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What passing bells for those who die as cattle? - Only the monstrous anger of the guns. Only the stuttering rifle's rapid rattle Can patter out their hasty orisons From "Anthem for Doomed Youth", Wilfred Owen.

2 A Sonnet Cold are the crabs that crawl on yonder hills, Cold are the cucumbers that grow beneath, And colder still the brazen chops that wreathe The tedious gloom of philosophic pills! For when the tardy film of nectar fills The ample bowl of demons and of men, There lurks the feeble mouse, the homely hen, And there the porcupine with all her quills. Yet much remains – to weave a solemn strain That lingering sadly – slowly dies away, Daily departing with departing day. A pea green gamut on a distant plain When wily walruses in congress meet – Such such is life – (the bitter and the sweet). n. d. [1953] Edward Lear

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e) aS Ol Itude E. E. Cummings (1958)

4 “What do you want to do?” she said. “Whatever you want to do.” “I want to do whatever’s best for you.” “What’s best for me is to please you,” I said. “I want to make you happy, Jack.” “I’m happy when I’m pleasing you.” “I just want to do what you want to do.” “I want to do whatever’s best for you.” “But you please me by letting me please you,” she said. “As the male partner I think it is my responsibility to please.” “I’m not sure whather that’s a sensitive caring statement or a sexist remark.” “Is it wrong for the man to be considerate towards his partner?” “I’m your partner when we play tennis, which we ought to start doing again, by the way. Otherwise, I’m your wife. Do you want me to read to you?” “First-rate” “I know you like me to read sexy stuff.” “I thought you liked it too.” “Isn’t it basically the person being read to who derives the benefit and satisfaction? When I read to Old Man Treadwell, it’s not because I find those tabloids stimulating.” “Treadwell’s blind, I’m not. I thought you liked to read erotic passages.” “If it pleases you, then I like to do it.” “But it has to please you too, Baba. Otherwise how would I feel?” “It pleases me that you enjoy my reading.” “I get the feeling a burden is being shifted back and forth. The burden of being the one who is pleased.” “I want to read, Jack. Honestly” “Are you totally and completely sure? Because if you’re not, we absolutely won’t.” Someone turned on the TV set at the end of the hall, and a woman’s voice said: “If it breaks easily into pieces, it is called shale. When wet, it smells like clay.” Méthodologie M2. Critique littéraire. Philippe Birgy. 1

