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THE OEDIPUS PL AYS OF SOPHOCLES

ii
Oxford Studies in Philosophy and Literature

Richard Eldridge, Philosophy, Swarthmore College
Editorial Board
Anthony J. Cascardi, Comparative Literature, Romance, Languages, and Rhetoric,
University of California, Berkeley
David Damrosch, Comparative Literature, Harvard
Moira Gatens, Philosophy, Sydney
Garry Hagberg, Philosophy, Bard
Philip Kitcher, Philosophy, Columbia
Joshua Landy, French and Comparative Literature, Stanford University
Toril Moi, Literature, Romance Studies, Philosophy, and Theater Studies, Duke University
Martha C. Nussbaum, Philosophy and Law School, University of Chicago
Bernard Rhie, English, Williams College
David Wellbery, Germanic Studies, Comparative Literature, and Committee
on Social Thought, University of Chicago
Paul Woodruff, Philosophy and Classics, University of Texas at Austin
Published in the Series

Ibsen’s Hedda Gabler: Philosophical Perspectives
Edited by Kristin Gjesdal
Shakespeare’s Hamlet: Philosophical Perspectives

Edited by Tzachi Zamir
Kafka’s The Trial: Philosophical Perspectives

Edited by Espen Hammer
Austen’s Emma: Philosophical Perspectives

Edited by E. M. Dadlez
The Oedipus Plays of Sophocles: Philosophical Perspectives

Edited by Paul Woodruff
iii
THE OEDIPUS PL AYS

OF SOPHOCLES
Philosophical Perspectives
Edited by Paul Woodruff
1
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CONTENTS
Series Editor’s Foreword vii

A Note on the Cover xi
Contributors xiii
Editor’s Introduction 1
Paul Woodruff
1. Oedipus Tyrannus and the Cognitive Value of Literature 17
Noël Carroll
2. The Killing Feet: Evidence and Evidence Sensitivity
in Oedipus Tyrannus 41
C. D. C. Reeve
3. In the Ruins of Self-Knowledge: Oedipus Unmade 65
Garry L. Hagberg
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Contents
4. “Tyranny,” Enlightenment, and Religion: Sophocles’s

Sympathetic Critique of Periclean Athens in Oedipus
the Tyrant 99
Peter J. Ahrensdorf
5. Gods, Fate, and the Character of Oedipus 125
Paul Woodruff
6. Aging Oedipus 151
Philip Kitcher
7. Truth and Self at Colonus 183
Grace Ledbetter
8. The Goodness of Death in Oedipus at Colonus 209
Franco V. Trivigno
Index 239
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SERIES EDITOR’S FOREWORD
At least since Plato had Socrates criticize the poets and attempt to
displace Homer as the authoritative articulator and transmitter of
human experience and values, philosophy and literature have de-
veloped as partly competing, partly complementary enterprises.
Both literary writers and philosophers have frequently studied and
commented on each other’s texts and ideas, sometimes with ap-
proval, sometimes with disapproval, in their efforts to become clearer
about human life and about valuable commitments––moral, artistic,
political, epistemic, metaphysical, and religious, as may be. Plato’s
texts themselves register the complexity and importance of these
interactions in being dialogues in which both deductive argumenta-
tion and dramatic narration do central work in furthering a complex
body of views.
While these relations have been widely recognized, they have also
frequently been ignored or misunderstood, as academic disciplines
have gone their separate ways within their modern institutional
settings. Philosophy has often turned to science or mathematics as
providing models of knowledge; in doing so it has often explicitly set
itself against cultural entanglements and literary devices, rejecting,
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S e r i e s E d i t o r’ s F o r e w o r d
at least officially, the importance of plot, figuration, and imagery in

favor of supposedly plain speech about the truth. Literary study has
moved variously through formalism, structuralism, poststructur-
alism, and cultural studies, among other movements, as modes of
approach to a literary text. In doing so it has understood literary texts
as sample instances of images, structures, personal styles, or failures
of consciousness, or it has seen the literary text as a largely fungible
product, fundamentally shaped by wider pressures and patterns of
consumption and expectation that affect and figure in nonliterary
textual production as well. It has thus set itself against the idea that
major literary texts productively and originally address philosophical
problems of value and commitment precisely through their form,
diction, imagery, and development, even while these works also re-
sist claiming conclusively to solve the problems that occupy them.
These distinct academic traditions have yielded important
perspectives and insights. But in the end none of them has been kind
to the idea of major literary works as achievements in thinking about
values and human life, often in distinctive, open, self-revising, self-
critical ways. At the same time readers outside institutional settings,
and often enough philosophers and literary scholars too, have turned
to major literary texts precisely in order to engage with their pro-
ductive, materially and medially specific patterns and processes of
thinking. These turns to literature have, however, not so far been sys-
tematically encouraged within disciplines, and they have generally
occurred independently of each other.
The aim of this series is to make manifest the multiple, complex
engagements with philosophical ideas and problems that lie at the
hearts of major literary texts. In doing so, its volumes aim not only
to help philosophers and literary scholars of various kinds to find
rich affinities and provocations to further thought and work; they
also aim to bridge various gaps between academic disciplines and
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S e r i e s E d i t o r’ s F o r e w o r d
between those disciplines and the experiences of extra-institutional

readers.
Each volume focuses on a single, undisputedly major literary
text. Both philosophers with training and experience in literary study
and literary scholars with training and experience in philosophy are
invited to engage with themes, details, images, and incidents in the
focal text, through which philosophical problems are held in view,
worried at, and reformulated. Decidedly not a project simply to for-
mulate A’s philosophy of X as a finished product, merely illustrated
in the text, and decidedly not a project to explain the literary work
entirely by reference to external social configurations and forces,
the effort is instead to track the work of open thinking in literary
forms, as they lie both neighbor to and aslant from philosophy. As
Walter Benjamin once wrote, “new centers of reflection are continu-
ally forming,” as problems of commitment and value of all kinds take
on new shapes for human agents in relation to changing historical
circumstances, where reflective address remains possible. By consid-
ering how such centers of reflection are formed and expressed in and
through literary works, as they engage with philosophical problems
of agency, knowledge, commitment, and value, these volumes under-
take to present both literature and philosophy as, at times, produc-
tive forms of reflective, medial work in relation both to each other
and to social circumstances and to show how this work is specifically
undertaken and developed in distinctive and original ways in exem-
plary works of literary art.
Richard Eldridge
Swarthmore College
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A NOTE ON THE COVER
The image on the cover is of “Colonus,” constructed of found objects

by artist Nan Lee. It takes us beyond the classical and neo-classical
images so common for Oedipus. Here is a primal figure of the old,
blind, crippled Oedipus on his famous three legs. We hope this will
help dislodge from readers’ memories whatever images of Greek
myth they bring with them to this book. Like the cover, the chapters
in this book will give readers new ways of thinking about these plays
that are so well known and so often misunderstood.
Paul Woodruff
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CONTRIBUTOR S
Peter J. Ahrensdorf is James Sprunt Professor of Political Science and

affiliated professor of classics at Davidson College. He is the author
of articles and essays on Plato, Thucydides, Hobbes, Sophocles,
Homer, Machiavelli, and Domingo Sarmiento and five books: Homer
on the Gods and Human Virtue: Creating the Foundations of Classical
Civilization (Cambridge University Press, 2014); Sophocles’ Theban
Plays, cotranslated with Thomas L. Pangle (Cornell University
Press, 2013); Greek Tragedy and Political Philosophy: Rationalism
and Religion in Sophocles’ Theban Plays (Cambridge University Press,
2009); Justice among Nations: On the Moral Basis of Power and Peace,
coauthored with Thomas L. Pangle (University Press of Kansas,
1999); and The Death of Socrates and the Life of Philosophy: An
Interpretation of Plato’s Phaedo (SUNY Press, 1995).
Noël Carroll is a distinguished professor of philosophy at the

Graduate Center of the City University of New York. He has
written over fifteen books, including Living in an Artworld (Chicago
Spectrum Press, 2012) and Humor: A Very Short Introduction
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Co n t r i b u to r s
(Oxford University Press, 2014). He is a past Guggenheim Fellow

and president of the American Society for Aesthetics.
Garry L. Hagberg is the James H. Ottaway Professor of Philosophy

and Aesthetics at Bard College and has in recent years also been
professor of philosophy at the University of East Anglia. Author of
numerous papers at the intersection of aesthetics and the philosophy of
language, his books include Meaning and Interpretation: Wittgenstein,
Henry James, and Literary Knowledge (Cornell University Press,1994);
Art as Language: Wittgenstein, Meaning, and Aesthetic Theory (Cornell
University Press, 1995); and Describing Ourselves: Wittgenstein and
Autobiographical Consciousness (Oxford University Press, 2008). He
is the editor of Art and Ethical Criticism, a coeditor of A Companion
to the Philosophy of Literature, and the editor of the journal Philosophy
and Literature.
Philip Kitcher teaches at Columbia University, where he holds an

appointment in the Department of Philosophy as the John Dewey
Professor of Philosophy. As chair of Columbia’s Contemporary
Civilization program (part of its undergraduate Core Curriculum),
he also holds the James R. Barker Professorship of Contemporary
Civilization. He specializes in the philosophy of science, the
philosophy of biology, the philosophy of mathematics, the philosophy
of literature, and, more recently, pragmatism. He has published on
James Joyce’s Finnegan’s Wake and is editing this series’ book on
Joyce’s Ulysses. His most recent book is Life after Faith: The Case for
Secular Humanism (Yale University Press, 2014).
Grace Ledbetter is a professor of philosophy and classics, chair

of the classics department, and director of the honors program at
Swarthmore College. She specializes in ancient philosophy, Greek
poetry, and Greek myth in twentieth-century performing arts. Her
book, Poetics before Plato: Interpretation and Authority in Early Greek
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Theories of Poetry (Princeton University Press, 2003), examines

theories of poetry in the early Greek literary and philosophical
traditions. She has also published articles on Greek myth in modern
ballet, Plato, Homer, Sophocles, and the Stoic theory of emotion.
C. D. C. Reeve is Delta Kappa Epsilon Distinguished Professor

of Philosophy at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill.
His recent books include Action, Contemplation, and Happiness: An
Essay on Aristotle (Harvard University Press, 2012), Blindness and
Reorientation: Problems in Plato’s Republic (Oxford University Press,
2012), and Aristotle on Practical Wisdom: Nicomachean Ethics Book
VI (Harvard, 2013). For Hackett Publishing Company, he has
translated Plato’s Cratylus (1997), Euthyphro, Apology, and Crito
(2002), Republic (2004), and Meno (2006), as well as Aristotle’s
Politics (1998), Nicomachean Ethics (2015), and Metaphysics (2016),
De Anima (2017), and Physics (2018).
Franco V. Trivigno is a professor of philosophy in the Department

of Philosophy, Classics, History of Art and Ideas at the University
of Oslo. His main research interests are in ancient philosophy
(especially Plato and Aristotle) and in neo- Aristotelian virtue
ethics. His recent publications include “The Moral and the Literary
Character of Hippias in the Hippias Major” (Oxford Studies in Ancient
Philosophy, 2016); The Philosophy and Psychology of Character and
Happiness, coedited with Nancy Snow (Routledge, 2014); “Guns
and Virtue: The Virtue Ethical Case against Gun Carrying” (Public
Affairs Quarterly, 2013); “Is Good Tragedy Possible? The Argument
of Gorgias 502b–503b” (Oxford Studies in Ancient Philosophy, 2011).
Paul Woodruff is a professor of philosophy and classics at the

