characteristically says, and threw away his
shield. But that, equally characteristically, turns out to be copied
from a Greek poet—indeed from more than one. It is not autobiography; it
is a traditional expression of the unsuitability of poets—and of
himself—for war. The whole poem absolves Horace of any possible charge
of failing, because of his current Augustan connections, to maintain
loyalty to his republican friends.
Horace’s intellectual formation had to a large extent been completed
before the Augustan regime began; yet he came to admire Augustus
sincerely and deeply, owing him many practical benefits. But, above all,
he deeply admired him for ending a prolonged, nightmarish epoch of civil
wars. So great was that achievement that Horace, at least, had no eye
for any crudities the new imperial regime might possess. This was one of
the ages when people wanted order more than liberty, though Augustus was
an adept at investing his new order with a sufficient respect for
personal freedom and a sufficient facade of republican institutions to
set most men’s minds at rest. He also restored the temples, and to
Horace, though he probably did not believe in the gods whose names he
called upon, the religious traditions and rituals of the Roman state
seemed an integral, venerable part of Rome’s greatness. The Emperor was
on more delicate ground when he sought, by social legislation, to purify
personal morals and to protect and revive the Roman family. But here,
too, Horace, in spite of his own erotic frivolity, was with him, perhaps
because of the famous austerity of his Sabine stock. And so the Secular
Hymn contains a specific allusion (poetically not altogether successful)
to these reforms.
Yet, before the hymn, Horace had already written the magnificent
Roman Odes, numbers one to six of Book III—a great tribute to Augustus’
principate, perhaps the greatest political poetry that has ever been
written. But these Odes are by no means wholly political, for much other
material, including abundant Greek and Roman mythology, is woven into
their dense, compact, resplendent texture. This cryptic, riddling
sonority is the work of a poet who saw himself as a solemn bard (vates),
a Roman reincarnation of Pindar of Thebes (518–438 bc), a stately Greek
lyricist. Pindar increasingly becomes Horace’s model in the further
state odes of his fourth and last book.
After Horace’s Secular Hymn, his works were known and appreciated by
all educated Romans. Already at the time of Horace’s death, his Odes
were suffering the fate he deprecated for them and had become a school
textbook. But their excellence was so great that they had few ancient
lyrical successors, until some early Christian writers—Ambrose,
Prudentius, and Paulinus—occasionally echoed Horace’s forms, though with
a difference in spirit. Thereafter, the medieval epoch had little use
for the Odes, which did not appeal to its piety, although his Satires
and Epistles were read because of their predominantly moralistic tones.
The Odes came into their own again with the Renaissance and, along with
the Ars poetica, exerted much influence on Western poetry through the
19th century. The English Victorian poet Alfred, Lord Tennyson, hailed
the lines of the Odes as:
Jewels five-words-long
That on the stretch’d forefinger of all Time
Sparkle for ever.
The many-facetted intricacy of these “jewels” has challenged
translators throughout the centuries; in spite, or because, of their not
wholly conquerable problems, every ode has been translated
hundreds—perhaps thousands—of times. And still new versions, some of
them admirable, continue to appear.
Michael Grant
Ed.
|
|
ARS POETICA
|
Type of work: Poem
Author: Horace (Quintus Horatius Flaccus, 65-8 B.C.)
First published: Epistula ad Pisones, after 23 B.C.
|
The Ars Poetica, the longest poem written by the Roman lyric poet
Quintus Horatius Flaccus, is one of the foremost documents on ancient
literary criticism in the Western world. Although this 476-line poem has
profoundly influenced literature (especially drama) throughout the
centuries, it has also sparked substantial controversy. Scholars have
debated its title, its date of composition, and the identity of the
Pisones, to whom the poem is addressed. Whether Horace originally titled
his work Epistula ad Pisones de arte poetica (letter to the Pisones
about the art of poetry) or simply Epistula ad Pisones (letter to the
Pisones), the title had been abbreviated to Ars poetica by the first
century A.D., as the Roman rhetorician and critic Marcus Fabius
Quintilianus attests. No evidence exists within the poem or in other
works that would allow its composition to be assigned to a specific
year. While a few scholars have argued for a date early in Horace's
poetic career, most critics believe that he probably wrote the poem
sometime after the publication of his first three books of odes in 23
B.C. The identities of Piso and his two sons have also come into
question. Pomponius Porphyrion, an early third century scholar who wrote
a commentary on Horace, identifies the men as Lucius Calpurnius Piso and
his two sons, but their dates do not coincide with the poem's internal
evidence. Later commentators have suggested Gnaeus Calpurnius Piso and
his sons, but their identities are subject to question as well. Although
the ancient manuscripts display the Arspoetica by itself, its longer
title and casual tone argue for its inclusion in book 2 of Horace's
Epistles, where editors have long placed it.