Delillo, White Noise 5 Jonathan Harker's Journal 3 May. Bistritz._Left Munich at 8:35 P.M, on 1st May, arriving at Vienna early next morning; should have arrived at 6:46, but train was an hour late. Buda-Pesth seems a wonderful place, from the glimpse which I got of it from the train and the little I could walk through the streets. I feared to go very far from the station, as we had arrived late and would start as near the correct time as possible. The impression I had was that we were leaving the West and entering the East; the most western of splendid bridges over the Danube, which is here of noble width and depth, took us among the traditions of Turkish rule. We left in pretty good time, and came after nightfall to Klausenburgh. Here I stopped for the night at the Hotel Royale. I had for dinner, or rather supper, a chicken done up some way with red pepper, which was very good but thirsty. (Mem. get recipe for Mina.) I asked the waiter, and he said it was called "paprika hendl," and that, as it was a national dish, I should be able to get it anywhere along the Carpathians. I found my smattering of German very useful here, indeed, I don't know how I should be able to get on without it. Having had some time at my disposal when in London, I had visited the British Museum, and made search among the books and maps in the library regarding Transylvania; it had struck me that some foreknowledge of the country could hardly fail to have some importance in dealing with a nobleman of that country. I find that the district he named is in the extreme east of the country, just on the borders of three states, Transylvania, Moldavia, and Bukovina, in the midst of the Carpathian mountains; one of the wildest and least known portions of Europe. I was not able to light on any map or work giving the exact locality of the Castle Dracula, as there are no maps of this country as yet to compare with our own Ordance Survey Maps; but I found that Bistritz, the post town named by Count Dracula, is a fairly well-known place. I shall enter here some of my notes, as they may refresh my memory when I talk over my travels with Mina. In the population of Transylvania there are four distinct nationalities: Saxons in the South, and mixed with them the Wallachs, who are the descendants of the Dacians; Magyars in the West, and Szekelys in the East and North. I am going among the latter, who claim to be descended from Attila and the Huns. This may be so, for when the Magyars conquered the country in the eleventh century they found the Huns settled in it. I read that every known superstition in the world is gathered into the horseshoe of the Carpathians, as if it were the centre of some sort of imaginative whirlpool; if so my stay may be very interesting. (Mem., I must ask the Count all about them.) I did not sleep well, though my bed was comfortable enough, for I had all sorts of queer dreams. There was a dog howling all night under my window, which may have had something to do with it; or it may have been the paprika, for I had to drink up all the water in my car- afe, and was still thirsty. Towards morning I slept and was wakened by the continuous knocking at my door, so I guess I must have been sleeping soundly then. I had for breakfast more paprika, and a sort of porridge of maize flour which they said was "mamaliga", and egg-plant stuffed with forcemeat, a very excellent dish, which they call "impletata". (Mem.,get recipe for this also.) I had to hurry breakfast, for the train started a little before eight, or rather it ought to have done so, for after rushing to the station at 7:30 I had to sit in the carriage for more than an hour before we began to move. It seems to me that the further east you go the more unpunctual are the trains. What ought they to be in China? All day long we seemed to dawdle through a country which was full of beauty of every kind. Sometimes we saw little towns or castles on the top of steep hills such as we see in old missals; sometimes we ran by rivers and streams which seemed from the wide stony margin on each side of them to be subject of great floods. It takes a lot of water, and running strong, to sweep the outside edge of a river clear. At every station there were groups of people, sometimes crowds, and in all sorts of attire. Some of them were just like the peasants at home or those I saw coming through France and Germany, with short jackets, and round hats, and home-made trousers; but others were very picturesque. The women looked pretty, except when you got near them, but they were very clumsy about the waist. They had all full white sleeves of some kind or other, and most of them had big belts with a lot of strips of something fluttering from them like the dresses in a ballet, but of course there were petticoats under them. The strangest figures we saw were the Slovaks, who were more barbarian than the rest, with their big cow-boy hats, great baggy dirty-white trousers, white linen shirts, and enormous heavy leather belts, nearly a foot wide, all studded over with brass nails. They wore high boots, with their trousers tucked into them, and had long black hair and heavy black moustaches. They are very picturesque, but do not look prepossessing. On the stage they would be set down at once as some old Oriental band of brigands. They are, however, I am told, very harmless and rather wanting in natural self-assertion. (Bram Stoker, Dracula, CHAPTER 1.) Méthodologie M2. Critique littéraire. Philippe Birgy. 2

6 My name is Karim Amir, and I am an Englishman born and bred, almost. I am often considered to be a funny kind of Englishman, a new breed as it were, having emerged from two old histories. But I don't care Englishman I am (though not proud of it), from the south London suburbs and going somewhere. Perhaps it is the odd mixture of continents and blood, of here and there, of belonging and not, that makes me restless and easily bored. Or perhaps it was being brought up in the suburbs that did it. Anyway, why search the inner room when it's enough to say that I was looking for trouble, any kind of movement, action and sexual interest I could find, because things were so gloomy, so slow and heavy, in our family, I don't know why. Quite frankly, it was all getting me down and I was ready for anything. The one day, everything changed. In the morning, things were one way and by bedtime another. I was seventeen. (Hanif Kureishi, The Buddha of Suburbia, chapter 1.)

7 ONCE upon a time and a very good time it was there was a moocow coming down along the road and this moocow that was coming down along the road met a nicens little boy named baby tuckoo.... His father told him that story: his father looked at him through a glass: he had a hairy face. He was baby tuckoo. The moocow came down the road where Betty Byrne lived: she sold lemon platt. - O, the wild rose blossoms On the little green place. He sang that song. That was his song. O, the green wothe botheth. When you wet the bed first it is warm then it gets cold. His mother put on the oilsheet. That had the queer smell. His mother had a nicer smell than his father. She played on the piano the sailor's hornpipe for him to dance. He danced: Tralala lala Tralala tralaladdy Tralala lala Tralala lala. Uncle Charles and Dante clapped. They were older than his father and mother but uncle Charles was older than Dante. Dante had two brushes in her press. The brush with the maroon velvet back was for Michael Davitt and the brush with the green velvet back was for Parnell. Dante gave him a cachou every time he brought her a piece of tissue paper. The Vances lived in number seven. They had a different father and mother. They were Eileen's father and mother. When they were grown up he was going to marry Eileen. He hid under the table. His mother said: -O, Stephen will apologise. Dante said: -O, if not, the eagles will come and pull out his eyes. Pull out his eyes, Apologise, Apologise, Pull out his eyes. Apologise, Pull out his eyes, (James Joyce, A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, chapter 1.) "The Pall Mall Gazette" 18 September THE ESCAPED WOLF PERILOUS ADVENTURE OF OUR INTERVIEWER Interview with the Keeper in the Zoological Gardens After many inquiries and almost as many refusals, and perpetually using the words `PALL MALL GAZETTE' as a sort of talisman, I managed to find the keeper of the section of the Zoological Gardens in Méthodologie M2. Critique littéraire. Philippe Birgy. 3