University of Texas at Austin. His books include The Necessity of
Theater: The Art of Watching and Being Watched (Oxford University
Press, 2008). With Peter Meineck, he has translated the complete
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plays of Sophocles for the Hackett Publishing Company. He has also

translated Euripides’s Bacchae and an abridged Thucydides. He holds
the Darrell K. Royal Professorship in Ethics and American Society
and was the inaugural dean of the School of Undergraduate Studies
at the University of Texas at Austin.
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THE OEDIPUS PL AYS OF SOPHOCLES

xvi
1
Editor’s Introduction
PAU L W O O D RU F F
Sophocles probably saw himself mainly as a poet. He must have been

reputed to be a wise man as well, for he was elected or appointed
to important positions in Athenian public life. But he was never a
professional teacher or sophist, though the self-proclaimed sophist
Protagoras once implied that all the great poets were really sophists
in disguise (Plato, Protagoras 316d).
Plato drew the boundaries of philosophy after Sophocles’s death,
making sure to exclude all such poets. Evidently Plato saw Sophocles
and his kind as competitors in the marketplace of ideas who could be
mistaken for philosophers. They had an influence on ethical and po-
litical thinking that was baneful in Plato’s judgment, and all the more
so because it could so easily be accepted as wisdom.1 Plato writes of
1. We may have no doubt that Plato’s criticism of tragedy is sincere, as we find it voiced by both
Socrates, in the Republic (10.605a–607b), and by the Athenian in the Laws (2.658d– 659c).
The essence of the criticism in both dialogues is that Athenian tragic poetry is governed
by its aim of pleasing a general audience rather than by the Platonic aim of reinforcing the
people’s commitment to virtue. In the Laws, traditional tragedy will be replaced by choral
performances involving the whole city with this aim (2.665d–671a). Plato also objects to
specific features of the stories poets tell of gods behaving badly and heroes giving way to
emotion (Republic 2.376e–3.392a). There his examples are from Homer, but he thinks that
tragic poets follow Homer’s lead (10.598d–e).
1
2
T h e O e d i p u s P l ay s o f S o p h o c l e s
the ancient war between philosophy and poetry, but in truth the war
is largely of his own devising, as Plato was the first to consider philos-
ophy a genre distinct from poetry and rhetoric.
Certainly, the tragic poets differed from Plato on the behavior of
gods and heroes. Plato does not identify Sophocles in his criticism of
tragic poetry, but Sophocles’s plays show most of the features of tragic
poetry to which he objects in the Republic. For example, Plato’s gods
are exemplars of virtue, while Sophocles’s gods are not models that
humans should follow. Plato leaves little or no room in his scheme of
virtues for compassion, while Sophocles leads us to admire Odysseus
for his compassion in the Ajax. He does not encourage us to emulate
the ruthlessness of Odysseus’s patroness, the goddess Athena. Plato
sees grief as a weakness, because he holds it to be based on the un-
grounded belief that death is an evil, but Sophocles’s heroes are given
to highly emotional displays of grief, as are the choruses.
In recent years, however, some philosophers have been recep-
tive to the wisdom that may be found in ancient tragic poets. Of
these Bernard Williams and Martha Nussbaum stand out.2 This
volume illustrates the admiration that Sophocles is earning from
philosophers of our time, and the first of its chapters in particular
replies to philosophers’ objections to finding wisdom in poetry.
Other chapters bring out aspects of this wisdom. The perspectives
of this book are those of the philosophers who have contributed to
it. Each is unique.
We have chosen to write about the Oedipus plays because, among
other reasons, these plays can enrich our concept of self-understanding
if we read them closely and with attention to philosophical issues.3
2. Williams (1993) cites tragic poets often in his criticism of ethics in the Platonic tradition;
his favorite is Sophocles, whom he cites twice as often as either Euripides or Aeschylus.
Nussbaum’s The Fragility of Goodness (1986) also makes frequent use of tragic poets, drawing
especially on the Antigone of Sophocles.
3. The Antigone has already been the subject of considerable work in philosophy, starting with
Hegel, and so is less in need of this sort of volume.
2
3
E d i t o r’ s I n t r o d u c t i o n
In staging Oedipus’s progress toward self-understanding in the two

plays, Sophocles has dramatized insights into the process by which
we may all come to see our place in larger narratives. The result is
more complex and more faithful to human experience than most of
what we find in the philosophical tradition.
THE POET
Sophocles was born about 495 b.c.e. at Colonus, just outside the
city of Athens, and lived till about 405. He first competed in the fes-
tival of tragic plays in 468 and won against Aeschylus. He was the
most successful Athenian playwright of the fifth century, composing
about 120 plays and winning at least eighteen victories (more than
Euripides and Aeschylus put together). Each victory represented a
set of four plays, three tragedies and a satyr play. More than half of
his plays were victorious. Sad to say, only seven complete tragedies
survive today.
The Athenians made him a treasurer (a position of great trust) in
443 b.c.e. and a strategos (general), with Pericles, in 441—probably
for a diplomatic rather than a military mission. At the city’s moment
of greatest need, after the disaster of 413 in Sicily, the Athenians
turned to Sophocles as one of the ten advisers empowered to see
them through the crisis, which was both military and constitutional.
He was then over eighty years old. After his death in 406/5 they
honored him with a cult as a hero in his own right.4
4. An uncertain tradition tells us he had been “the Receiver” of the cult of Asclepius, having
opened his home to the god of healing and provided the first altar in his own house in 420,
when the Asclepius cult was inaugurated in Athens. On the significance of Sophocles’s role
in cult, see Edmunds (1996, 163–68).
3
4
Dating the plays is difficult. We have firm dates for neither of

the Oedipus plays. Oedipus Tyrannus (hereafter OT) was prob-
ably produced some time after the plague struck Athens. Most
scholars accept the period 428–25 b.c.e. for the first production
of OT.5
As for Oedipus at Colonus (hereafter OC), we know when it
was produced but not when it was written. It was first performed
after Sophocles’s death, in 402/1 b.c.e., soon after the defeat of
Athens by Sparta, the bloody reign of the Thirty Tyrants, and the
restoration of democracy,. Sophocles may have written OC soon
after OT, but most scholars are inclined to accept the ancient tra-
dition that it is a late work, composed after 411 and the founda-
tion of government by the Four Hundred, who were associated
with Colonus as members of the class of Knights, and had once
convened there. Ancient sources tell us that Sophocles wrote the
play at the very end of his life, but these are very late sources and
have not persuaded all modern scholars. It is too natural a hypoth
esis that a play about a very old hero was written by a very old
writer. Some scholars think that the play was written in stages, and
only the final draft in Sophocles’s last years. Some scholars think
Sophocles introduced the episodes concerning Oedipus’s sons
later, in his own extreme old age, but most readers in recent years
prefer to interpret the play as an organic whole.6
5. The plague struck in 430–29 and recurred in 427–26. Bernard Knox argues for dating the
production of OT in 425 b.c.e., after the second outbreak (when Athens did consult the
oracle) and before the production in 424 of Aristophanes’s Knights, which may echo lines
from OT. The case for this date is not proved, and scholars withhold judgment; still, Knox’s
(1956) date is, in my opinion, the most likely of those that have been suggested.
6. The best defense of reading the play as a unified whole is still Reinhardt’s (1947/1979)
chapter. Tanner (1966), on the other side, supplies a helpful review of the evidence, along
with a strong argument for taking scenes bearing on Polynices as later interpolations by
Sophocles. The episode of the sons is the scene in which Oedipus lays down a curse on his
sons, that they will die by each other’s hands (OC 1348–96).
4
5
THE PLAYS
Sophocles’s two plays about Oedipus were probably separated by

twenty-five years, during which Athens lurched from suffering sev-
eral years of deadly plague to its gradual, terrifying defeat by the
arms of Sparta.7 The central character, however, is living out the same
story in both works—playing out a family curse. We learn in the first
play that Laius,8 fearing death from his own son, tried to have baby
Oedipus killed. In the second play we will see the old man Oedipus
calling down a curse on his two boys, and this curse will work, as we
should remember from the opening scene of the Antigone, the first
of the Theban plays to have been written. On the day before the sun
rises on the action of that play, Oedipus’s sons have killed each other
at one of the seven gates of the city.
In Greek, as in Latin, the concept of the sacred is close cousin
to that of the cursed, both in language and in thought. The first play
ends with Oedipus dragged to his lowest point by the curse; the
second play will end with his bringing a blessing to Athens—sacred
himself, leading the king of Athens into sacred space, the blind
leading the sighted, the lame leading the healthy young king. In this,
the second play ends in a miracle. There is nothing in literature to
compare with this pair of plays that let us see the same basic myth
through different lenses. The first play was the product of a poet in
vibrant middle age, the second of a man who was probably in his
7. For detailed introductions to the plays, see the introductions in Meineck and Woodruff
(2003) or, better, read the chapters in Reinhardt (1947/1979) or Segal (1993, 1995). Knox
(1957) is especially valuable on OT. OC has received less attention than OT, but we now
have the excellent book by Adrian Kelly (2009). The work of Sophocles has been blessed
with some of the finest scholarship in classics.
8. The story that Laius was cursed for raping a boy became widely known after the Oedipus
plays were written and so would probably not have been in the minds of Sophocles’s audi-
ence. See Hubbard (2006).
5
6
eighties, with the grand vision of a very old poet still at the height of
his powers.
We have good reason for reading the plays together. We want to
ask how much, or how little, Oedipus has changed as he has aged—
whether his habits of rage have moderated, and whether he sees him-
self in the same way in the later play as he did in the earlier. (Three of
the chapters of this volume address those questions, the chapters by
Ledbetter, Kitcher, and Woodruff.) In any case, the later play presents
Oedipus’s story in a different light. Now it is a tale of suffering that has
brought a great man down to the level of a homeless beggar, who has
been driven out of one town after another until his suffering meets
compassion in the outskirts of Athens. There, Theseus offers safety
to Oedipus, while Oedipus brings a blessing that is to save Athens in
its hour of greatest need—an hour fast coming on Athens at the time
the play was written.
Has Sophocles himself remained unchanged in the interval be-
tween writing the plays? In the first play, his chorus sings of the tragic
pattern of overreaching followed by catastrophe (though they don’t
make clear how this applies to the case of Oedipus). There, in OT,
they imply that some sort of happiness is in store for those who live
in reverence and do not reach too far. But in the second play, they
mourn the pain they say is universal in human life.9 Perhaps the poet
grew more pessimistic in old age.
The plays are closely related—and not merely because they share
a character or because one is sequel to the other. The plots form a
reverse parallel:10
9. On the difference, see Trivigno in this volume. The relevant choral ode in OT is the second
stasimon, “Be with me always destiny” (863–910); in OC the message is in the third
stasimon, “The best is never to have been born” (1211–48).
10. As pointed out by Bernd Seidensticker; see Kelly (2009, 46–47).
6
7