Scholars also argue over more substantial matters, including the poem's
exact purpose, its structure, and the question of its value as literary
criticism. While the main theme of the Ars poetica is agreed to be
poetry, scholars view its points of emphasis differently. Some contend
that its treatment of poetry is opposed to works on rhetoric. Others
state that Horace is presenting his ideas on what he considers great
poetry and which of that great poetry is supreme. To others, the poem
deals foremost with the unique difficulties of being a good poet.
Horace's desultory style of address makes it difficult to see any
coherent organization in the poem. Although some critics have denied any
deliberate arrangement, most scholars argue for either a bipartite or
tripartite structure. One authority has suggested that, depending on the
focus of study, the structure in the Ars poetica will appear different.
The critical triad of poema (the technique of writing verse), poesis
(the subject matter as organized in long poems), andpoeta (the skill,
training, and talent of the poet) reveals a division into three parts. A
second, more balanced tripartite arrangement derives from the single
unit of style and content, followed by the major Greek and Roman
dramatic genres, and finally poetic theory. A case may also be made for
a bipartite division, as the poem is first concerned with poetry as a
technical craft, then with general poetic theory. Still other
constructions are evident, and Horace may have intended the poem to be
understood on different levels.
In his intent to write a poem rather than a textbook, Horace develops a
seeming incoherence to his narrative. Gradual transitions, recurring
themes, and a well-concealed philosophical framework all contribute to
the poetry. Each section is connected to the preceding by a passage that
can belong to either; in this way the end of one passage and the
beginning of another are camouflaged. Character, propriety, training,
and unity are the most outstanding among a larger number of recurring
topics, crossing divisional barriers throughout and helping to maintain
the poem's claim to literature. The philosophical structure surfaces in
very few places.
In the first forty-one lines of the Ars poetica, Horace introduces his
discussion of poetry by showing how laughable and repulsive are badly
made works of art or poetry. The poem's first major axiom preaches
simplicity in and unity to one's creation: "Finally, let it be whatever
you wish, as long as it is simple and unified." The poet must choose a
topic that is equal to his abilities, and if "the subject is capably
chosen, then style and arrangement will never desert him" (lines 40-41).
In this way Horace introduces the major components of subject matter (res),
style (facundia), and arrangement (ordo). Since Horace has previously
demanded unity in composition, these three elements come to support each
other in Horace's own work to produce that unity.
In reverse order and increasing depth, Horace discusses subject, style,
and structure. He briefly describes arrangement as occurring when the
poet says what needs to be said at the time and puts off or omits other
topics as the occasion demands (lines 43-44).
The next seventy-four lines focus on style. The poet must use words
sparingly, but unusual circumstances make the creation of new words
acceptable. Such words carry more conviction if they are formed from
Greek. Meter, the second aspect of style, should remain in its
appropriate genre. Comedy and tragedy exemplify the complete inability
of one meter to substitute for another. Finally, the expression of
various emotions in the proper phrasing is necessary to elicit the
desired response from the audience. Language must fit not only the
emotional circumstances, but also the character's age, sex, social
class, and nationality.
So far, Horace's discussion has been of technical skill. He has avoided
the prosaic role of a writer of textbooks by referring to historical
figures, nature vignettes, and literary genres—especially comedy and
tragedy—which will be quite familiar to his audience.
The next 176 lines (slightly more than one-third of the Ars poetica)
explore a poem's subject matter. The abrupt change of topic appears at
line 119, where Horace enjoins the poet either to keep to traditional
stories or, if he must create a story, to invent something that is
consistent within its own fictional realm. Familiar literary characters,
such as Achilles and Medea, illustrate these principles since their
characters must reflect the legends about them. While a writer should
keep to familiar stories, such as those found in Homer, one must not
simply imitate them; one should rework them to make them one's own. Nor
must a story begin at an inappropriate place, but the poet must ensure
that beginning, middle, and end are compatible. Next, the poet should
create characters in their proper age and station of life. A substantial
passage depicting the four ages of man (boy, youth, adult, old man)
identifies the characteristics befitting each.
An even longer sequence of verses follows in which the qualities
necessary to support a play's content are set forth. Actions must be
proper to the stage and not offend the audience. The production of the
play, its division into five acts, the use of only three speaking
characters, the chorus' active participation in the plot, all further
support the content. The satyr play must also be appropriately written
and produced in order to fit at the end of a tragic performance. Meter
likewise plays an important role. The section ends with a comparison of
Greek and Roman drama.