which the wolf department is included. Thomas Bilder lives in one of the cottages in the enclosure behind the elephant house, and was just sitting down to his tea when I found him. Thomas and his wife are hospitable folk, elderly, and without children, and if the specimen I enjoyed of their hospitality be of the average kind, their lives must be pretty comfortable. The keeper would not enter on what he called business until the supper was over, and we were all satisfied. Then when the table was cleared, and he had lit his pipe, he said, "Now, Sir, you can go on and arsk me what you want. You'll excoose me refoosin' to talk of perfeshunal subjects afore meals. I gives the wolves and the jackals and the hyenas in all our section their tea afore I begins to arsk them questions." "How do you mean, ask them questions?" I queried, wishful to get him into a talkative humor. " `Ittin' of them over the `ead with a pole is one way; scratchin' of their ears is another, when gents as is flush wants a bit of a show-orf to their gals. I don't so much mind the fust, the `ittin of the pole part afore I chucks in their dinner, but I waits till they've `ad their sherry and kawffee, so to speak, afore I tries on with the ear scratchin'. Mind you," he added philosophically, "there's a deal of the same nature in us as in them there animiles. Here's you a-comin' and arskin' of me questions about my business, and I that grump-like that only for your bloomin' `arf-quid I'd `a' seen you blowed fust `fore I'd answer. Not even when you arsked me sarcastic like if I'd like you to arsk the Superintendent if you might arsk me questions. Without offence did I tell yer to go to `ell?" "You did." "An' when you said you'd report me for usin' obscene language that was `ittin' me over the `ead. But the `arf-quid made that all right. I weren't a-goin' to fight, so I waited for the food, and did with my `owl as the wolves and lions and tigers does. But, lor' love yer `art, now that the old `ooman has stuck a chunk of her tea-cake in me, an' rinsed me out with her bloomin' old teapot, and I've lit hup, you may scratch my ears for all you're worth, and won't even get a growl out of me. Drive along with your questions. I know what yer acomin' at, that `ere escaped wolf." "Exactly. I want you to give me your view of it. Just tell me how it happened, and when I know the facts I'll get you to say what you consider was the cause of it, and how you think the whole affair will end." "All right, guv'nor. This `ere is about the `ole story. That`ere wolf what we called Bersicker was one of three gray ones that came from Norway to Jamrach's, which we bought off him four years ago. He was a nice well-behaved wolf, that never gave no trouble to talk of. I'm more surprised at `im for wantin' to get out nor any other animile in the place. But, there, you can't trust wolves no more nor women." "Don't you mind him, Sir!" broke in Mrs. Tom, with a cheery laugh. " `E's got mindin' the animiles so long that blest if he ain't like a old wolf `isself! But there ain't no `arm in `im." "Well, Sir, it was about two hours after feedin' yesterday when I first hear my disturbance. I was makin' up a litter in the monkey house for a young puma which is ill. But when I heard the yelpin' and `owlin' I kem away straight. There was Bersicker a-tearin' like a mad thing at the bars as if he wanted to get out. There wasn't much people about that day, and close at hand was only one man, a tall, thin chap, with a `ook nose and a pointed beard, with a few white hairs runnin' through it. He had a `ard, cold look and red eyes, and I took a sort of mislike to him, for it seemed as if it was `im as they was hirritated at. He `ad white kid gloves on `is `ands, and he pointed out the animiles to me and says, `Keeper, these wolves seem upset at something.' "`Maybe it's you,' says I, for I did not like the airs as he give `isself. He didn't get angry, as I `oped he would, but he smiled a kind of insolent smile, with a mouth full of white, sharp teeth. `Oh no, they wouldn't like me,' `e says. "`Ow yes, they would,' says I, a-imitatin' of him. `They always like a bone or two to clean their teeth on about tea time, which you `as a bagful.' "Well, it was a odd thing, but when the animiles see us a-talkin' they lay down, and when I went over to Bersicker he let me stroke his ears same as ever. That there man kem over, and blessed but if he didn't put in his hand and stroke the old wolf's ears too! "`Tyke care,' says I. `Bersicker is quick.' "`Never mind,' he says. I'm used to `em!' "`Are you in the business yourself?"I says, tyking off my `at, for a man what trades in wolves, anceterer, is a good friend to keepers. Méthodologie M2. Critique littéraire. Philippe Birgy. 4