OT OC
O as mighty hero A E as blind beggar
O quarrels, Tiresias B D questions his fate
O and Creon C C and Creon
O questions his fate D B quarrels, Polynices
O as blind beggar E A as mighty hero
This is not the only connection. The plays share language and themes
in the choral odes, and the chorus itself is similar in representing local
elders.
The title of the first play calls for special comment. In Greek,
at least since the Hellenistic period, it has been called Oedipous
Tyrannos, abbreviated by scholars as OT (though to Aristotle it was
simply Sophocles’s Oedipus). This title is usually transliterated on the
Roman model as Oedipus Tyrannus. Some authors have called the
play Oedipus Rex (the title of the Latin play by Seneca), but this is less
common today. The Latin word rex translates Greek basileus “king,”
which in archaic usage can also mean “judge,” a meaning retained
in the title of the magistrate overseeing the judiciary in Athens, the
king archon. The term “king” carried a connotation of honor not
found in tyrannos.11 In archaic Greek, tyrannos meant “ruler” and
carried no unpleasant connotation. But with the overthrow of the
Athenian tyrants and the establishment of democracy, tyrannos ac-
quired a more specialized meaning: a ruler who has brought himself
to power and so lacks the legitimacy of an elected official or a basileus
such as Theseus. Fear of tyrants was a major force in Athenian poli-
tics during Sophocles’s lifetime. The story of Alcibiades is a striking
example: he was a brilliant general and ought to have led the expedi-
tion to Sicily that the Assembly had voted for at his urging. But his
11. As in Hesiod, Theogony 80–103.
7
8
enemies played the fear of tyranny against him and had him arrested
on charges of impiety. The loss of his leadership cost the Athenians
dearly (Thucydides 6.53–61).
The moral and political status of a tyrannos in OT is an interesting
and complex issue. On this the second stasimon sheds light (863 ff.),
as does the speech in which Creon indicates that tyrants cannot sleep
at night for fear of being overthrown (584–86). Indeed, fear of being
overthrown is a major motivator of Oedipus’s actions in the first half
of the play; hence his suspicions of Creon and Tiresias. A basileus
presumably would sleep more soundly, secure in his legitimacy—
as Laius no doubt did, once he thought he had eliminated the son
who was destined to kill him. So the title of OT has significance that
should not be eclipsed in translation.12
Oedipus started in Thebes as a tyrant in that he earned, rather
than inherited, his power. He is not a tyrant in Plato’s sense, who
would be driven by insatiable desires, nor is he the sort of tyrant
Solon warned about, who would depend on a troop of spearmen for
his power.13 Oedipus has the best interests of his city at heart, and he
does not have a military escort.
He is a king in truth, but he does not know it. The word basileus
does occur in OT, but quite late, when the chorus addresses the dis-
graced Oedipus as the man they have called king since his destruction
of the sphinx (1202). The lovely irony is that his legitimacy as basileus
(vs. tyrannos) is declared just when his status as pariah is known. The
same breath of truth makes it known that he is son and heir of the
king and that he is the land’s pollution.
12. For the negative connotations of tyrannos in Greek tragedy, see Euripides’s Suppliants
429: “Nothing means more evil to a city than a tyrant.” Also see the following lines from
Prometheus Bound (possibly Aeschylus): “With new rules, Zeus holds sway lawlessly” (149–
51); “In tyranny lies this disease: not to trust friends” (224–25); “Our ruler is harsh and cannot
be held to account” (324); “In all things the tyrant of the gods is equally violent” (736–37).
13. Solon, fragments 9 and 11, numbered 6 and 7 in Gagarin and Woodruff (1995).
8
9
In this volume Ahrensdorf ’s chapter shows how clear it is that

Sophocles meant to designate Oedipus as a tyrannos, but also that he
is a most untyrannical tyrant: even his anger at Tiresias and Creon can
be explained without attributing tyrant qualities to him. Ahrensdorf
compares the enlightened, rational rule of Oedipus to that of Pericles
in Athens and builds on that analogy. Reeve, by contrast, brings out
Oedipus’s failures of rationality, and Woodruff finds some tyrannical
features in Oedipus’s character.14
We know only a little of the plays Aeschylus and Euripides wrote
about the fall of Oedipus.15 Scholars do not think that either play
showed Oedipus as a tyrant, or that either play dwelt, as OT does,
on the process of discovery. Sophocles’s play draws out the discovery
over nearly twelve hundred lines. The main action staged in OT is
that of Oedipus discovering the truth that horrifies him—his ambi-
tious promises to solve the crime, his inquiries of oracles, prophets,
and servants, his initial suspicions of a coup, and then the discovery
itself. Sophocles may have designed the cognitive failures that Reeve
points out in order to make this slow process credible to an audience.
The actions that fulfilled the oracle—killing his father and marrying
his mother—these have already happened and are merely reported
on stage. So the play is more about discovery than it is about the ful-
fillment of oracles.
Also, keep in mind that the play was composed not for reading but
for performance. Try to imagine how each scene might be staged, and
how it would affect a live audience. The chorus, on stage the whole
time, gives cues to the audience as to how best to respond emotion-
ally to what audience and chorus are seeing together.
The second play’s title shows that it is set at Colonus, and this
too has special significance. Colonus was Sophocles’s birthplace; it
14. On Oedipus as tyrant, see Edmunds (2002).

15. On the literary tradition about Oedipus, aside from Sophocles, see Ahrensdorf in this
volume; Jebb’s (1887/1966) introduction to the play; and Edmonds (1985).
9
10
also had special associations for the upper middle class known as
knights—citizens who could afford to keep horses and join the cav-
alry. In 411 (around the probable date of composition for this play)
Athens was taken by a conservative coup that set up an oligarchical
government—rule by the “Four Hundred.” In order to appeal to the
knights against the lower classes, the oligarchs used Colonus as the
site for the assembly that set aside the Athenian constitution in their
favor. Whether this had anything to do with Sophocles’s choice of
themes for the play we do not know.16 But there is nothing in the play
to imply that Sophocles sided against the democracy in 411.17 The
chorus is made up of old men of no particular class, and if there is a
political bias in the play it is against civil war.
Colonus had a grove sacred to the Eumenides, who, before
being tamed at Athens, had been the Furies who pursued Orestes
for killing his mother. Colonus also had an altar to Poseidon, who
is honored in the play for his two great gifts to Athens: horses
and ships (lines 710 ff.). Horses, of course, belong to the knights,
but ships are the mainstay of Athens’s military and commercial
success, and ships give power to the common people, who were
needed to man them. Greek warships were rowed mainly by cit-
izens whose expertise with oars gave the city a naval advantage.
The more Athens depended on shipping, therefore, the more its
leaders had to cultivate the lower classes. So Sophocles may have
tried in the play to remind the warring factions in the city of their
common heritage from Poseidon.18
16. On Sophocles’s use of space in this play, and his choice of Colonus, see Edmunds (1996)
and Wilson (1997, 92–106).
17. As a member of the board of advisers, however, he may have had some responsibility for the
temporary demise of the democracy. Apparently the advisers saw no viable alternative to
the change in government. Aristotle, Rhetoric 1419a25.
18. On Colonus, see Edmunds (1996, 91–94, especially 92). On recent political readings of the
play, see Kelly (2009, 20–25).
10
1
To understand OC we need to appreciate the importance of

graveside cults for dead heroes. Sophocles’s audience believed that
the graves of heroes could have protective powers. In some cases, he-
roic graves were the sites for religious observances. One of the few
historical figures who received the honor of a cult at his grave was
Sophocles himself, probably for his role in bringing the worship of
the healing god Asclepius to Athens.19
Sophocles’s Ajax turned on the value of heroic graves, as
Athenians felt they benefited from his cult, and they had named a
tribe after him. King Agamemnon had planned to sentence Ajax to
a punishment worse than death for trying to assassinate him: leaving
him unburied, without a grave. Had Agamemnon prevailed, Ajax’s
shade could not have had the honor of a hero cult, and Athens would
have been deprived of his beneficent presence. A similar story is true
of Oedipus: he must die in the neighborhood of Athens to bring
the city his benefits. The death he will have is a mysterious gift of
the gods—a gift of honor for him and for Athens protection from
enemies at war. The OC shows Oedipus’s progress toward this end.
As Sophocles was writing this play, he probably had in mind
the perils faced by Athens in the final years of the war with Sparta
and Thebes and their allies. True, Theban forces had been defeated
in a skirmish not far from Colonus, but the war was going badly for
Athens in Sophocles’s later years. Soon after he died, the city would
be defeated by its enemies. Athens would be saved from total de-
struction not by the Thebans (who hated Athens) but by the Spartan
desire to balance the ascendant power of Thebes with a chastened
Athens. The restoration of democracy in Athens a few years later
must have seemed a miraculous rebirth, and Sophocles’s audience,
in seeing this play at the time of that rebirth, must have felt a thrill at
the prescience of their poet, who foresaw that the city would be saved
19. For a useful introduction to the topic of heroic graves, see Knox (1982, 256–58).
11
12
from Thebes. If any city seemed to have divine protectors at that time
it was Athens.
THE CHAPTERS OF THIS VOLUME
In “Oedipus Tyrannus and the Cognitive Value of Literature,” Noël