Again, Horace avoids the tone of a textbook in his list of literary
precepts. He interweaves elements of history and legend, repeats his
maxim of writing about familiar themes, and again uses the Greeks as the
standard of excellence. The theme of propriety (decorum) reappears and
allows Horace to criticize or moralize about past events and
playwrights.
The final 182 lines of the Ars poetica focus upon the function (munus)
and obligations (officium) of the poet. In typica] fashion, an
eleven-line passage on insane poets, beginning at line 295, serves to
conclude the previous section and to usher in Horace's last major theme.
In the next two lines poetic function and obligation expand to include
the origin of the poet's resources, his nourishment and shaping, the
qualities befitting him, and the direction in which his virtues and
faults will lead him. Next, wisdom appears a the primary fountainhead of
good writing. Acquired knowledge of human nature is as important to a
poet as acquired knowledge of business is to an ordinary citizen.
Another major axiom states that a poet must instruct as well as
entertain in pleasing and suitable words if he is to appeal to the
greatest number of people. Brevity and close adherence to truth aid
poetic instruction. The perfection of the poet's skill is arrived at
through revision of his verses, but he must avoid the advice of friends
and instead seek impartial criticism even in the smallest details.
Another maxim surfaces at lines 408 through 411: Talent (natura) and
training \urs) must strike a balance in a writer. The poem concludes
with a description of the mad poet whom all should a\oid.
In this final third of the Ars poetica. Horace has maintained his
penchant for familiar themes to illustrate literary points and to unite
the section with the previous ones. He reiterates in slightly altered
form his belief that words will follow logically from a chosen subject.
He again portrays Greeks as models of genius. Mediocrity in everyday
activities—book production, тимс. painting, law, parties, sports—serves
to illustrate the necessity for perfection in the poet. Legend and
history, from Orpheus to Homer, afford further examples of ancient
perfection, and the story of Empedocles' suicide corroborates Horace's
argument that the mad poet should be avoided.
Although authorities disagree about the locations of divisions in the
early part of the Ars poetu u. all concur that the final one takes place
at line 295, The uncertainty regarding thematic division may derive in
part from Horace's adaptation of Aristotelian and Alexandrian
philosophical literary doctrine.
From the time of Aristotle, the fourth century Greek philosopher,
certain literary principles had predominated in the field of literary
criticism. The Ars pnctica echoes many of those tenets. The importance
of unity, the balance between a poet's talent and training, and pleasure
and instruction as the aim of poetry are themes present in both authors.
Horace follows Aristotle in discussion of subject, style, and
arrangement and in focusing on tragedy and epic as the two preeminent
literary genres. Like Aristotle, Horace believes in the superiority of
tragedy. Horace's arrangement of topics and his emphasis on poetry
differ so markedly from Aristotle's Rhetoric and Poetics, however, that
scholars have supposed an intermediate source between the two.
Porphyrion. in another statement on the Ars poetica, says that Horace
brought together the most outstanding literary precepts of Neo-ptolemusof
Parium, a third century B.C. Hellenistic writer. Thus, later critics
have supposed that Horace borrowed Aristotelian rhetorical principles
from the writings of Neoptolemus, following more closely the thematic
structure and poetic emphasis of the Alexandrian than the rhetorical
outlook of the Greek philosopher.
The impact of the Ars poetica on European literature since the
fourteenth century has been substantial. From the time of the Italian
Renaissance, literary authorities accepted the poem as a manual of
classical standards in the fine arts and relied upon it as well as
Aristotle's works for their discourses on literary criticism. In the
seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, the Ars poetica was a major
contributor to the development of the neoclassical movement. Authors of
that time tended to ignore the poem's apparent inconsistencies, instead
focusing on the precepts and advice it gives.
Since that time, scholars have valued the poem primarily for what it
tells them of the history of literary criticism in classical times. From
the maxims, rules, and conclusions of the Ars poetica critics have been
able to understand more clearly the evolution from ancient to modern
literary criticism.
|
|
|
|
Ars Poetica
Translated by A. S. Kline
On unity and harmony
If a painter had chosen to set a
human head
On a horse’s neck, covered a melding
of limbs,
Everywhere, with multi-coloured
plumage, so
That what was a lovely woman, at the
top,
Ended repulsively in the tail of a
black fish:
Asked to a viewing, could you stifle
laughter, my friends?
Believe me, a book would be like
such a picture,
Dear Pisos, if it’s idle fancies
were so conceived
That neither its head nor foot could
be related
To a unified form. ‘But painters and
poets
Have always shared the right to dare
anything.’
I know it: I claim that licence, and
grant it in turn:
But not so the wild and tame should
ever mate,
Or snakes couple with birds, or
lambs with tigers.
Weighty openings and grand
declarations often
Have one or two purple patches
tacked on, that gleam
Far and wide, when Diana’s grove and
her altar,
The winding stream hastening through
lovely fields,
Or the river Rhine, or the rainbow’s
being described.