"`No,' says he, `not exactly in the business, but I `ave made pets of several.' and with that he lifts his `at as perlite as a lord, and walks away. Old Bersicker kep' a-lookin' arter `im till `e was out of sight, and then went and lay down in a corner and wouldn't come hout the `ole hevening. Well, larst night, so soon as the moon was hup, the wolves here all began a-`owling. There warn't nothing for them to `owl at. There warn't no one near, except some one that was evidently a-callin' a dog somewheres out back of the gardings in the Park road. Once or twice I went out to see that all was right, and it was, and then the `owling stopped. Just before twelve o'clock I just took a look round afore turnin' in, an', bust me, but when I kem opposite to old Bersicker's cage I see the rails broken and twisted about and the cage empty. And that's all I know for certing." Bram Stoker, Dracula, chapter 11. Summary: A journalist has come to inquire about the mysterious escape of a wolf and has to cope with the ill-humour of the keeper before he can get precise information about the said wolf. After a rather heated discussion, the keeper reveals that before the event he has seen a strange man (Dracula) near the cage of the animal and noticed that his presence has caused the wolf to become restless. Context: This episode is part of the preparation of the set scene where a wolf jumps into Lucy’s room, breaking the window pane, sealing her fate and causing her mother to die. Thus, insofar as the plot is concerned, the most important piece of information seems to be the one reported by the journalist. The use of a title in bold emphasises the message: a wolf has mysteriously disappeared from the zoo. In order for the action to reach a climax (Lucy’s mother death and Lucy’s transformation into a ghoul), that is, a moment of dramatic intensity which the reader expects (after all, one does not read vampire tales to find sentimental evocations of peaceful rural life in it), there must be a growing tension, a process of building up. Genre: In Gothic literature, one might expect to find : -cases of intrusion of the supernatural -a female victim persecuted by a villain -underground locations, ruined castles and churches -a sense of the sublime, of the immensity and violence of nature -a streak of anti-catholicism, etc Structure: temporal structure. What is notable here, insofar as the relationship between diegetic time and narrative time is concerned, is the complete omission of the heated argument which – as we suspect – has taken place between the journalist and the keeper. To begin with, the narrator hardly mentions the event : ‘the keeper would not enter on what he called business until the supper was over’, he notices rather matter-of-factedly. But the keeper’s strained allegory (based on the comparison between the habits of the wolves and those of human beings – that is : himself as a rather aggressive and moody man) suggests that he was not as talkative and polite when the journalist first intruded upon his privacy. It is only after we have gone through pages 136 and 137 that we are able to collect enough information to make out what really happened. Information: story 1 A strange man (Dracula) came to the zoo the day before the wolf escaped 2 The keeper mocked the man who failed to respond to his provocation (a sign that by day Dracula was not strong enough to confront a human being) 3 The journalist was directed to inquire into the mysterious escape

Enunciation: narrative Related by the keeper and written down by the journalist (lines 61-73) Related by the keeper and written down by the journalist (lines 74-105) + Implicit (something we can deduce from the context) Related by the journalist in his introduction to the article (lines 3-14)

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4 He asked the keeper to tell him what he knew about the affair 5 The keeper first refused to co-operate, even when given money by the journalist so that... 6 ...the latter had to threaten him with reporting him to the superintendent 7 The keeper insulted the journalist who declared that he would repeat everything unless his interlocutor proved more sociable and helped him 8 The journalist had to wait till the keeper had finished his meal and drunk his coffee before the latter was disposed to relate the events. 9 The journalist wrote his article

Related by the journalist (lines 15-17) Related by the keeper and written down by the journalist (lines 18-35) Related by the keeper and written down by the journalist (lines 35-37) Related by the keeper and written down by the journalist (lines 38-39)

