Studying Aristotle’s “Poetics” — Part 22: Word Choice

Studying Aristotle’s “Poetics” — Part 22: Word Choice

As I’ve been interviewing screenwriters, I typically ask what some of their influences are. One book title comes up over and over again: Aristotle’s “Poetics.” I confess I’ve never read the entire thing, only bits and pieces. So I thought, why not do a daily series to provide a structure to compel me to go through it. That way we’d all benefit from the process.

For background on Aristotle, you can go here to see an article on him in the Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy.

To download “Poetics,” you can go here.

Part 22: Word Choice

The perfection of style is to be clear without being mean. The clearest
style is that which uses only current or proper words; at the same
time it is mean- witness the poetry of Cleophon and of Sthenelus.
That diction, on the other hand, is lofty and raised above the commonplace
which employs unusual words. By unusual, I mean strange (or rare)
words, metaphorical, lengthened- anything, in short, that differs
from the normal idiom. Yet a style wholly composed of such words is
either a riddle or a jargon; a riddle, if it consists of metaphors;
a jargon, if it consists of strange (or rare) words. For the essence
of a riddle is to express true facts under impossible combinations.
Now this cannot be done by any arrangement of ordinary words, but
by the use of metaphor it can. Such is the riddle: ‘A man I saw who
on another man had glued the bronze by aid of fire,’ and others of
the same kind. A diction that is made up of strange (or rare) terms
is a jargon. A certain infusion, therefore, of these elements is necessary
to style; for the strange (or rare) word, the metaphorical, the ornamental,
and the other kinds above mentioned, will raise it above the commonplace
and mean, while the use of proper words will make it perspicuous.
But nothing contributes more to produce a cleanness of diction that
is remote from commonness than the lengthening, contraction, and alteration
of words. For by deviating in exceptional cases from the normal idiom,
the language will gain distinction; while, at the same time, the partial
conformity with usage will give perspicuity. The critics, therefore,
are in error who censure these licenses of speech, and hold the author
up to ridicule. Thus Eucleides, the elder, declared that it would
be an easy matter to be a poet if you might lengthen syllables at
will. He caricatured the practice in the very form of his diction,
as in the verse:

“Epicharen eidon Marathonade badizonta,

“I saw Epichares walking to Marathon, “

or,

“ouk an g’eramenos ton ekeinou elleboron.

“Not if you desire his hellebore. “

To employ such license at all obtrusively is, no doubt, grotesque;
but in any mode of poetic diction there must be moderation. Even metaphors,
strange (or rare) words, or any similar forms of speech, would produce
the like effect if used without propriety and with the express purpose
of being ludicrous. How great a difference is made by the appropriate
use of lengthening, may be seen in Epic poetry by the insertion of
ordinary forms in the verse. So, again, if we take a strange (or rare)
word, a metaphor, or any similar mode of expression, and replace it
by the current or proper term, the truth of our observation will be
manifest. For example, Aeschylus and Euripides each composed the same
iambic line. But the alteration of a single word by Euripides, who
employed the rarer term instead of the ordinary one, makes one verse
appear beautiful and the other trivial. Aeschylus in his Philoctetes
says:

“phagedaina d’he mou sarkas esthiei podos.

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

Euripides substitutes thoinatai, ‘feasts on,’ for esthiei, ‘feeds
on.’ Again, in the line,

“nun de m’eon oligos te kai outidanos kai aeikes,

“Yet a small man, worthless and unseemly, “

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

“nun de m’eon mikros te kai asthenikos kai aeides.

“Yet a little fellow, weak and ugly. “

Or, if for the line,

“diphron aeikelion katatheis oligen te trapezan,

“Setting an unseemly couch and a meager table, “

we read,

“diphron mochtheron katatheis mikran te trapezan.

“Setting a wretched couch and a puny table. “

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

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

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

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

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

This is a remarkable amount of verbiage about some seemingly mundane concepts. I won’t even pretend to go into the weeds with this chapter, but I will extrapolate one thing that is relevant to screenwriting, indeed, all forms of writing: Word choice.

Consider this: “But the alteration of a single word by Euripides, who employed the rarer term instead of the ordinary one, makes one verse appear beautiful and the other trivial” [emphasis added].

Over the years, I’ve come to think of screenwriting as much more like poetry than prose. If the average scene is about one-and-a-half pages long, we by default have to embrace a less is more attitude. As a result, every word we choose is critical, especially with regard to scene description. The more we use strong verbs and vivid descriptors, the more we engender visuals to emerge in the mind of the reader, just like in poems.

So in the edit phase, we labor over every word, making sure collectively they pack a punch. Just like one of my writing mantras: Minimum words, maximum impact.

I am reminded of an anecdote I heard years ago in reference to Hollywood’s first great movie producer Irving Thalberg. He had a kind of love-hate relationship with writers, working with them intensively over each script, but also never quite grasping the vagaries of a writer’s creative process.

As the anecdote goes, Thalberg was meeting with some writers under contract at MGM, expressing his frustration about some scripted project. At some point, he proclaimed, “This writing business you do shouldn’t be that hard. After all, it’s just words.” To which one of the writers replied, “Yes, Irving, but which words.”

That in a nutshell describes a writer’s task: To discover which words work to tell a story best. And as Aristotle notes, a single word has the power to alter something from beautiful to trivial or hopefully… from trivial to beautiful.

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

I invite each of you, especially our wonderful group of Aristotelians, to join me in comments to continue our discussion.

See you here tomorrow for another installment of this series.

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For the entire series, go here.

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