There’s no place for them here.
Perhaps you know how
To draw a cypress tree: so what, if
you’ve been given
Money to paint a sailor plunging
from a shipwreck
In despair? It started out as a
wine-jar: then why,
As the wheel turns round does it end
up a pitcher?
In short let it be what you wish,
but whole and natural.
Most poets (dear sir, and you sons
worthy of your sire),
Are beguiled by accepted form. I try
to be brief
And become obscure: aiming at
smoothness I fail
In strength and spirit: claiming
grandeur he’s turgid:
Too cautious, fearing the blast, he
crawls on the ground:
But the man who wants to distort
something unnaturally
Paints a dolphin among the trees, a
boar in the waves.
Avoiding faults leads to error, if
art is lacking.
The humblest craftsman, down by
Aemilius’ School,
Who moulds finger-nails in bronze,
imitates wavy hair,
Is unhappy with the result, because
he’s unable
To create a whole. Now if I wished
to cast something,
I’d no more wish to be him, than
live with a crooked
Nose, though admired for my
jet-black eyes and black hair.
The writer’s aims
You who write, choose a subject
that’s matched by
Your powers, consider deeply what
your shoulders
Can and cannot bear. Whoever chooses
rightly
Eloquence, and clear construction,
won’t fail him.
Charm and excellence in
construction, if I’m right,
Is to say here and now, what’s to be
said here and now,
Retaining, and omitting, much, for
the present.
Moreover as the author of the
promised work,
Liking this, rejecting that,
cautious and precise,
Weaving words together, you’ll speak
most happily,
When skilled juxtaposition renews a
common word.
If you need to indicate abstruse
things by novel terms,
It’s your chance to invent ones the
kilted Cethegi
Never heard: licence will be given
you if wisely used:
Indeed, new-minted words will gain
acceptance
That spring from the Greek fount,
and are sparingly used.
Why should Romans deny to Virgil and
Varius
What they allowed to Caecilius and
Plautus?
And why begrudge me adding a few if
I can,
When Cato’s and Ennius’ speech
revealed new terms,
Enriched our mother-tongue,? It’s
been our right, ever
Will be our right, to issue words
that are fresh-stamped.
As the forests shed their leaves, as
the year declines,
And the oldest fall, so perish those
former generations
Of words, while the latest, like
infants, are born and thrive.
We’re destined for death, we and
ours: no matter if
Neptune, harboured inshore, guards
our ships from northerlies,
A royal project, no matter if an old
barren marsh, that knew
The oar, feels the plough’s weight,
and feeds the towns nearby,
Or that a river which ruined crops
has changed its course,
And learnt better ways: our mortal
works will vanish,
The beauty and charm of speech no
more like to live.
Many words that are now unused will
be rekindled,
Many fade now well-regarded, if
Usage wills it so,
To whom the laws, rules, and control
of language belong.
What the tradition
dictates
Homer’s shown the metre in which the
deeds of captains
And kings, and the sorrows of war,
may be written.
First, lament was captured in
elegiac couplets,
Then, expressions of thanks for
prayers granted, too:
Scholars dispute, though without
final agreement,
As to who first composed short
elegies in this metre.
Anger armed Archilochus with his own
iambus:
His foot fitted both comic sock and
tragic buskin,
Suited to dialogue, able to overcome
the noise
Of the pit, and naturally
appropriate to action.
The Muse granted the lyre tales of
gods, and their sons,
Of the victor in boxing, the winning
horse in the race,
The sorrows of youth, and the
freedoms of wine.
How can I be called a poet if I
ignore, or fail to observe,
The established functions and styles
in my work?
Why from diffidence would I prefer
not to know,
Than to learn? Comedy can’t be
played in tragic mode.
Likewise Thyestes’ feast scorns
being related
In everyday terms suited to the
comic sock.
Let each thing keep to the proper
place, allotted.
Yet Comedy may sometimes elevate its
voice,
When an angry Chremes storms in
swelling phrase:
And often in tragedy, Peleus and
Telephus,
One exiled, one a beggar, lament in
common prose,
Eschewing bombast, and
sesquipedalian words,
When they want their moaning to
touch the listener’s heart.
It’s not enough for poems to have
beauty: they must have
Charm, leading their hearer’s heart
wherever they wish.
As the human face smiles at a smile,
so it echoes
Those who weep: if you want to move
me to tears
You must first grieve yourself: then
Peleus or Telephus
Your troubles might pain me: speak
inappropriately
And I’ll laugh or fall asleep. Sad
words suit a face
Full of sorrow, threats fit the face
full of anger,
Jests suit the playful, serious
speech the solemn.