Related by the keeper and written down by the journalist (lines40-46) + Related by the journalist (lines15-17) Implicit (something we can deduce from the nature of the document) 10 Mina collected the news in the newspaper, Implicit (something we can deduce from the and pasted it into her journal context) What we have noted in the first column is the chronological order of the events : in the next one we have indicated the origin of the information (that is : the manner in which the information is communicated to us). Enunciation/ Narrative technique: The question of temporality is not separate from that of the delivery of information: one might consider the author as someone who has a certain amount of information in hand and chooses to deliver this information in a certain order, and in certain ways (using the narrator or a character to transmit it, integrating documents, etc.). Under this perspective, it is not entirely surprising that the chronological order should have been inverted: after all, if the revelations made by Thomas Bilder are most important in terms of plot, it is quite normal that the narrative should lead to them. This order is also determined by the form: a reporter tells the story of a witness who tells a story about an escaped wolf. As a consequence, the keeper’s speech cannot start before it has been introduced by the journalist’s relation of events. What imports here – and this is a detail of which we only become aware once we have tried to figure the ‘construction’ of the passage – is that two stories are combined: -the keeper’s tale of his meeting with an eccentric character (Dracula) -the journalist’s tale of his meeting with an eccentric character (Thomas Bilder) A) Rhetoric is the counterpart of Dialectic. Both alike are concerned with such things as come, more or less, within the general ken of all men and belong to no definite science. Accordingly all men make use, more or less, of both; for to a certain extent all men attempt to discuss statements and to maintain them, to defend themselves and to attack others. Ordinary people do this either at random or through practice and from acquired habit. Both ways being possible, the subject can plainly be handled systematically, for it is possible to inquire the reason why some speakers succeed through practice and others spontaneously; and every one will at once agree that such an inquiry is the function of an art. Now, the framers of the current treatises on rhetoric have constructed but a small portion of that art. The modes of persuasion are the only true constituents of the art: everything else is merely accessory. These writers, however, say nothing about enthymemes, which are the substance of rhetorical persuasion, but deal mainly with non-essentials. The arousing of prejudice, pity, anger, and similar emotions has nothing to do with the essential facts, but is merely a personal appeal to the man who is judging the case. Aristotle, Rhetoric B) The Simile also is a metaphor; the difference is but slight. When the poet says of Achilles that he: Leapt on the foe as a lion, Méthodologie M2. Critique littéraire. Philippe Birgy. 6

this is a simile; when he says of him 'the lion leapt', it is a metaphor - here, since both are courageous, he has transferred to Achilles the name of 'lion'. Similes are useful in prose as well as in verse; but not often, since they are of the nature of poetry. They are to be employed just as metaphors are employed, since they are really the same thing except for the difference mentioned. Aristotle, Rhetoric C) From the Elizabethans to Milton, from Milton to Johnson, English criticism was dominated by constant reference to classical models. In the latter half of this period the influence of these models, on the whole, was harmful. It acted as a curb rather than as a spur to the imagination of poets; it tended to cripple rather than give energy to the judgment of critics. But in earlier days it was not so. For nearly a century the influence of classical masterpieces was altogether for good. It was not the regularity but the richness, not the self-restraint but the freedom, of the ancients that came home to poets such as Marlowe, or even to critics such as Meres. C. E. Vaughan, English Literary Criticism.

D) If you really want to hear about it, the first thing you'll probably want to know is where I was born, an what my lousy childhood was like, and how my parents were occupied and all before they had me, and all that David Copperfield kind of crap, but I don't feel like going into it, if you want to know the truth. In the first place, that stuff bores me, and in the second place, my parents would have about two hemorrhages apiece if I told anything pretty personal about them. They're quite touchy about anything like that, especially my father. They're nice and all--I'm not saying that--but they're also touchy as hell. Besides, I'm not going to tell you my whole goddam autobiography or anything. J.D. Salinger, The Catcher in the Rye

E) "What's it going to be then, eh?" There was me, that is Alex, and my three droogs, that is Pete, Georgie, and Dim. Dim being really dim, and we sat in the Korova Milkbar making up our rassoodocks what to do with the evening, a flip dark chill winter bastard though dry. The Ko Part 1 rova Milkbar was a milk-plus mesto, and you may, O my brothers, have forgotten what these mestos were like, things changing so skorry these days and everybody very quick to forget, newspapers not being read much neither. Well, what they sold there was milk plus something else. They had no license for selling liquor, but there was no law yet against prodding some of the new veshches which they used to put into the old moloko, so you could peet it with vellocet or synthemesc or drencrom or one or two other veshches which would give you a nice quiet horrorshow fifteen minutes admiring Bog And All His Holy Angels and Saints in your left shoe with lights bursting all over your mozg. Or you could peet milk with knives in it, as we used to say, and this would sharpen you up and make you ready for a bit of dirty twenty-to-one, and that was what we were peeting this evening I'm starting off the story with. Anthony Burgess, A Clockwork Orange