Carroll enters the war Plato began. He reviews thoroughly the
arguments philosophers have given against allowing cognitive value
in fiction. His response begins with showing that what counts as cog-
nitive is wider than critics have thought. In this he draws on a useful
interpretation of Aristotle’s Poetics. Literature draws on knowledge
of what it is that people of a certain sort are likely to do or say, and it
communicates that knowledge to its readers. He illustrates this from
Oedipus Tyrannus, where Sophocles shows Oedipus acting in ways
that are appropriate for the sort of person he is shown to be.
In “The Killing Feet: Evidence and Evidence Sensitivity in Oedipus
Tyrannus,” C. D. C. Reeve raises an important question that most
readers have missed: How well does Oedipus evaluate the evidence
on which he bases his decisions? The answer is that in his impetuosity
Oedipus rushes to careless judgments, time after time. He wavers over
the value of religious as opposed to secular evidence, lurching from
one to another, and he is unaware of his own inconsistencies. He does
this sort of thing all through the play. Apparently he is that sort of
person. Oedipus is proud of having solved the riddle of the Sphinx by
using his mind, but Reeve shows that even here he does not deserve
credit for good reasoning; he is walking with the aid of a stick, after
all, when he faces the Sphinx, and so he has a clue to the answer in his
hand. Reeve’s point supports Carroll’s: Sophocles knows what a man
of a certain sort will do; in the case of Oedipus’s quest for knowledge,
the portrait is consistent. His failure in self-knowledge is no accident.
Reeve’s conclusion applies to all of us: “Oedipus Tyrannus is reverent
12
13
in the true sense by showing us the disasters we mortals bring upon

ourselves when we are insufficiently sensitive to such evidence as we
have, and by making us complicit in its neglect. In that way, if not in
the one that Sigmund Freud made famous, we are—all of us—poor
children of Oedipus, following blindly in his maimed footsteps.”
Garry L. Hagberg takes up self-knowledge in his chapter, “In the
Ruins of Self-Knowledge: Oedipus Unmade.” He uses a set of ideas
developed by Richard Wollheim to show how Oedipus proceeds by
stages toward the point at which he can see himself as the person at
the center of a picture he first thought must have been of someone
else. The process has nothing to do with introspection and every-
thing to do with the different ways one can relate to a picture or a
narration. The chapter is subtle and difficult to summarize but will
transform your way of understanding the OT.
In “Tyranny,” Enlightenment, and Religion: Sophocles’s
Sympathetic Critique of Periclean Athens in Oedipus the Tyrant,”
Peter J. Ahrensdorf reads OT as a mirror for the story of Athens at
the time the play was composed—just after Athens had suffered
catastrophic losses in its own plague—including the death of its
leader Pericles. As we know from history, especially the report of
Thucydides, the years leading up to the plague were the golden
ones of Pericles’s enlightened leadership. We hear of the glories of
Athens’s enlightenment from Pericles’s Funeral Oration, and then,
a few pages later, we learn how Athenians abandoned their values
during the plague years.
Oedipus has been an enlightened ruler, and his heroism is that
of the mind, as it is through mind, and not muscle, that he defeated
the Sphinx. In this he is like the enlightened Pericles. Oedipus’s en-
lightenment too will fade when confronted with a plague, which
drives him into consulting oracles and the very prophet who failed
the intellectual challenge of the Sphinx. The failure of his former
rational approach now illustrates the danger of what Ahrensdorf
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14
calls “immoderate political rationalism,” and so the play is meant as

a warning to the Athenians not to depend too heavily on Periclean
reason.
In “Gods, Fate, and Character in the Oedipus Plays,” I review the
ways in which the gods influence the fates of the people in Sophocles’s
plays, especially in these two. Sophocles holds that divine agency is
in the background of every action shown or reported on stage, but he
also shows that every such action flows plausibly from the characters
of the agents. These conclusions support the argument with which
Noël Carroll begins the volume.
In old age, Oedipus has not given over his proclivity for impet-
uous, self-absorbed rage, as we see in OC. And yet he does manage to
achieve a positive attitude at the end, not without effort. Against a lit-
erary background ranging from the Bible to T. S. Eliot, Philip Kitcher
shows how Oedipus progresses to a sense of fulfillment. His “Aging
Oedipus” goes beyond illuminating this astonishing play to deliver a
deep and moving reflection on human aging itself.
“Truth and Self at Colonus,” by Grace Ledbetter, explores the
process by which Oedipus comes to terms with himself in OC.
Using a theory of multiple truths developed by the psychoana-
lyst Shlomit Yadlin-Gadot, she shows how Oedipus comes to a
kind of self-knowledge that goes beyond a unitary theory of truth.
Oedipus is many things, both in his own eyes and in the eyes of
others.
In “The Goodness of Death in Oedipus at Colonus,” Franco
V. Trivigno ends the volume with his chapter on the famous message
of the disturbing third stasimon of OC: “The best is never to have
been born, or, once alive, to die young” (1225–27). This was not a
new thought when Sophocles took it up for his chorus, but he gave
it new vigor in OC. Trivigno studies it closely through the lens of
philosophy and then shows how the play vividly illustrates the
theme: the overall pain and suffering of a human life. On a calculation
14
15
of pleasures and pains—a hedonic calculus—it really is better to not

be born or else to die young. A tragic play should convey wisdom, he
writes, and this is the wisdom of this play. There is an alternative to
the hedonic calculus, a theory that measures happiness in terms of
virtue. On such a theory, the deadly verdict might fail, but this the
play does not explore.
BIBLIOGRAPHY
Edmunds, Lowell. 1985. Oedipus: The Ancient Legend and Its Modern Analogues.
Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press.
———.1996. Theatrical Space and Historical Place in Sophocles’ Oedipus at Colonus.
Lanham, MD: Rowman and Littlefield.
———. 2002. “Oedipus as Tyrant in Sophocles’ Oedipus Tyrannus.” Syllecta Classica
13: 63–103.
Gagarin, Michael, and Woodruff, Paul, eds. 1995. Early Greek Political Thought, from
Homer to the Sophists. Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press.
Hubbard, Thomas K. 2006. “History’s First Child Molester: Euripides’ Chrysippus
and the Marginalization of Pederasty in Athenian Democratic Discourse.” In J.
Davidson, F. Moecke, and P. Wilson (eds.), Greek Drama III: Essays in Honour of
Kevin Lee (BICS Supplement 87). London: Institute of Classical Studies.
Jebb, Richard. (1887) 1966. Sophocles: The Plays and Fragments. Part 1. The Oedipus
Tyrannus. 2nd ed. Amsterdam: Hakkert.
Kelly, Adrian. 2009. Sophocles: Oedipus at Colonus. London: Duckworth.
Knox, Bernard. 1956. “The Date of the Oedipus Tyrannus of Sophocles.” American
Journal of Philology 77: 133–47.
———. 1957. Oedipus at Thebes: Sophocles’ Tragic Hero and His Time. New edition,
augmented. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press.
———. 1982. Introduction to Robert Fagles, Sophocles: The Three Theban Plays.
New York: Penguin.
Meineck, Peter, and Woodruff, Paul. 2003. Sophocles: Theban Plays. Indianapolis,
IN: Hackett.
Nussbaum, Martha. 1986. The Fragility of Goodness. Cambridge, UK: Cambridge
University Press.
Reinhardt, Karl. (1947) 1979. Sophocles. 3d ed. Translated by Hazel Harvey and
David Harvey. Introduction by Hugh Lloyd-Jones. Oxford: Blackwell.
Segal, Charles. 1993. Oedipus Tyrannus: Tragic Heroism and the Limits of Knowledge.
New York: Twayne.
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———. 1995. Sophocles’ Tragic World: Divinity, Nature, Society. Cambridge,

MA: Harvard University Press.
Tanner, R. G. 1966. “The Composition of the Oedipus at Colonus.” In Maurice
Kelley, (ed.), For Service to Classical Studies: Essays in Honor of Francis Letters.
Melbourne: F. W. Cheshire. Pp. 153–92.
Williams, Bernard. 1993. Shame and Necessity. Berkeley: University of
California Press.
Wilson, Joseph P. 1997. “The Hero and the City: An Interpretation of Sophocles’
Oedipus at Colonus.” Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press.
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Chapter 1
Oedipus Tyrannus and the

Cognitive Value of Literature
NOËL CARROLL
A central question in the philosophy of literature concerns whether

or not literature can possess cognitive value. That is, is it possible for
literature to communicate or to convey knowledge to audiences?
Against a positive answer to this question, there are certain skeptical
arguments that maintain that literature cannot impart knowledge of
either the empirical variety or the philosophical. In this essay, using
Sophocles’s Oedipus Tyrannus as my example, I will attempt to under-
mine that skepticism. I will begin by outlining several objections to
literature’s claim to the capacity to convey or to communicate knowl
edge, first by sketching some of the arguments against the claim that
literature can be a source of empirical knowledge and then turning to
objections to literature’s pretensions to philosophy.
Second, I will look at Oedipus Tyrannus through the lens of
Aristotle’s cognitivism, as developed in his Poetics, attempting to
show how that approach to Oedipus Tyrannus can deal with the skep-
tical rejections of literature’s capacity to convey empirical knowl
edge, followed by a discussion addressing literature as a source of
17
18
philosophical wisdom, and concluding with a suggestion about the

way in which the notion of the catharsis of pity and fear may con-
tribute to the audience’s philosophical understanding of those
emotions.
Throughout, my leading counterexample to skepticism about
literature’s cognitive reach will be Oedipus Tyrannus, which, as al-
ready indicated, I will approach through Aristotle’s Poetics and his
account of the cognitive value of tragedy, which I will presume he
would extend to other forms of narrative literature. With regard
to this, I admit that Aristotle’s account may be too strong; not
every literary work—not even every literary narrative—traffics
in knowledge. Nevertheless, insofar as his account fits Oedipus
Tyrannus, it is sufficient to establish that literature can have a le-
gitimate cognitive impact, a possibility that itself is enough to de-
feat the skeptic.
AGAINST LITERATURE’S CONNECTION

TO KNOWLEDGE
The Case Against Empirical Knowledge
Often literary works are commended for what they allegedly tell
us about the world, not only in terms of particular facts (such as
that Paris is the capital of France) but in terms of generalizations
(such as that revolutions occur during times of rising expectations).
Dostoyevsky’s The Possessed provides insight into the personality
of the nihilist. Kafka’s The Trial introduces us to the labyrinth of
modern bureaucracy and its inevitable frustrations.
But, the skeptic asks, how can examples like these actually inform
us in any meaningful way about the aforesaid phenomena? After all,
they do not supply sufficient evidence for their characterization of the
nihilist, on the one hand, or their depiction of modern bureaucracy,
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19
O E D I P U S T Y R A N N U S A N D T H E VA L U E O F L I T E R AT U R E
on the other hand. At best, Kafka offers us only the case of K., while
Dostoyevsky’s novel only presents, at best, a handful of cases. How
is it that a single case could afford the basis of an analysis of a phe-
nomenon at such a scale as something called “modern bureaucracy,”
or that a few cases could warrant insight into the pathology of ni-
hilism? Clearly not enough evidence is marshaled by these authors
in order to support their putative “analyses” of the phenomena that
they explore.
Nor is this lack of adequate empirical evidence unique to these
examples from Dostoyevsky and Kafka. They apply to almost every
example of literary narrative that one can think of. Indeed, the “al-
most” in the previous sentence is really a qualification that I offer in
principle. In fact, I cannot offhand think of any literary narrative that
amasses, in the text, the kind of empirical evidence it would need to
support its supposed generalizations about the world. Call this the
no-evidence argument.
The no-evidence argument denies that literary narratives can give
us empirical knowledge about the world because, although literature
can engender beliefs in audiences—even true beliefs—it does not
ever accompany those beliefs with the sort of warranting empirical
evidence required to count those beliefs as knowledge.
Indeed, the skeptical case against literature is even bleaker once
we realize that many, if not most, literary narratives that we prize
for their insight into life are fictions. That is, they are made up. And
even if the characters they depict have some basis in reality, they are
shaped in a way that suits the author’s designs. And, to that extent,
they are imaginary. However, clearly imaginary characters—and, for
that matter, imaginary events –cannot take the place of empirical evi-
dence. How could a single, imaginary miser, like Molière’s, illuminate
anything about the behavior of real-world skinflints?
Furthermore, the problem here is not only that an imaginary
character is not evidence because he or she has been made up. It is
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20
also the case that he or she has been made up to serve a purpose.
And if it is the author’s purpose to support his or her view of a certain
personality type or experience, then the imagined example cannot
avoid appearing tainted or rigged. Of course, that made-up character
will exemplify the author’s conception of, say, nihilism, just because
the character has been precisely created to play that role. If the char-
acter is offered as evidence on behalf of the author’s view of nihilism,
then that is the narrative equivalent of the fallacy of petitio principii. It
supports the author’s account just because the character’s construc-
tion is already premised upon that very account. As evidence, it is in-
admissible because it is contaminated by the author’s preconceptions.
Call this the evidentially tainted argument.
The case against philosophical knowledge