Nature first alters us within, to
respond to each
Situation: brings delight or goads
us to anger,
Or weighs us to the ground,
tormented by grief:
Then, with tongue interpreting,
shows heart’s emotion.
If the speaker’s words don’t
harmonise with his state,
The Romans will bellow with
laughter, knights and all.
Much depends on whether a god or man
is speaking,
A mature old man, or one still flush
with first youth,
A powerful lady, or perhaps a
diligent nurse,
A wandering merchant, or tiller of
fertile fields,
Colchian or Assyrian, from Argos or
Thebes.
Be consistent if you
are original
Either follow tradition, or invent
consistently.
If you happen to portray Achilles,
honoured,
Pen him as energetic, irascible,
ruthless,
Fierce, above the law, never downing
weapons.
Make Medea wild, untameable, Ino
tearful,
Ixion treacherous, Io wandering,
Orestes sad.
If you’re staging something untried,
and dare
To attempt fresh characters, keep
them as first
Introduced, from start to end
self-consistent.
It’s hard to make the universal
specific:
It’s better to weave a play from the
poem of Troy,
Than be first to offer something
unknown, unsung.
You’ll win private rights to public
themes, if you
Don’t keep slowly circling the broad
beaten track,
Or, pedantic translator, render them
word for word,
Or following an idea, leap like the
goat into the well
From which shame, or the work’s
logic, denies escape.
And don’t start like the old writer
of epic cycles:
‘Of Priam’s fate I’ll sing, and the
greatest of Wars.’
What could he produce to match his
opening promise?
Mountains will labour: what’s born?
A ridiculous mouse!
How much better the man who doesn’t
struggle, ineptly:
‘Tell me, Muse, of that man, who
after the fall of Troy
Had sight of the manners and cities
of many peoples.’
He intends not smoke from flame, but
light from smoke,
So as then to reveal striking and
marvellous things,
Antiphates, Charybdis and Scylla,
the Cyclops.
He doesn’t start Diomede’s return
from Troy with his
Uncle Meleager’s death, or the War
with two eggs:
He always hastens the outcome, and
snatches the reader
Into the midst of the action, as if
all were known,
Leaves what he despairs of improving
by handling,
Yet so deceptive, in blending fact
with fiction,
The middle agrees with the start,
the end with the middle.
On characterisation
Hear now what I, and the public
also, expect:
If you want us to stay in our seats
till the curtain
Call, when the actor cries out ‘All
applaud’,
You’re to note the behaviour of
every age-group,
Give grace to the variation in
character and years.
The lad who can answer now, and set
a firm foot
To the ground, likes to play with
his peers, loses but
Quickly regains his temper, and
alters with the hour.
The beardless youth, free of tutors
at last, delights
In horse and hound, and the turf of
the sunlit Campus,
He’s wax malleable for sin, rude to
his advisors,
Slow in making provision, lavish
with money,
Spirited, passionate, and swift to
change his whim.
Manhood’s years and thoughts, with
altering interests,
Seek wealth and friendship, devoted
to preferment,
Wary of doing what they may soon
labour to change.
Many troubles surround the aged man,
because he
Seeks savings, yet sadly won’t touch
them, fears their use,
And because in all he does he’s cold
and timid,
Dilatory, short on hope, sluggish,
greedy for life,
Surly, a moaner, given to praising
the years when
He was a boy, chiding and
criticising the young.
The advancing years bring many
blessings with them,
Many, departing, they take away. So
lest we chance
To assign youth’s part to age, or a
boy’s to a man,
Always adopt what suits and belongs
to a given age.
Events are either acted on stage, or
reported.
The mind is stirred less vividly by
what’s heard
Than by what the eyes reliably
report, all that
The spectator sees for himself. But
don’t reveal
On stage what should be hidden, keep
things from sight
That eloquence can soon relate to us
directly:
Folk shouldn’t see Medea slaughter
her children,
Impious Atreus mustn’t openly cook
human flesh,
Nor Procne turn into a bird, or
Cadmus a snake.
Any such scenes you show me, I
disbelieve, and hate.
On the gods, chorus
and music
No play should be longer or shorter
than five acts,
If you hope that, once seen, it’ll
be requested, revived.
And no god should intervene unless
there’s a problem
That needs that solution, nor should
a fourth person speak.
The Chorus should play an actor’s
part, energetically,
And not sing between the acts unless
it advances,
And is also closely related to the
plot.
It should favour the good, and give
friendly advice,
Guide those who are angered,
encourage those fearful
Of sinning: praise the humble
table’s food, sound laws
And justice, and peace with her
wide-open gates:
It should hide secrets, and pray and
entreat the gods
That the proud lose their luck, and
the wretched regain it.