Cannon to right of them, Cannon to left of them, Cannon behind them Volley'd and thunder'd; Storm'd at with shot and shell, While horse and hero fell, They that had fought so well Came thro' the jaws of Death, Back from the mouth of Hell, All that was left of them, Left of six hundred. When can their glory fade? O the wild charge they made! All the world wonder'd. Honour the charge they made! Honour the Light Brigade, Noble six hundred!

Tennyson, “The Charge of the Light Brigade”

An officer came blundering down the trench: 'Stand-to and man the fire-step!' On he went... Gasping and bawling, 'Fire-step ... counter-attack!' Then the haze lifted. Bombing on the right Down the old sap: machine-guns on the left; And stumbling figures looming out in front. 'O Christ, they're coming at us!' Bullets spat, And he remembered his rifle ... rapid fire... And started blazing wildly ... then a bang Crumpled and spun him sideways, knocked him out To grunt and wriggle: none heeded him; he choked And fought the flapping veils of smothering gloom, Lost in a blurred confusion of yells and groans... Down, and down, and down, he sank and drowned, Méthodologie M2. Critique littéraire. Philippe Birgy. 7

Bleeding to death. The counter-attack had failed.

(Siegfried Sassoon, “Counter-Attack”)

I got my rod that was leaning against the tree, took the bait-can and landing-net, and walked out onto the dam. It was built to provide a head of water for driving logs. The gate was up, and I sat on one of the squared timbers and watched the smooth apron of water before the river tumbled into the falls. In the white water at the foot of the dam it was deep. As I baited up, a trout shot up out of the white water into the falls and was carried down. Before I could finish baiting, another trout jumped at the falls, making the same lovely arc and disappearing into the water that was thundering down. I put on a good-sized sinker and dropped into the white water close to the edge of the timbers of the dam. Hemingway, Fiesta the poet is speaking in his own person; he never leads us to suppose that he is any one else. But in what follows he takes the person of Chryses, and then he does all that he can to make us believe that the speaker is not Homer, but the aged priest himself. And in this double form he has cast the entire narrative of the events which occurred at Troy and in Ithaca and throughout the Odyssey. Yes. And a narrative it remains both in the speeches which the poet recites from time to time and in the intermediate passages? Quite true. But when the poet speaks in the person of another, may we not say that he assimilates his style to that of the person who, as he informs you, is going to speak? Certainly. And this assimilation of himself to another, either by the use of voice or gesture, is the imitation of the person whose character he assumes? Of course. Then in this case the narrative of the poet may be said to proceed by way of imitation? Very true. Or, if the poet everywhere appears and never conceals himself, then again the imitation is dropped, and his poetry becomes simple narration. …. If then we adhere to our original notion and bear in mind that our guardians, setting aside every other business, are to dedicate themselves wholly to the maintenance of freedom in the State, making this their craft, and engaging in no work which does not bear on this end, they ought not to practise or imitate anything else; if they imitate at all, they should imitate from youth upward only those characters which are suitable to their profession --the courageous, temperate, holy, free, and the like; but they should not depict or be skilful at imitating any kind of illiberality or baseness, lest from imitation they should come to be what they imitate. Did you never observe how imitations, beginning in early youth and continuing far into life, at length grow into habits and become a second nature, affecting body, voice, and mind? Yes, certainly, he said. Then, I said, we will not allow those for whom we profess a care and of whom we say that they ought to be good men, to imitate a woman, whether young or old, quarrelling with her husband, or striving and vaunting against the gods in conceit of her happiness, or when she is in affliction, or sorrow, or weeping; and certainly not one who is in sickness, love, or labour. Very right, he said. Neither must they represent slaves, male or female, performing the offices of slaves? They must not. And surely not bad men, whether cowards or any others, who do the reverse of what we have just been prescribing, who scold or mock or revile one another in drink or out of in drink or, or who in any other manner sin against themselves and their neighbours in word or deed, as the manner of such is. Neither should they be trained to imitate the action or speech of men or women who are mad or bad; for madness, like vice, is to be known but not to be practised or imitated. Plato, Republic

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