Even if literature lacks the wherewithal to advance empirical knowl
edge, that may not foreclose its claim to conveying knowledge al-
together, since not all knowledge is empirical. Mathematical and
philosophical knowledge, for example, are sorts of knowledge that
are sometimes distinguished from empirical knowledge. And al-
though it is unlikely that very many would regard literature as a recur-
ring source of mathematical knowledge, we commonly hear literature
praised as a source of philosophical knowledge, which, for present
purposes, we may think of in terms of necessity.
A novel like The Scarlet Letter at least seems to endorse the con-
viction that the wages of guilt are inescapable, that sin repressed
and unacknowledged will destabilize the soul and torment the con-
science of the sinner, and that this is a metaphysical verity and not the
product of empirical induction (a Christian variation, no doubt, on
the Platonic theme that evil is a form of mental illness).
Undoubtedly, there are literary narratives that make philosoph-
ical claims. The play Rashomon, by Fay and Michael Kanin, for
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21
example, appears to be committed to some notion of relativism. Or,

at least, that is perhaps the best interpretation of its narrative struc-
ture, based, as it is, on multiple, conflicting, putatively irreconcilable
perspectives. Can we say of Rashomon that it is a source of philosoph-
ical knowledge?
The skeptic says no. Why not? Because the skeptic maintains that
anything that lays claim to philosophical knowledge must be more
than a matter of mere assertion. It must be supported by argument
and/or analysis. To simply assert that “human life is a matter of con-
stant suffering” is not philosophy. It becomes philosophy only when
it is backed up by the kind of battery of argumentation and analysis
that Schopenhauer mobilizes in The World as Will and Representation.
Any old crank can mutter “Life is miserable.” For that to merit being
called philosophy, that conclusion should be delivered with at least
the appearance of necessity.
Many literary narratives may suggest a philosophical theme. In
such cases, the skeptic claims, all this amounts to is that the attribu-
tion of that theme—say, relativism to Rashomon—best accounts for
the unity of the play. It explains why the play has the parts that it has
and shows how they hang together. It explains how the parts com-
prise an intelligible whole. But in that case, the concept of relativism
is contributing to our understanding of the play and not to epistemo-
logical inquiry.
Chinese fortune cookies sometimes correlate to philosophical
dicta like “Treat others as you would like them to treat you.” But we
don’t count examples like these as philosophy. Nor would we accept
as philosophy a list of adages like these on a student term paper. Why
not? Because, the skeptic explains, those conclusions have not been
derived from arguments and analysis.
Of course, it is obviously possible for a literary work to spell out
an argument for its theme, as occurs in novels by Ayn Rand, where
the argument can range over scores of pages. However, the skeptic
21
2
will not accept this as a case of literature delivering philosophy. For,

the skeptic will contend, it is not by literary means, such as the drama
or the narrative, that the philosophy has been articulated. Since lit-
erature involves words, it can, of course, construct arguments and/
or analyses outright. But, the skeptic argues, for literature to count
as doing philosophy, it must convey the philosophy by means of
literary form.
Moreover, often when commentators boil down the putative
philosophical conclusions to a slogan, they sound like a cliché—
something that “everyone knows.” Thus, when such a cliché is
identified as the theme of a literary narrative—as Emma is said to
teach the error of treating others merely as means—the skeptic will
reply that the “truth” in question is so mundane that no one learns it
from Emma, or even that only those who already know it will grasp
that Emma exemplifies this. Call this the banality argument against
the possibility of the acquisition of knowledge, properly so-called,
from literature.
The no-evidence argument, the evidentially tainted argument,
the no-argument argument, and the banality argument have all been
advanced to challenge the cognitive credentials of literature. Let us
now turn to Aristotle and an application of his poetics to tragedy, es-
pecially to Oedipus Tyrannus, to see the way in which the friend of
literature might respond.
ARISTOTLE, OEDIPUS T YR ANNUS, AND THE

COGNITIVE VALUE OF LITERATURE
Aristotle
In his Poetics, Aristotle locates the origin of the arts in the pleasure
humans take in learning in which imitation is a primary process.
Humans are not equipped with instincts. They must learn their way
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23
in the world. And imitation is their major means of doing so, learning
not only from their caregivers and elders but also their peers. In this,
Aristotle agrees with contemporary developmental psychologists.
Moreover, Aristotle notes imitation is able to achieve this because
humans find it to be naturally pleasurable.
Thus, we are drawn to the mimetic arts primarily because of
the pleasure we take in imitation as a source of learning. Aristotle
acknowledges that the mimetic arts also provide pleasure from
sources that are not a function of imitation, like rhythm and rhyme.
Nevertheless, he maintains that imitation is the foremost source of
our pleasure to be derived from the mimetic arts. And, as we have
seen, this pleasure is rooted in the pleasure of learning or under-
standing. Moreover, this pleasure is available not only to philosophers
but to everyone. Aristotle writes, “This is the reason why people de-
light in seeing images; what happens is that as they view them they
come to understand and to work out what each thing is (e.g., This is
a so-and-so).”1
Basically, Aristotle is suggesting that we take pleasure in pictures
by understanding (recognizing) what they are pictures of. We take
pleasure in pictures of tigers by recognizing that what is pictured is
a tiger. Undoubtedly, this sounds like a very thin account of what
is going on when we view pictures. However, when we see how
Aristotle applies this thinking to tragedies, the theory appears richer
and more convincing.
This occurs in Aristotle’s discussion of the distinction between
poetry and history. He writes, “The distinction is this: the one says
what has happened, the other the kind of thing that would happen.
For this reason, poetry is more philosophical and more serious than
history. Poetry tends to express universals and history particulars.
The universal is the kind of speech or action which is consonant
1. Aristotle, Poetics, translated by Malcolm Heath (London: Penguin, 1996), 7.
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24
with a person of a given kind in accordance with probability or ne-

cessity.”2 That is, poetry—literature, for our purposes—shows us,
echoing what Ion said to Socrates, what a certain type of person
is likely to say or do in various circumstances.3 In other words, for
Aristotle, poetry teaches us about the social world, enabling us to
recognize recurring personality types in a way that enables us to
understand their behavior. It is this learning that makes viewing
tragedies pleasurable, even though we would not enjoy witnessing
disasters comparable to those found in tragedies outside of the the-
ater in everyday life.
Oedipus Tyrannus
Oedipus Tyrannus would appear to be Aristotle’s favorite tragedy.
Surely it is the one that his theory fits best. In particular, it exemplifies
Aristotle’s contention that poetry is a source of information about be-
havioral regularities. For the character of King Oedipus is drawn so
as to consistently portray a recognizable personality profile. In scene
after scene, Oedipus is depicted as an impulsive, quick-tempered,
headstrong, stubborn, rash individual.
This is very clear in his encounter with Teiresias. Despite
Teiresias’s warnings about the pain that disclosing what he knows of
Laius’s death will entail, Oedipus, his temper rising, badgers Teiresias
to divulge with he knows. Then, when Teiresias relents and identifies
Oedipus as the murderer, Oedipus vents his anger and threatens
Teiresias with punishment. If Teiresias is literally blind, Oedipus is
metaphorically blinded by his hot temperament.
2. Aristotle, Poetics, 16.

3. Plato, Ion in Two Comic Dialogues, translated by Paul Woodruff (Indianapolis, IN: Hackett,
1983), 32 (540b3–5). There, Ion suggests to Socrates that the craft of mimesis involves
knowing what people would say or do. Socrates rejects that on what I think are inconclu-
sive grounds. I think that Aristotle realized the inadequacy of Socrates’s arguments and thus
expands on Ion’s case in the Poetics.
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25
In the midst of his raging at Teiresias, Oedipus fastens upon the

suspicion that Creon is behind the seer’s accusations, convinced that
Teiresias and Creon are mounting a conspiracy against him.
Creon enters in order to exonerate himself, but Oedipus continues
to heap accusations upon him with mounting ferocity, vowing to kill
him. The Chorus warns Oedipus, “Those who are quick of temper
are not safe,” and Creon accuses him of losing his wits. Oedipus has
no evidence for his charges against Creon and he ignores Creon’s
very sensible reasons for regarding the charges to be implausible.
But Oedipus’s impulsiveness, stoked by his anger, blinds him to the
claims of evidence, reason, and prudence.
Next Jocasta, Creon’s sister and Oedipus’s wife, joins the scene
and tries to calm Oedipus down by arguing that oracles don’t know
what they are talking about. This leads to a discussion about how
Laius died. When Oedipus learns of where Laius died, Oedipus
recalls meeting a herald and a coach at that very crossroad. They
attempted to push Oedipus out of their way, and the old man in the
coach struck Oedipus, who, characteristically quick to disrespect,
then killed the old man and his retinue.
As the inquiry into the death of Laius continues, the testimony
of a messenger from Corinth and then a Theban shepherd make it
more and more evident that Oedipus did indeed kill Laius and, thus,
is responsible for the plague that is besetting the land. As this begins
to dawn on Jocasta, she tries to stop Oedipus from pressing the inves-
tigation, as does the Chorus. But he is relentless.
Jocasta, intuiting where the investigation is headed, exits the
scene and commits suicide offstage.
The truth comes out. Oedipus blinds himself and becomes
an outcast. This, needless to say, would not have happened had
Oedipus not been the kind of person he was: impulsive, emo-
tional, intemperate, and headstrong. He is a case study in the
way such a person behaves. The tragedy enables audiences to
25
26
recognize people like Oedipus and to comprehend how they are