The flute, once, not bound with
brass as now to rival
The trumpet, but simple and slender
with few stops,
Was used to lead and support the
Chorus, and to fill
The not over-crowded benches with
its breath,
While the people gathered were few
indeed, easily
Counted, and honest, and innocent,
and modest.
Later when victory enlarged their
territory,
Ringed their cities with wider
walls, when placating
The Genius with daylight drinking
went unpunished,
Then tempo and melody possessed
greater freedom.
What taste could the illiterate
show, freed from toil,
Where country mingled with city,
noble with base?
The flute-player trailing his robe
across the stage
Added interest and movement to an
ancient art:
The range of the lyre, once so
grave, was extended,
And an urgent delivery brought it
new eloquence,
While the words, practical wisdom
and prophecy,
Was not out of line with the Delphic
oracles.
On style
The man who once competed for a
lowly he-goat
With tragic verse, soon stripped the
wild Satyrs,
And tried coarse jests without loss
of seriousness,
Since only the attractions and
charms of novelty
Held the spectator, drunken and
lawless, after the rites.
But to gain acceptance for cheeky,
raucous Satyrs
You need to pass from serious mood
to light,
Without the gods or heroes you’ve
brought on stage
Whom we’ve just seen dressed in
royal purple and gold,
Appearing in dingy taverns with
vulgar language,
Or, scorning the ground, grasping at
air and clouds.
Tragedy, to whom spouting low verse
is unworthy,
Like a lady forced to dance at a
festival,
Will join the insolent Satyrs with
no small shame.
As a writer of Satyr plays, dear
Pisos, I’d not
Embrace only tame and simple verbs
and nouns,
Nor strain so hard to avoid the
tragic style
Davus might as well be speaking, to
shameless
Pythias who’s just milked Simo of a
talent,
As Silenus, guardian and servant of
his god.
I’ll pursue poetry made of what’s
known, so anyone
Could hope to do it, yet, trying it,
sweat and toil
In vain: such is order and
juxtaposition’s power,
Such may its beauty crown the
commonplace.
In my opinion, Fauns introduced from
the woods
Shouldn’t rattle out indiscreet
erotic verses,
Or filthy and shameless jokes,
almost as if they
Were born at the crossroads, or in
the marketplace:
Some take offence, men with horses,
ancestry, wealth,
Who don’t take kindly to, or grace
with a crown,
What the buyer of roasted nuts and
chickpeas approves.
On metre
A long syllable after a short is
called an iambus:
A swift foot, therefore it ordered
the name trimeter
To be associated with iambics making
six beats,
First pair to last being alike. Not
so long ago,
Obliging and tolerant, it received
the solid
Spondee into the family inheritance,
though not
Kind enough to cede fourth place, or
sixth, in its ranks.
The iambus is rare in Accius’ noble
trimeters,
And it levels the shameful charge at
the verses
Ennius trundled ponderously onto the
stage
Of careless and hasty work, or
ignorance of art.
Not every critic can detect
unmusical verse,
So Roman poets have been granted
unearned licence.
Should I run wild then, and write
freely? Or, reflecting
That all will see my faults, play
safe, still courting hope
Of pardon? At best I’d dodge
censure, yet earn
No praise. As for yourselves, have
Greek models
In your hands at night, and in your
hands each day.
But your ancestors praised Plautus,
metres and wit?
Too accepting and foolish, then,
their admiration
Of both, if you and I can in any way
distinguish
Unpolished from witty speech, and
can mark
The correct measures with our ears
and fingers.
Greeks and Romans
Thespis, they say, discovered the
Tragic Muse,
An unknown form, presenting his
plays from carts,
Sung and acted by men, faces smeared
with wine-lees.
Aeschylus, after him, introduced
masks, fine robes,
Had a modest stage made of planks,
and demanded
Sonorous speech, and the effort of
wearing buskins.
Old Comedy came next, winning no
little praise,
But its freedoms led to excess, to
unruliness
Needing legal curb: the law was
obeyed, the chorus,
Shamefully, fell silent, losing its
rights of attack.
Our own poets have left nothing
unexplored,
And have not won least honour by
daring to leave
The paths of the Greeks and
celebrate things at home,
Whether in Roman tragedies or
domestic comedies.
And Latium would be no less supreme
in letters
Than in courage and force of arms,
if all her poets
Weren’t deterred by revision’s time
and effort.
O scions of Numa, condemn that work
that many
A day, and many erasures, have not
corrected,
Improving it ten times over,
smoothed to the touch.
How to be a good poet
Because Democritus believed talent a
greater
Blessing than poor old technique,
and barred sane poets
From Helicon, a good few don’t care
to trim their nails,
Or beards, haunting secluded spots,
shunning the baths.
