Ion [3]
are; for your words
touch my soul, and I am persuaded that good poets by a divine
inspiration interpret the things of the Gods to us.
Soc. And you rhapsodists are the interpreters of the poets?
Ion. There again you are right.
Soc. Then you are the interpreters of interpreters?
Ion. Precisely.
Soc. I wish you would frankly tell me, Ion, what I am going to ask
of you: When you produce the greatest effect upon the audience in
the recitation of some striking passage, such as the apparition of
Odysseus leaping forth on the floor, recognized by the suitors and
casting his arrows at his feet, or the description of Achilles rushing
at Hector, or the sorrows of Andromache, Hecuba, or Priam,- are you in
your right mind? Are you not carried out of yourself, and does not
your soul in an ecstasy seem to be among the persons or places of
which you are speaking, whether they are in Ithaca or in Troy or
whatever may be the scene of the poem?
Ion. That proof strikes home to me, Socrates. For I must frankly
confess that at the tale of pity, my eyes are filled with tears, and
when I speak of horrors, my hair stands on end and my heart throbs.
Soc. Well, Ion, and what are we to say of a man who at a sacrifice
or festival, when he is dressed in holiday attire and has golden
crowns upon his head, of which nobody has robbed him, appears sweeping
or panic-stricken in the presence of more than twenty thousand
friendly faces, when there is no one despoiling or wronging him;- is
he in his right mind or is he not?
Ion. No indeed, Socrates, I must say that, strictly speaking, he
is not in his right mind.
Soc. And are you aware that you produce similar effects on most
spectators?
Ion. Only too well; for I look down upon them from the stage, and
behold the various emotions of pity, wonder, sternness, stamped upon
their countenances when I am speaking: and I am obliged to give my
very best attention to them; for if I make them cry I myself shall
laugh, and if I make them laugh I myself shall cry when the time of
payment arrives.
Soc. Do you know that the spectator is the last of the rings
which, as I am saying, receive the power of the original magnet from
one another? The rhapsode like yourself and the actor are intermediate
links, and the poet himself is the first of them. Through all these
the God sways the souls of men in any direction which he pleases,
and makes one man hang down from another. Thus there is a vast chain
of dancers and masters and undermasters of choruses, who are
suspended, as if from the stone, at the side of the rings which hang
down from the Muse. And every poet has some Muse from whom he is
suspended, and by whom he is said to be possessed, which is nearly the
same thing; for he is taken hold of. And from these first rings, which
are the poets, depend others, some deriving their inspiration from
Orpheus, others from Musaeus; but the greater number are possessed and
held by Homer. Of whom, Ion, you are one, and are possessed by
Homer; and when any one repeats the words of another poet you go to
sleep, and know not what to say; but when any one recites a strain
of Homer you wake up in a moment, and your soul leaps within you,
and you have plenty to say; for not by art or knowledge about Homer do
you say what you say, but by divine inspiration and by possession;
just as the Corybantian revellers too have a quick perception of
that strain only which is appropriated to the God by whom they are
possessed, and have plenty of dances and words for that, but take no
heed of any other. And you, Ion, when the name of Homer is mentioned
have plenty to say, and have nothing to say of others. You ask, "Why
is this?" The answer is that you praise Homer not by art but by divine
inspiration.
Ion. That is good, Socrates; and yet I doubt whether you will ever
have eloquence enough to persuade me that I praise Homer only when I
am mad and possessed; and if you could hear me speak of him I am
sure
touch my soul, and I am persuaded that good poets by a divine
inspiration interpret the things of the Gods to us.
Soc. And you rhapsodists are the interpreters of the poets?
Ion. There again you are right.
Soc. Then you are the interpreters of interpreters?
Ion. Precisely.
Soc. I wish you would frankly tell me, Ion, what I am going to ask
of you: When you produce the greatest effect upon the audience in
the recitation of some striking passage, such as the apparition of
Odysseus leaping forth on the floor, recognized by the suitors and
casting his arrows at his feet, or the description of Achilles rushing
at Hector, or the sorrows of Andromache, Hecuba, or Priam,- are you in
your right mind? Are you not carried out of yourself, and does not
your soul in an ecstasy seem to be among the persons or places of
which you are speaking, whether they are in Ithaca or in Troy or
whatever may be the scene of the poem?
Ion. That proof strikes home to me, Socrates. For I must frankly
confess that at the tale of pity, my eyes are filled with tears, and
when I speak of horrors, my hair stands on end and my heart throbs.
Soc. Well, Ion, and what are we to say of a man who at a sacrifice
or festival, when he is dressed in holiday attire and has golden
crowns upon his head, of which nobody has robbed him, appears sweeping
or panic-stricken in the presence of more than twenty thousand
friendly faces, when there is no one despoiling or wronging him;- is
he in his right mind or is he not?
Ion. No indeed, Socrates, I must say that, strictly speaking, he
is not in his right mind.
Soc. And are you aware that you produce similar effects on most
spectators?
Ion. Only too well; for I look down upon them from the stage, and
behold the various emotions of pity, wonder, sternness, stamped upon
their countenances when I am speaking: and I am obliged to give my
very best attention to them; for if I make them cry I myself shall
laugh, and if I make them laugh I myself shall cry when the time of
payment arrives.
Soc. Do you know that the spectator is the last of the rings
which, as I am saying, receive the power of the original magnet from
one another? The rhapsode like yourself and the actor are intermediate
links, and the poet himself is the first of them. Through all these
the God sways the souls of men in any direction which he pleases,
and makes one man hang down from another. Thus there is a vast chain
of dancers and masters and undermasters of choruses, who are
suspended, as if from the stone, at the side of the rings which hang
down from the Muse. And every poet has some Muse from whom he is
suspended, and by whom he is said to be possessed, which is nearly the
same thing; for he is taken hold of. And from these first rings, which
are the poets, depend others, some deriving their inspiration from
Orpheus, others from Musaeus; but the greater number are possessed and
held by Homer. Of whom, Ion, you are one, and are possessed by
Homer; and when any one repeats the words of another poet you go to
sleep, and know not what to say; but when any one recites a strain
of Homer you wake up in a moment, and your soul leaps within you,
and you have plenty to say; for not by art or knowledge about Homer do
you say what you say, but by divine inspiration and by possession;
just as the Corybantian revellers too have a quick perception of
that strain only which is appropriated to the God by whom they are
possessed, and have plenty of dances and words for that, but take no
heed of any other. And you, Ion, when the name of Homer is mentioned
have plenty to say, and have nothing to say of others. You ask, "Why
is this?" The answer is that you praise Homer not by art but by divine
inspiration.
Ion. That is good, Socrates; and yet I doubt whether you will ever
have eloquence enough to persuade me that I praise Homer only when I
am mad and possessed; and if you could hear me speak of him I am
sure