likely to act.
The No-Evidence Argument

According to Aristotle, poetry (literature) affords cognitive access
to social or behavioral information by enabling us to recognize and
understand how certain character types are likely to speak and act.
Oedipus is such a type. Does Oedipus Tyrannus convey empirical
knowledge about certain recurring patterns of human behavior?
The skeptic rejects this, as we have seen, on the grounds that the
play does not advance enough evidence to establish a behavioral reg-
ularity. The single case of Oedipus does not support the claim that
there are more instances of this personality profile who are likely to
behave as Oedipus did.
There is a problem, however, with the no-evidence argument,
namely, that it misrepresents the way in which empirical informa-
tion is usually conveyed or communicated. Typically, for example, a
think piece in a newspaper or a magazine presents us with a thesis,
often supplemented with an example or two, and then leaves it to
the reader to test it. That is, the article does not come with citations
of all the supporting evidence that would justify it. Indeed, most of
the general knowledge we acquire in life we probably get from the
testimony of others, usually in the form of assertions sans masses of
data. And even scientists expect their hypotheses to be checked by
at least an audience of their peers who are invited to replicate their
experiments.
In short, a discourse can convey or communicate knowledge
without accompanying it with all or even most of the evidence that
would be required to justify it, instead leaving the task of probing the
hypothesis to the audience. In fact, it would appear that much, if not
most, of our knowledge communication is like this. Obviously, that
26
Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
courent sur les gens d’affaires. On disait des mauvaises choses sur
Voraud il y a un an. Mais peut-être qu’il s’est remis à flot depuis.
— Bon, dit Daniel, tu dis ça pour me rassurer et parce que ça
t’embête que je fasse une tête. Tant pis pour toi, si je fais une tête. Il
ne fallait pas me raconter ça… D’ailleurs, tu as bien fait et je te
remercie, dit-il après un silence.
Après un nouveau silence, il ajouta :
— Ah ! je voudrais, je voudrais que papa apprenne la nouvelle
tout de suite, afin que je sois débarrassé de ce souci-là. Je vais être
embêté tant qu’il ne le saura pas… Je ne pourrai pas lui dire ça moi-
même. Et puis il me semble que ce ne serait pas bien, à cause de
Berthe… Parce qu’après, s’il fait des difficultés, et s’il empêche le
mariage, ce serait ma faute, à moi… Écoute, mon vieux, je te quitte.
— Où vas-tu ?
— J’ai des courses à faire.
— Quand est-ce qu’on te verra ?
— Je t’écrirai.
— Tu n’es qu’une brute, dit Julius en lui tendant une main molle,
de te faire du mauvais sang pour une chose qui n’est pas sûre, et
qui n’a, en tous cas, rien d’imminent.
Daniel s’en alla, n’importe où. Il s’arrêtait de temps en temps
devant des magasins vagues, à des étalages de mercerie que
personne ne regardait jamais ; si bien qu’une vieille dame en noir se
détacha du fond sombre de sa boutique, et vint à la porte, l’air
étonné et soupçonneux.
Il se dit qu’il ferait peut-être bien d’aller voir M. Voraud et d’avoir
un entretien avec lui. Et tout en sachant parfaitement qu’il n’aurait
jamais cette audace, il se dirigea néanmoins du côté du boulevard
Haussmann. Il passa devant les bureaux de la banque Voraud, et
considéra ses dix belles fenêtres, qui pouvaient être aussi bien les
fenêtres d’un banquier solide que celles d’un spéculateur trop
audacieux.
Daniel se vit réduit à souhaiter un coup de fortune subit qui ferait
de lui le sauveur de M. Voraud et rétablirait la situation. Peu rassuré
là-dessus, car les données lui manquaient, même pour n’y édifier
que des songes, il se dirigea vers le magasin de M. Henry, sans but
précis, pour voir son père, et dans l’espérance d’une aide du hasard.
En embrassant son père, il prit une mine des plus soucieuses,
pour essayer vaguement de lui faire deviner quelque chose.
— Qu’est-ce que tu as ?
— Rien. Très mal à la tête. Je rentre à la campagne.
Il reprit le chemin de la gare du Nord.
Ah ! ce n’était plus le premier voyage vers Bernainvilliers, le
voyage charmant et plein d’espérance, où il ne doutait que de son
bonheur, où il regardait comme une belle chimère la possibilité d’être
aimé de Berthe et d’être agréé par M. Voraud. Il avait pris,
précisément, le train de quatre heures et se souvint que Berthe lui
avait dit la veille qu’elle serait à la gare à l’arrivée de ce train-là. Il
l’aperçut à la barrière, très jolie dans sa robe claire, dans la robe
claire qu’elle avait déjà le jour où il était venu pour la première fois.
Encore la même robe, pensa-t-il malgré lui. Il s’en voulut d’avoir
pensé cela. La locomotive avait entraîné le train jusqu’à la pompe,
assez loin de la sortie des voyageurs. Et, tout en revenant vers la
barrière, Daniel se disait que ses remarques étaient absurdes, que
M. Voraud dépensait assez d’argent et menait assez grand train
pour payer à sa fille autant de robes qu’elle voulait, et que d’ailleurs
Berthe en avait plusieurs autres, qu’il lui avait vues d’autres jours.
Mais quand il fut près d’elle il ne put s’empêcher de regarder cette
robe et de s’apercevoir qu’aux coudes l’étoffe était un peu fatiguée.
Et il vit que le chapeau de paille, où s’enfonçait une grande épingle,
était piqué, du côté où sortait l’épingle, de petits trous trop
nombreux. Il s’en voulut encore d’avoir remarqué cela et fut pris
brusquement d’un grand élan d’amour et de pitié, comme si sa
fiancée avait été très misérable. Il était à un âge où l’on aime mieux
changer carrément d’idéal que d’avoir un idéal diminué. Il s’exagéra
avec délices la détresse de cette jolie personne, et serra tendrement
le bras mince de Berthe contre le sien. C’était une nouvelle occasion
de s’exalter. Il en profita. Il se vit sauvant héroïquement de la ruine,
celle à qui il avait donné son cœur.
XXI
CONSEIL DE FAMILLE
Quand la bonne eut posé le chocolat sur la table de nuit, elle alla
à la fenêtre. Le matin, qui attendait derrière les volets, se rua par la
brèche ouverte et remplit brutalement la chambre. Daniel, l’œil
hagard, au sortir d’une nuit pleine de songes, cherchait ses idées de
la veille. Il savait qu’il s’était couché avec un embêtement, et ne le
retrouvait plus. Il s’assit sur son séant, allongea et tordit ses bras,
comme si les serpents de Laocoon se fussent enroulés autour de
son corps, regarda avec effroi sa tasse de chocolat, bâilla à en
mourir, puis retomba étendu sur le côté. Au bout d’un instant, il se
souvint de son ennui. Les révélations de Julius lui revinrent à
l’esprit : M. Voraud qu’il avait cru riche, était dans une position
difficile. Ce matin-là, comme la veille, il se hâta de mettre les choses
au pis, et s’imagina que son futur beau-père se trouvait à deux
doigts de la ruine.
Il aimait mieux se dire : M. Voraud n’a pas le sou, et mettre tout
de suite pied à terre dans la pauvreté, que de se balancer dans des
régions plus élevées, dans la nacelle mouvante d’une fortune
instable. Il était très paresseux ; il avait un besoin continuel de
sécurité. Il se résignait d’avance aux pires éventualités, pour
s’épargner la fatigue de les craindre.
La résignation n’était d’ailleurs pas la seule vertu chrétienne que
lui avait value son besoin de tranquillité. Il était conciliant par peur de
la discussion, et longanime par appréhension de la lutte.
La situation de M. Voraud ne l’inquiétait pas. Mais il était moins
rassuré sur l’opinion qu’en aurait sa famille. Quand M. Henry allait-il
être mis au courant ? Or, il se trouva que ça ne tarda guère.
L’oncle Émile et la tante Amélie revenaient ce jour-là de la station
thermale où ils étaient allés passer un mois. A trois heures,
accompagnée de Daniel, Mme Henry alla chercher sa sœur à la
gare. L’oncle et la tante étaient arrivés à midi cinquante à la gare de
l’Est, avaient déjeuné près de la gare du Nord, puis la tante était
partie à deux heures pour Bernainvilliers, l’oncle restant à Paris pour
ses affaires jusqu’à l’heure du dîner. Tous ces détails, un peu secs
par eux-mêmes, furent donnés par la faible Amélie avec une voix
plaintive, comme si c’eût été le récit de la plus touchante aventure.
Elle avait depuis vingt ans une mine effroyable ; elle souffrait,
suivant une sorte de roulement, de crampes d’estomac, de
névralgies, de bronchites et de courbatures. Ces accidents avaient
fini par laisser tout le monde absolument froid. Elle avait épuisé
depuis longtemps la somme de commisération à laquelle elle avait
droit dans la famille.
Quand, à dîner, elle se levait de table pour aller se trouver mal
dans la chambre à côté, tous les convives prenaient un air apitoyé.
Émile disait : Il vaut mieux la laisser ! Et ils continuaient leur repas.
En revenant de la gare, elle racontait à sa sœur et à Daniel les
derniers incidents du voyage, les subterfuges employés par Émile
pour se procurer un compartiment réservé. Il s’était donné comme
un ami intime de M. Colombel, administrateur de la Compagnie. Elle
souriait douloureusement en racontant ces farces, et appuyait deux
doigts sur sa tempe fragile.
Elle dit ensuite les connaissances qu’elle avait faites là-bas, la
femme d’un commandant, et deux jeunes orphelines, dont la plus
jeune chantait d’une façon admirable. Émile avait joué à l’écarté
presque tous les jours avec un juge.
— J’aurais voulu que tu voies, dit-elle à Daniel, comme c’était un
homme spirituel ! un vrai savant ! Tu aurais été dans ton élément.
Vers sept heures, l’oncle Émile rentra dîner avec M. Henry. Il
était, plus que jamais, vif et noir. Il représentait dans la famille le type
du viveur, car il avait eu pour maîtresses avant son mariage des
femmes connues, notamment une forte blonde, actrice, disait-on,
une élégante. Il revenait des eaux avec un binocle à verres fumés,
un vêtement gris fripé et une canne de montagne, achetée trente-
cinq sous à un homme du pays, qui avait commencé par lui en
demander huit francs.
Daniel remarqua que personne ne lui parlait de son mariage et
que son père paraissait soucieux.
Après le café, comme l’oncle Émile, avec des gestes sûrs que
son neveu lui enviait toujours, procédait à la confection d’une
cigarette, Daniel se leva, et prit son chapeau.
— Où vas-tu si pressé ? dit l’oncle Émile.
— Mais, dit Daniel, je vais… je vais là-bas.
Il y eut un silence.
— Je trouve, dit M. Henry, que tu as tort d’y aller si souvent et
que tu t’engages trop.
— Comment ? dit Daniel. Mais… je suis fiancé, ajouta-t-il d’une
voix faible. J’ai donné une bague.
M. Henry se tourna vers l’oncle Émile.
— Je crois qu’il vaut mieux lui dire tout ce que tu m’as raconté.
C’est lui que ça intéresse le plus, en définitive. Du moment qu’il se
juge assez grand pour se marier, il est assez raisonnable pour qu’on
ne lui cache rien.
Daniel regarda l’oncle Émile.
— Eh bien ! dit l’oncle, eh bien ! j’ai communiqué à ton père des
renseignements sur le père de la jeune fille en question… Oui…
oui… Enfin, vous avez tous cru sa position plus brillante qu’elle n’est
en réalité. Pour tout dire, il est lancé dans des affaires… dans des
affaires difficiles. Et il n’a pas du tout, mais pas du tout, la fortune
que son train de maison pourrait laisser supposer.
Daniel se leva sans mot dire.
— Où vas-tu ? dit Mme Henry.
Il répondit d’une voix ferme :
— Je vais chez Mlle Voraud.
Il trouvait cette sortie très belle, mais il était un peu gêné à l’idée
de quitter ses parents fâchés. Il chercha sa canne dans la chambre
à côté, dont la porte était ouverte, et prolongea ses recherches, pour
que quelqu’un se décidât à dire quelque chose.