Surely a man will win the honour and
name of poet
If only he doesn’t entrust Licinus
the barber,
With a noddle that three Anticyras
couldn’t affect!
Ah, fool that I am, taking purges
for madness each spring!
Though no one composes better
poetry: it’s really
Not worth it. Instead let me play
the grindstone’s role,
That sharpens steel, but itself does
none of the cutting:
Writing nothing myself, I’ll teach
the office and function,
Where to find resources, what feeds
and forms the poet,
What’s right, what’s not, where
virtue and error lead.
Wisdom’s the source and fount of
excellent writing.
The works of the Socratics provide
you with content,
And when content’s available words
will quickly follow.
Whoever knows what he owes his
country and friends,
What love is due to a parent,
brother, or guest,
What’s required of a senator or a
judge in office,
What’s the role of a general in war,
he’ll certainly
Know how to represent each character
fittingly.
I’d advise one taught by imitation
to take life,
And real behaviour, for his
examples, and extract
Living speech. Often a play with
fine bits, good roles,
Though without beauty, substance or
art, amuses
The public more, and holds their
attention better,
Than verses without content,
melodious nonsense.
The Muse gave the Greeks talent,
rounded eloquence
In their speech, they were only
greedy for glory.
Roman lads learn long division, and
how to split
A pound weight into a hundred parts.
‘Then, tell me
Albinus’ son, if I take an ounce
from five-twelfths
Of a pound, what fraction’s left?
You should know by now.’
‘A third.’ ‘Good! You’ll look after
your wealth.’ Add an ounce,
What then?’ ‘A half.’ When this care
for money, this rust
Has stained the spirit, how can we
hope to make poems
Fit to be wiped with cedar-oil,
stored in polished cypress?
Combine instruction
with pleasure
Poets wish to benefit or to please,
or to speak
What is both enjoyable and helpful
to living.
When you give instruction, be brief,
what’s quickly
Said the spirit grasps easily,
faithfully retains:
Everything superfluous flows out of
a full mind.
Fictions meant to amuse should be
close to reality,
So your play shouldn’t ask for
belief in whatever
It chooses: no living child from the
Lamia’s full belly!
The ranks of our elders drive out
what lacks virtue,
The Ramnes, the young knights,
reject dry poetry:
Who can blend usefulness and
sweetness wins every
Vote, at once delighting and
teaching the reader.
That’s the book that earns the Sosii
money, crosses
The seas, and wins its author fame
throughout the ages.
There are faults of course that we
willingly ignore:
The string doesn’t always sound as
hand and mind wish,
You call for a bass and quite often
a treble replies:
The arrow won’t always strike the
mark it’s aimed at.
Yet where there are many beauties in
a poem,
A few blots won’t offend me, those
carelessly spilt,
Or that human frailty can scarcely
help. So what?
As a copyist has no excuse if he
always
Makes the same mistake, no matter
how often he’s told,
As a harpist is mocked who always
fluffs the one note:
So to me one who often errs is a
Choerilus,
Whose one or two fine lines prompt
startled smiles:
And yet I’m displeased too when
great Homer nods,
Somnolence may steal over a long
work it’s true.
Poetry’s like painting: there are
pictures that attract
You more nearer to, and others from
further away.
This needs the shadows, that to be
seen in the light,
Not fearing the critic’s sharp eye:
this pleased once,
That, though examined ten thousand
times, still pleases.
No mediocrity: recall
the tradition!
O Piso’s eldest son, though
accustomed to virtue,
By your father’s voice, and wise
yourself, take this
Dictum to heart, the middling and
just tolerable
Is only properly allowed in certain
fields. A lawyer,
A mediocre pleader of causes, may
fall short
Of Messalla’s eloquence, know less
than Aulus
Cascellius, yet have value: but
mediocrity
In poets, no man, god or bookseller
will accept.
Just as a tuneless orchestra, a
heavy perfume,
Or poppy-seeds in tart Sardinian
honey offend
At a good dinner, the meal being
fine without them:
So a poem, born and created to
pleasure the spirit,
Sinks to the depths if it falls
short of the heights.
He who knows nothing of sport shuns
the Campus’ gear,
Watches, if he’s unskilled with
ball, hoop, or quoit,
Lest the ring of spectators burst
out laughing freely:
Yet he who knows nothing of verse
still dares to write.
Why not? He’s freeborn and free, his
total wealth’s rated
As that of a knight, and he’s
lacking in any defect.
You at least will say and do nothing
without Minerva,
Such is your judgement and sense.
Yet if you do ever
Scribble, let it enter Tarpa the
critic’s ears,
Your father’s and my own, then put
your manuscript
Away till the ninth year: you can
always destroy
What you haven’t published: once out
there’s no recall.
