24 September 2010

Fear of Metaphor, Part 2


There is a long history of philosophical antipathy to metaphor, dating back practically to the origins of philosophy.

Patrician, conservative, utilitarian Plato felt that poets should be banished from the public discourse of the ideal Republic because their use of figurative language (like the sophist's use of enthymemes) is a bewitchment, a rhetorical incitement which stirs childish passions without regard for the truth or the betterment of the polis.

As is his wont, he sics his annoying, perverse, deformed persona, Socrates—his attack dog or avatar, if you will—on the offenders:
"[Socrates]: If you consider, I said, that when in misfortune we feel a natural hunger and desire to relieve our sorrow by weeping and lamentation, and that this feeling which is kept under control in our own calamities is satisfied and delighted by the poets;—the better nature in each of us, not having been sufficiently trained by reason or habit, allows the sympathetic element to break loose because the sorrow is another’s; and the spectator fancies that there can be no disgrace to himself in praising and pitying any one who comes telling him what a good man he is, and making a fuss about his troubles; he thinks that the pleasure is a gain, and why should he be supercilious and lose this and the poem too? Few persons ever reflect, as I should imagine, that from the evil of other men something of evil is communicated to themselves. And so the feeling of sorrow which has gathered strength at the sight of the misfortunes of others is with difficulty repressed in our own.

How very true!

And does not the same hold also of the ridiculous? There are jests which you would be ashamed to make yourself, and yet on the comic stage, or indeed in private, when you hear them, you are greatly amused by them, and are not at all disgusted at their unseemliness;—the case of pity is repeated;—there is a principle in human nature which is disposed to raise a laugh, and this which you once restrained by reason, because you were afraid of being thought a buffoon, is now let out again; and having stimulated the risible faculty at the theatre, you are betrayed unconsciously to yourself into playing the comic poet at home.

Quite true, he said.

And the same may be said of lust and anger and all the other affections, of desire and pain and pleasure, which are held to be inseparable from every action—in all of them poetry feeds and waters the passions instead of drying them up; she lets them rule, although they ought to be controlled, if mankind are ever to increase in happiness and virtue.

I cannot deny it.

Therefore, Glaucon, I said, whenever you meet with any of the eulogists of Homer declaring that he has been the educator of Hellas, and that he is profitable for education and for the ordering of human things, and that you should take him up again and again and get to know him and regulate your whole life according to him, we may love and honor those who say these things—they are excellent people, as far as their lights extend; and we are ready to acknowledge that Homer is the greatest of poets and first of tragedy writers; but we must remain firm in our conviction that hymns to the gods and praises of famous men are the only poetry which ought to be admitted into our State. For if you go beyond this and allow the honeyed muse to enter, either in epic or lyric verse, not law and the reason of mankind, which by common consent have ever been deemed best, but pleasure and pain will be the rulers in our State.

That is most true, he said.

And now since we have reverted to the subject of poetry, let this our defense serve to show the reasonableness of our former judgment in sending away out of our State an art having the tendencies which we have described; for reason constrained us. But that she may impute to us any harshness or want of politeness, let us tell her that there is an ancient quarrel between philosophy and poetry; of which there are many proofs, such as the saying of ‘the yelping hound howling at her lord,’ or of one ‘mighty in the vain talk of fools,’ and ‘the mob of sages circumventing Zeus,’ and the ‘subtle thinkers who are beggars after all’; and there are innumerable other signs of ancient enmity between them. Notwithstanding this, let us assure our sweet friend and the sister arts of imitation that if she will only prove her title to exist in a well-ordered State we shall be delighted to receive her—we are very conscious of her charms; but we may not on that account betray the truth. I dare say, Glaucon, that you are as much charmed by her as I am, especially when she appears in Homer?

Yes, indeed, I am greatly charmed.

Shall I propose, then, that she be allowed to return from exile but upon this condition only—that she make a defense of herself in lyrical or some other meter?


And we may further grant to those of her defenders who are lovers of poetry and yet not poets the permission to speak in prose on her behalf: let them show not only that she is pleasant but also useful to States and to human life, and we will listen in a kindly spirit; for if this can be proved we shall surely be the gainers—I mean, if there is a use in poetry as well as a delight?

Certainly, he said, we shall be the gainers.

If her defense fails, then, my dear friend, like other persons who are enamored of something, but put a restraint upon themselves when they think their desires are opposed to their interests, so too must we after the manner of lovers give her up, though not without a struggle. We too are inspired by that love of poetry which the education of noble States has implanted in us, and therefore we would have her appear at her best and truest; but so long as she is unable to make good her defense, this argument of ours shall be a charm to us, which we will repeat to ourselves while we listen to her strains; that we may not fall away into the childish love of her which captivates the many. At all events we are well aware that poetry being such as we have described is not to be regarded seriously as attaining to the truth; and he who listens to her, fearing for the safety of the city which is within him, should be on his guard against her seductions and make our words his law.

Yes, he said, I quite agree with you.

Yes, I said, my dear Glaucon, for great is the issue at stake, greater than appears, whether a man is to be good or bad. And what will any one be profited if under the influence of honor or money or power, aye, or under the excitement of poetry, he neglect justice and virtue?

Yes, he said; I have been convinced by the argument, as I believe that any one else would have been." Plato, Republic X (Jowett translation)
Plato here is defending philosophy—reasoned, fact-based argument—against prior attacks of poetry and rhetoric, disciplines which have their bases, he says, not in truth but in the emotions, passions, and ideologies of the people. The source of the initial attacks is lost to time, but it is clear from the Dialogues that the Homerians and sophists were prevailing in the public discourse of the time.

Plato's philosophical defensiveness and his desire to establish a rational basis for public discourse have had a profound impact on Western attitudes about metaphor. And, indeed, a certain skepticism about any politics based on metaphor—e.g., mama grizzly, trickle down economics—is not entirely unhealthy; specificity, rationality, and a basis in causal fact are fair demands to make on the policies and pronouncements of our public figures.

This, however, tells nothing about the place of metaphor in fiction and poetry. Nor does it enlighten us to the nature of metaphor, language, and thought.

Could Plato have been wrong about the emotive basis of metaphor? Are metaphors necessary to frame and, thus, communicate political ideas?

(to be continued)

1 comment:

Frances Madeson said...

Something Steven said in a recent TRE2 comment in reference to Harry Reid, about writers functioning at times as stenographers for more powerful and crude imaginations made me think of Henry James and Washington Square. Austin Sloper and his sister, Mrs. Almond, are dishing about their sister, Lavinia Penniman, and describe her as having a powerful imagination, given to crudity.

Later, they're dishing about his daughter, Catherine, post post her being betrayed and abandoned by Townsend. The good doctor says:

"She had her little dance, and now she is setting down to rest. I suspect that on the whole she enjoys it."

"She enjoys it as people enjoy getting rid of a leg that has been crushed. The state of mind after amputation is doubtless one of comparative repose."

"If your leg is a metaphor for young Townsend, I can assure you he has never been crushed. Crushed? Not he! He is alive and perfectly intact, and that's why I am not satisfied."

"Should you have liked to kill him?" asked Mrs. Almond.

"Yes, very much. ..."

Something else to throw into the pissoir, Jim, as you move through this fascinating series.