— Je vois, je vois, dit enfin M. Henry. Monsieur est un grand
seigneur. Il est au-dessus de ces questions-là. D’ailleurs, est-ce qu’il
a besoin de discuter avec nous ? Nous nous mêlons de ce qui ne
nous regarde pas.
Daniel répondit d’une voix altérée :
— Je ne discute pas. J’aime cette jeune fille. Ce n’est pas à
cause de sa fortune que j’ai voulu l’épouser.
— Il ne s’agit pas de sa fortune, dit M. Henry. J’aimerais mieux
cent fois que ce soit une fille pauvre, qui aurait toujours été pauvre.
Quoique vraiment ce n’est pas tout à fait ça que j’avais rêvé pour toi.
Mais ce n’est pas la même chose d’épouser une fille sans fortune
que d’épouser la fille d’un homme comme M. Voraud, qui peut se
trouver ruiné d’un instant à l’autre, et qui peut te ruiner avec lui…
sans compter qu’elle a été élevée avec des goûts dispendieux,
habituée au luxe et à la toilette… Même quand je croyais que M.
Voraud avait une grosse fortune, je t’avoue que cette éducation-là
me déplaisait un peu.
Daniel ne répondait toujours rien. Il alla gravement embrasser sa
mère, et se dirigea vers la porte.
— Je sais bien, dit M. Henry, que ce que je dis ou rien, c’est la
même chose. Tu es bien pris… Ah ! ils savaient ce qu’ils faisaient,
quand ils t’attiraient chez eux tout l’été.
Cette imputation suffoqua Daniel et lui donna la dose d’irritation
suffisante pour opérer une sortie énergique. Il était bien certain que
son père se trompait, et que les Voraud n’avaient eu aucune arrière-
pensée en le laissant venir chez eux. L’attitude de Mme Voraud en
était la preuve. D’ailleurs, l’hypothèse d’un tel complot, eût-elle été
vraisemblable, était insoutenable pour son amour-propre. Il ne s’y
arrêta pas. Cette parole de M. Henry eut simplement pour effet de
diminuer la confiance qu’il avait dans ses parents, qui s’étaient mis
aussi manifestement dans l’erreur.
Il prit, pour aller chez M. Voraud, un petit chemin à travers
champs. Il n’y passait jamais à la nuit tombée. Mais, ce jour-là, une
attaque nocturne lui aurait, pensait-il, fait plaisir. Il brandissait sa
canne avec vigueur. Il n’y avait, d’ailleurs, pas d’exemple qu’une
attaque nocturne se fût produite dans ce pays des plus tranquilles.
Il entra chez les Voraud, qui prenaient le café dans la salle à
manger vitrée. Il poussa la porte avec assurance, ne tremblant plus,
comme jadis, à l’idée d’être un intrus. Il serra fortement les mains de
Mme Voraud, avec la rudesse et la supériorité d’un bienfaiteur.
Louise Loison, Berthe et lui firent un petit tour dans le jardin.
Parfois le souvenir de ses parents, qu’il avait quittés si brusquement,
lui revenait à l’esprit. Alors il prenait Berthe dans ses bras, et
l’étreignait ardemment. Fallait-il qu’il l’aimât assez, pour se brouiller
ainsi avec sa famille !… Il se demandait avec angoisse s’il l’aimait
véritablement… Il l’embrassait plus ardemment encore. Et il se disait
que même s’il ne l’eût pas autant aimée, il lui eût été impossible, de
par des lois inéluctables de délicatesse, de rompre avec Berthe pour
une question d’argent.
XXII
UNE DÉMARCHE
C’était vraiment très grave d’avoir osé tenir tête à ses parents !
En rentrant au chalet Pilou, vers onze heure du soir, Daniel pensait
trouver tout le monde encore sur pied, en désarroi, et attendant
l’enfant prodigue pour une explication plus complète. Il ralentit le
pas, malgré lui, quand, du tournant de la route, il aperçut le
deuxième bec de gaz, qui marquait dans la nuit la place du chalet
Pilou.
Mais, en arrivant devant la grille, il vit que la maison était sombre.
Ainsi, ils s’étaient tous couchés ! Aucune lumière ne survivait aux
fenêtres, qui révélât une veille anxieuse. Il se demanda un instant si
sa rébellion avait toute l’importance qu’il avait supposée. Il n’était
pas exactement fixé sur la gravité de ses actes. Qu’est-ce qui est
une faute ? Qu’est-ce qui n’est qu’une simple incartade, que les
parents répriment pour la forme tout en en souriant entre eux et en
se disant : C’est de son âge ! Il se rappela une petite intrigue qu’il
avait eue avec une bonne, à l’âge de quinze ans.
C’était une petite brune, frisée sur le front, et qui avait dû aller
assez longtemps à l’école, car elle écrivait les dépenses sans faute
d’orthographe et d’une écriture penchée. Un soir, sans qu’on pût
savoir comment ça lui avait pris, elle avait embrassé Daniel sur la
joue, rapidement, et s’était sauvée. Le jeune garçon, un peu étonné,
lui avait rendu ce baiser, huit jours après. Et depuis, il l’avait
embrassée sur la joue, dans le cou, de temps en temps.
Cette aventure, pendant les six mois qu’elle dura, l’avait
beaucoup tourmenté. Dès qu’on parlait de la bonne à table, pour les
détails de service les plus insignifiants, Daniel devenait tout rouge, et
le nez dans son assiette, ressemblait subitement à un myope qui
mange dans un restaurant douteux.
Et voilà que deux mois après le départ de la bonne, l’oncle Émile
avait dit, en examinant la remplaçante : Tu aimais mieux la petite
brunette, n’est-ce pas, Daniel ? Daniel en avait ressenti un coup au
cœur. Puis il s’était aperçu que son oncle n’avait dit cela que pour
rire un peu ; il avait alors amèrement regretté de n’être pas allé plus
avant dans ses affaires avec la petite bonne, puisque autour de lui
on parlait de la chose avec une tolérance aussi légère.
Mais ces précédents ne le rassuraient jamais, car chaque
aventure nouvelle lui paraissait excéder les bornes de l’indulgence
paternelle. Et, cette fois-ci, cette opposition déterminée aux volontés
de ses parents était d’une gravité vraiment exceptionnelle.
Cependant, le lendemain, le fils rebelle crut bon d’aller
embrasser, pour ne pas se poser en ennemi, sa mère, son père, sa
tante et son oncle Émile, dont la moustache, le matin, sentait
toujours un peu le café. C’est ainsi qu’il les embrassait matin et soir,
et chaque fois qu’il les rencontrait sur son chemin. Au déjeuner ni au
dîner, on ne fit aucune allusion et ce fut ainsi les jours qui suivirent.
Après le repas, Daniel montait dans sa chambre ou passait dans
une autre pièce. Il était bien entendu qu’il allait chez les Voraud,
mais il ne voulait pas effectuer de sortie directe.
Pendant huit jours, ses parents continuèrent à ne rien dire.
Parfois M. Henry descendait du train avec M. Voraud. Ils causaient
poliment de toutes sortes de choses ; mais évidemment il n’était pas
question du mariage. D’ailleurs, avant ces dernières histoires ils n’en
parlaient pas davantage, puisque ce mariage ne devait se faire
qu’un an plus tard et qu’on avait dit plusieurs fois qu’on avait bien le
temps d’en parler.
Les Henry, qui passaient généralement deux ou trois soirées par
semaine au chalet Voraud, ne s’y rendirent pas pendant ces huit
jours-là. La tante Amélie était de retour, et sa santé chancelante était
une excuse permanente et vraiment très commode à toutes les
défections. Il y a des familles où l’on semble entretenir
soigneusement des parents malades pour refuser les invitations à
dîner.
Mais ce qui sembla plus grave à Daniel, c’est que ses parents
n’invitèrent pas les Voraud. Il paraissait naturel qu’un dîner de famille
fût organisé pour présenter à l’oncle et à la tante leur future nièce.
Daniel, inquiet, se figura que les Voraud avaient remarqué cette
abstention. Il épia certains signes de gêne et de rancune. Il lui
suffisait d’être à l’affût de ces marques de froideur pour en trouver
toujours. Il en arriva très rapidement à juger que la situation était
insoutenable.
Un soir, il rentra chez lui fort surexcité. Dans son insomnie, il vit
toute la famille Voraud gravement affectée par l’attitude de M. et Mme
Henry. Il prit une résolution, pour s’endormir. Il décida qu’il irait parler
à M. Voraud. Ah ! se disait-il avec impatience, je voudrais être à
demain. Pourvu que demain ne soit pas trop tard !
Il fallait expliquer à M. Voraud la bouderie des Henry, et ajouter
que, lui, Daniel, méprisait les questions d’argent et resterait à jamais
fidèle à son amour ainsi qu’à la parole donnée. Il hésitait d’autant
moins à faire cette démarche qu’il était à peu près sûr de la réponse
de M. Voraud. Cette réponse serait : « Vous êtes un noble jeune
homme » ou quelque chose d’approchant.
Le lendemain le trouva encore dans les mêmes dispositions. Il
était, d’ailleurs, trop faible pour revenir sur une résolution
dangereuse et avait trop peur d’être lâche pour se permettre une
reculade. A trois heures, il descendit du train à la gare du Nord et se
rendit aux bureaux de son futur beau-père.
Malgré les renseignements inquiétants qu’il avait maintenant sur
la maison Voraud, l’austérité des grillages l’intimida, ainsi que
l’activité indifférente des employés et la tranquille rudesse des
garçons en uniforme, qui venaient verser de l’argent ou toucher des
chèques. De l’or et des billets, sans ostentation, entraient ou
sortaient des guichets.
On introduisit Daniel dans une petite chambre d’attente, claire et
sans meubles. M. Voraud, très pressé, sortit d’une pièce à côté :
« Bonjour, mon ami. Je ne vous reçois pas dans mon cabinet. J’ai
quelqu’un. Qu’est-ce qu’il y a pour votre service ? »
Ils étaient tous deux debout près de la fenêtre, au grand jour. M.
Voraud avait posé sa main sur l’épaule du jeune homme. Il baissait
sa tête robuste, tortillait sa moustache et pensait à autre chose.
— Voilà, dit Daniel. Je tenais à vous voir. Car je pensais que vous
aviez cru remarquer chez mes parents une certaine froideur.
— Une certaine froideur ? dit M. Voraud en relevant la tête, un
peu étonné. Pourquoi ça ?
— Voilà, dit Daniel, voilà. On a dit, c’est-à-dire on a raconté à
mon père des choses… que vos affaires n’allaient pas comme vous
vouliez.
M. Voraud releva la tête et regarda Daniel fixement. Daniel
continua, très vite :
— Alors papa m’a dit cela, et nous avons eu une scène. Je lui ai
répondu que je n’épousais pas votre fille pour de l’argent, que je
l’aimais. Je suis venu pour vous dire que les questions d’intérêt
n’existent pas pour moi, et que l’attitude de ma famille ne modifiera
jamais mes projets.
— Qu’est-ce que ça signifie ? dit sévèrement M. Voraud. Où
voulez-vous en venir ? Enfin, répondez : Quel est le sens de cette
démarche ? Est-ce vos parents qui vous ont envoyé ? Je n’aime pas
les faux-fuyants, ni l’équivoque, cher monsieur.
— Ce n’est pas mes parents, dit faiblement Daniel. C’est moi qui
suis venu de mon gré. Je n’ai consulté personne. J’ai fait cette
démarche à l’insu de tout le monde. J’ai voulu vous éclairer sur mes
sentiments.
— Je n’aime pas beaucoup ça, continua M. Voraud, sans
l’écouter. J’irai voir monsieur votre père, et je lui demanderai des
explications là-dessus. Je m’étonne qu’il ne soit pas venu me trouver
lui-même, au lieu de vous envoyer. Il sait où je demeure.
— Mais, je vous donne ma parole que ce n’est pas papa qui m’a
envoyé.
— Je le verrai à ce sujet… Je ne vous reconduis pas, dit-il en
serrant hâtivement la main de Daniel ; j’ai du monde dans mon
cabinet. Au revoir !
— Au revoir, monsieur, dit Daniel. Mais je voudrais que vous ne
vous trompiez pas sur le sens de ma démarche.
— Oui, c’est bon, c’est bon. Au revoir.
Daniel traversa la salle et descendit l’escalier sans penser à rien.
Puis, dans la rue, il se mit à marcher très vite, et la tête droite,
comme le personnage biblique à qui le Seigneur avait défendu de se
retourner pour regarder derrière lui le feu du ciel et ses ravages.
Mais il consentait rarement à s’avouer qu’il avait fait une fausse
démarche. Il convint donc avec lui-même, quand il ralentit son allure,
qu’il valait bien mieux que les choses se fussent passées de cette
façon, et qu’ainsi son père et M. Voraud auraient une explication
nette.
XXIII
LA FIANCÉE
M. Voraud ne parla point chez lui de la visite de Daniel. Du