While men still lived in the woods,
Orpheus, the gods’
Sacred medium, prevented bloodshed
and vile customs,
Hence it’s said that he tamed tigers
and raging lions.
It’s said too that Amphion, who
built Thebes’ citadel,
Moved stones at the sound of his
lyre, and set them
Where he wished with its charmed
entreaty. Once it was
Wisdom to separate public and
private, sacred
And profane, to bar chance union,
set marriage rights,
Build towns, and inscribe the laws
on pieces of wood.
So divine bards and their poems
achieved honour
And fame. Following these, Homer was
renowned,
And Tyrtaeus whose verses inspired
men’s hearts
To battle in war: oracles were
uttered in song,
The right way of living was shown,
and royal favour
Wooed with Pierian measures, and
tunes invented,
To help on tedious work: in case
you’re ashamed
Of the Muse skilled with the lyre,
or singing Apollo.
Nature plus training:
but see through flattery
Whether a praiseworthy poem is due
to nature
Or art is the question: I’ve never
seen the benefit
Of study lacking a wealth of talent,
or of untrained
Ability: each needs the other’s
friendly assistance.
He who’s eager to reach the course’s
longed-for goal,
Has done and suffered much as a lad,
sweating, freezing,
Abstaining from wine and women: the
flautist who pipes
At the Pythian Games, first learnt
how: feared his master.
Now it’s enough to say: ‘I compose
marvellous poems:
Let the itch take the last: I’ll not
be left behind ,
Admitting I haven’t a clue about
something I never learnt.’
Like an auctioneer drawing a crowd
to the sale,
So a poet whose rich in land, with
large investments,
Is bidding flatterers come to him,
and profit.
If he can serve up a really fine
dinner too,
Or go surety for a dodgy pauper, or
save
A dismal lawsuit’s victim, I’d be
amazed, if he,
The lucky man, could tell false
friend from true.
You too, if you’ve given or mean to
give someone
A gift, don’t induce him while
filled with delight
To listen to your verse: he’ll cry:
‘Lovely! Fine! Grand!’
Now he’ll grow pale, now he’ll even
force dew
From his fond eyes, leap, and strike
the ground.
As those hired to mourn at funerals
do and say
Almost more than those who are
grieving deeply,
The hypocrite’s more ‘moved’ than
the true admirer.
They say kings anxious to test
someone, to see if
He’s worthy of friendship, urge on
him many a glass,
Ply him with wine: so, if you should
fashion verses,
Don’t be deceived by the fox’s
hidden intent.
Know your faults and
keep your wits
If you ever read Quintilius
anything, he’d say:
‘Oh do change this, and this.’ If,
after two or three
Vain attempts, you could do no
better, he’d order
Deletion: ‘return the ill-made verse
to the anvil’.
If you chose to defend your fault
rather than change it,
He’d spend not another word or
useless effort
To stop you loving you, and yours,
unrivalled, alone.
An honest, sensible man will condemn
lifeless verse,
Fault the harsh, smear the inelegant
with a black
Stroke of the pen, cut out
pretentious adornment,
Force you to elucidate where it’s
not clear enough,
Denounce the ambiguous phrase, mark
amendments,
Be an Aristarchus: not say: ‘Why
should I offend
A friend for a trifle?’ Such trifles
lead to serious
Trouble, once he’s been laughed at,
or badly received.
The sensible fear to touch, they
flee, a crazy poet,
As when the evil itch, or jaundice,
plagues someone,
Or fanatical delusions, or plain
lunacy,
Diana’s curse: children rashly
follow and tease him.
He, inspired, goes wandering off,
spouting his verses,
And if like a fowler intent on
blackbirds, he falls
Into a well, or a pit, however much
he cries:
‘Help me, citizens!’ none will
bother to pull him out.
If anyone did choose to help, and
let down a rope,
I’d say: ‘Who knows if he didn’t do
that on purpose,
And doesn’t want to be saved?’ and
I’ll tell the tale
Of the Sicilian poet’s death, how
Empedocles
Keen to be an immortal god, coolly
leapt into
Burning Etna. Grant poets the power
and right to kill
Themselves: who saves one, against
his will, murders him.
It’s not his first time, nor, if
he’s rescued will he
Become human now, and stop craving
fame in death.
It’s not too clear why he keeps on
making verses.
Has he desecrated ancestral ashes,
disturbed
A sad spot struck by lightning,
sacrilegiously? Yes,
He’s mad: like a bear, that’s broken
the bars of its cage
The pest puts all to flight, learned
or not, with reciting:
Whom he takes tight hold of, he
grips, and reads to death,
A leech that never looses the skin,
till gorged with blood.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
