Longinus and the Sublime

Last month, we met with our friend Demetrius to discuss his observations on style. I mentioned in that post that Loeb’s edition of On Style also included Aristotle’s Poetics and Longinus’ On the Sublime, so today, let’s meet the last of those three men, Longinus.

Longinus, unfortunately, is is a man of mystery like Demetrius. We have no real idea of who he was, except that he’s a Greek and probably wrote this book in the First Century, A.D. He addressed the work to Terentianus, but we don’t know who he was, either. As Donald Russell says in his introduction to Loeb’s edition, though, “who these people were, and what circle they moved in, are less important questions than what the book says, and what place it holds in the history of criticism.” The difficulty in identifying Classical authors is a common frustration, but ultimately, Russell is right, so let’s move on to the work itself.

Before we can discuss the sublime, we need to define what it is. Longinus gives a broad definition and a description of its effects in his first chapter:

[…] the Sublime consists in a consummate excellence and distinction of language, and […] this alone gave to the greatest poets and prose writers their preeminence and clothed them with immortal fame. For the effect of genius is not to persuade the audience but rather to transport them out of themselves. Invariably what inspires wonder, with its power of amazing us, always prevails over what is merely convincing and pleasing. For our persuasions are usually under our own control, while these things exercise an irrestistible power and mastery, and get the better of every listener.

Longinus spends much of the book detailing which techniques produce or hamper sublimity. I won’t spend a lot of time on these, but will give one example to give an idea of the book, on the use of inquiry. He writes:

Now what are we to say of our next subject, the figures of inquiry and interrogation? Is it not just the specific character of these figures which gives the language much greater realism, vigour and tension? [Loosely quoting Demosthenes:] “Tell me, my friend, do you all want to go round asking each other ‘Is there any news?’ For what stranger news could there be than this of a Macedonian conquering Greece? ‘Is Philip dead?’ ‘No, not dead, but ill.’ What difference does it make to you? Whatever happens to him, you will soon manufacture another Philip for yourselves.”

Notice, by the way, that Longinus begins this section with an example of the technique he’s discussing. He continues:

Here a bare statement would have been utterly inadequate. As it is, the inspiration and quick play of the question and answer, and his way of confronting his own words as if they were someone else’s, make the passage, through the use of the figure, not only loftier but also more convincing. For emotion is always more telling when it seems not to be premeditated by the speaker but to be born of the moment; and this way of questioning and answering one’s self counterfeits spontaneous emotion.

What makes Longinus especially enjoyable to read are the handful of asides or discussions of larger but related topics to the sublime. For example, can you teach sublimity? In other words, is genius something a man is born with or is it taught? Longinus concludes that “Nature is the first and primary element” to genius, but systems and rules are still needed:

We must remember also that mere grandeur runs the greatest risk if left to itself without the stay and ballast of scientific method and abandoned to the impetus of uninstructed temerity. For genius needs the curb as often as the spur.

He touches on the theme of genius a few more times, most notably in chapters 33-34, where he discusses whether it’s better to be technically perfect, i.e., to have no flaws in one’s writing, or to have flashes of brilliance with occasional mistakes or misjudgements. As he puts it, “Which is the better in poetry and in prose, grandeur flawed in some respects, or moderate achievement accompanied by perfect soundness and impeccability?” Most people prefer grandeur with some mistakes, as is clear just by citing a few comparisons:

Apollonius, for instance, is an impeccable poet in the Argonautica […] Yet would you not rather be Homer than Apollonius? […] In lyrics, again, would you choose to be Bacchylides rather than Pindar, or in tragedy Ion of Chios rather than Sophocles? In both pairs the first named is impeccable and a master of elegance in the smooth style, while Pindar and Sophocles sometimes seem to fire the whole landscape as they sweep across it, though often their fire is unaccountably quenched and they fall miserably flat. The truth is that no on in his senses would give the single tragedy of Oedipus for all the works of Ion together.

Another proof of Longinus’ point is that the editor assumes that you know Homer, Pindar, and Sophocles, but felt it necessary to add footnotes explaining who Apollonius, Bacchylides, and Ion even are.

Here, we’ll leave our friend Longinus. I think that Loeb likely included his and Demetrius’ works with Aristotle’s Poetics because Aristotle’s book is rather short, too short to justify a volume to itself. However, this works out quite well because all three complement each other - Aristotle introduces us to thinking about literature in a systematic way, Longinus invites us to reflect on the sublime and what makes for true literary greatness, and Demetrius analyses the craftsmanship of writing.