“Is anything nearer to vital truth than history?” Olivier asks the class the next day.
“Historyisvital truth. It is the treatise on being human,” George says.
“But even historical accounts are rhetorical,” Florence says.
“How so?” Olivier asks.
“A soldier on the ground does not see war from the view of a king in a castle. I’m sure a soldier would account history quite differently if he survived long enough to tell it. Choosing whatinformation from the past to include in the narrative involves an inherent argument shaped by perspective. Even if an argument is not stated explicitly, it’s clear that every story of war has a hero and a villain. Historical narratives are not immune from persuasive language. It is all a story, after all.”
“What could be more honest than history?” George snaps.
“Poetry,” Cassius interjects. Claudia loves the sound of his voice so close to her ear. She revels in the soft echo.
“Why?” Olivier asks.
“It expresses the universal truths, while history is an account of the particular. Poetry is an exploration of what may happen, or what could’ve been. It’s humanity without limitation,” Cassius says.
“Interesting. Plato had a loud disdain for poetry. He claimed poetry to be the mother of what?”
“Emotion?”
“No.”
“Tragedy?”
“Poetry is the mother of lies,” Claudia says, eyes locked forward.
“Correct, Miss Jolicoeur,” Professor Olivier says entirely too enthusiastically. It’s the first time Claudia has verbally participated in class in weeks. “There is something to be said for the power of poetry. Itcanbe the mother of lies. Itcanbe the nurse of abuse. Itcandrive men to madness. Some believe that poetry’s destabilizing influence left Athens vulnerable to Spartan conquest, despite the significant advancements of Athenian society. Why is poetry so powerful?”
“It’s evocative.”
“Mm-hmm. More.”
“It’s not always grounded in truth.”
Olivier shrugs. “Why does it matter? Why should poetry be true?”
“Because truth is good.”
“More.”
Why is no one else saying the right thing? This is one of the first things Lamour instructed them to read about in Rhetorical Theory this semester. “Because poetry guides the soul,” Claudia says.
A smile tugs at the corner of Olivier’s mouth. “What is the soul?”
“Plato says the soul is split into three: reason, spirit, and appetite. The logistikon, in the head; the thymoeides, in the heart; and the epithymetikon, in the stomach. One is rational, one is emotional, and one is hungry. This illustrates why it’s possible for the soul to want contradictory things at once—the logical reasoning to uphold the law can coexist with the desire to commit a crime that goes against it.” Another example: A girl can think about killing the man she loves for the desire to save herself, despite knowing that losing him would make everything—from life to godhood—feel like a punishment.
Claudia rejects that thought and continues. “Poetry emboldens emotion and hunger, potentially leading them to consume rationale, resulting in an inharmonious soul. But, of course, Plato’s disdain of poetry largely comes from the assertion that poetry is mimetic—merely imitative of life, not reflective of it—which, in his eyes, makes poetry untrue. This is where he and Aristotle disagree, for Aristotle says that mimesis is cathartic as it serves as a vehicle to express universal truths.”
Scribbling sounds through the room as the class takes notes.
Are they… are they taking notes fromher? Are they writing downherideas? Her heart warms.
Smiling brightly, Olivier says, “And what do you think, Miss Jolicoeur? Is poetry catastrophic or cathartic? Is it good or is it evil?”
Who is she to weigh in on good or evil? She is neither; she is both. “It’s necessary,” she says. “Even Plato indicates inThe Republicthat poetry has theoretical potential for good if it contains truth and guides the soul toward virtue. Not all poetry is the same—some is good, some is Platonically Good, some is bad,and some is Platonically Evil. But it can be good and Good. If it is done well, it is good, and if it is honest, it is Good.”
Cassius chimes in, affectionately murmuring, “You and Plato.”