moins, le lendemain, après déjeuner, Mme Voraud ne semblait au
courant de rien, quand le jeune homme entra dans la salle à manger
vitrée, où Berthe travaillait avec sa mère.
Le mois de septembre était un peu frais. On avait renoncé aux
robes d’été. Berthe portait un costume de drap gris, une veste unie,
montante, avec un petit faux-col blanc. Quand Daniel arriva, elle
était en train de bâtir un chapeau avec d’anciennes plumes qu’elle
ajustait sur une forme de feutre neuve. Elle avait entre les lèvres
deux épingles, qu’elle retira sur la prière de Daniel, qui craignait de
les lui voir avaler.
Il s’assit à côté d’elle, et la regarda impatiemment. Il n’avait rien à
lui dire, et ne pensait qu’à aller l’embrasser dans une autre chambre.
Comme Mme Voraud se levait pour aller baisser un peu le store,
Daniel dit à Berthe à demi-voix :
— Allez chercher des rubans dans la lingerie.
Depuis qu’ils étaient fiancés, on ne les empêchait pas de rester
seuls ensemble. Mais Mme Voraud faisait toujours son possible pour
les déranger.
Berthe ne se leva pas tout de suite. Elle acheva de fixer une
plume sur le devant du chapeau. Daniel trouvait qu’elle n’en finissait
pas. Il lui poussa légèrement le genou. Enfin, elle quitta sa chaise.
Mais elle resta longtemps encore à tourner le chapeau sur son
poing, puis à l’essayer devant la glace. Elle regarda Daniel.
— Comment le trouvez-vous ?
Il répondit sèchement :
— Bien.
Elle fronça le sourcil, comme lorsqu’elle disait : Méchant ! Puis
elle s’en alla vers la lingerie, qu’un grand salon, dont les portes
étaient ouvertes, séparait de la salle à manger. Daniel, pour ne pas
la suivre immédiatement, s’astreignit à faire quelques pas de long en
large avant de sortir. Puis il se dirigea innocemment vers la porte du
salon.
Mais la perfide Mme Voraud, qui lui avait à peine parlé jusque-là,
choisissait toujours le moment où il allait rejoindre Berthe pour
s’intéresser à lui et lui poser des questions auxquelles il était obligé
de répondre. Il dit brièvement que sa tante allait très bien, pour éviter
le dangereux sujet de ses maladies, qui eût nécessité
d’interminables détails.
Comme il était tout près de la porte, Mme Voraud l’arrêta encore
et lui demanda si ses parents comptaient rester tout le mois à la
campagne.
Il répondit : « Ça dépendra du temps, » et feignit de remarquer
brusquement un tableau dans le salon, en s’écriant : « Tiens ! je
n’avais jamais vu ce paysage-là ! » Mme Voraud sembla quitter
innocemment son ouvrage, le posa sur une table, et passa, elle
aussi, dans le salon pour admirer le tableau en question.
Daniel était déjà auprès de Berthe, qui paraissait très affairée à
remuer de vieux coupons d’étoffe dans le bas d’une armoire
normande. Mme Voraud entra à son tour dans la lingerie ; on garda
autour de la gêneuse un silence obstiné. Daniel, le front contre la
fenêtre, tapotait les carreaux. Enfin, la mère de Berthe, n’osant tout
de même pousser plus loin les hostilités, se retira, en disant à sa
fille : « Viens plutôt dans la salle à manger. Tu commences toujours
un ouvrage, et tu ne le finis pas. »
Daniel s’approcha de Berthe, qui lui tendit ses lèvres, et sembla
pâmée entre ses bras. Daniel l’entraîna bien doucement du côté du
mur, afin de s’y appuyer le dos. Dans ces étreintes, c’est au jeune
homme qu’incombe tout naturellement le soin de maintenir l’équilibre
du groupe. Il en résulte pour lui une préoccupation et un effort
musculaire qui ne sont pas sans gâter son plaisir.
Il y avait déjà longtemps que ces baisers silencieux avaient
remplacé, pour eux, toute espèce de conversation. Les quelques
mots qu’ils échangeaient n’étaient pas des paroles ; ils disaient : « Je
t’aime ! tu m’aimes ? » comme on dit : « Allô ! allô ! »
Depuis quelques jours, son amour pour Berthe s’était modifié.
Pendant longtemps il n’avait pas considéré sa fiancée comme une
femme. Et voilà, qu’une nuit, dans un songe, il l’avait serrée dans
ses bras, presque nue. Ceci se passait d’ailleurs en pleine salle à
manger des Voraud, en présence de toute la famille, et d’un ancien
professeur de quatrième de Daniel, spectateur imprévu de cette
aventure. Depuis cette nuit-là, Daniel avait regardé Berthe avec
d’autres regards. La pensée qu’elle était faite comme une autre
femme l’affolait. Il l’aimait d’une sorte d’amour incestueux.
C’était comme une profanation de son amour ancien ; il souhaitait
maintenant d’être son amant, avec plus d’impatience et un peu
d’effroi. Avant que son amour eût cet aspect nouveau, il avait
souvent pensé qu’il irait bien quelque jour jusqu’à la possession
complète. Mais il n’en percevait pas les détails. Cet événement
s’accomplissait dans une extase vague, par une espèce de tour de
passe-passe vertigineux, tel qu’on en voit dans les romans, où des
amants en justaucorps ou en redingote possèdent néanmoins très
rapidement les dames, comme un papillon se pose sur une fleur.
Maintenant que Daniel envisageait cet acte essentiel, il était effrayé
des diverses formalités qu’il nécessite.
Il avait dit à Berthe à plusieurs reprises : Je veux que vous soyez
à moi. Berthe répondait : Oui, oui. Il poursuivait : Quand voulez-vous
être à moi ? Bientôt ? Elle disait : Bientôt. Il l’étreignait alors avec
plus d’ardeur, sans exiger une date précise ; il la traitait comme ces
amis à qui l’on dit : « Votre couvert est mis chez moi. Venez dîner
prochainement… prochainement… » sans fixer le jour.
Chaque fois, cependant, qu’il se rendait chez les Voraud, il
espérait tout du hasard, et se disait : C’est peut-être aujourd’hui que
ça va se passer. Il pensait bien ne rien provoquer, mais il imaginait
que, dans une sorte d’emballement, Berthe murmurerait : Prenez-
moi. Ainsi mis au pied du mur, il serait bien, croyait-il, obligé d’en
profiter.
Il était, d’autre part, obsédé par la crainte de ne pas paraître
assez passionné en ne sollicitant pas une faveur qu’on était peut-
être disposé à lui accorder.
Ce jour-là du moins, il se sentait couvert par la présence de Mme
Voraud, qui interdisait toutes les audaces. On l’entendit qui appelait :
Berthe ! Berthe ! depuis la salle à manger.
Berthe cria : Me voici ! Elle ramassa quelques rubans et alla
retrouver sa mère, non sans avoir confié une dernière fois ses lèvres
à son fiancé, pour un baiser ardent et rapide, comme il les aimait.
Daniel ne rentra pas tout de suite dans la salle à manger ; il
s’était vu très rouge dans une glace, avec des yeux brillants. Mais il
ne pouvait pas s’éterniser dans la lingerie ; il revint auprès de Mme
Voraud, en appuyant sa main sur son front et en répétant : Je ne
sais pas ce que j’ai, j’ai le sang à la tête.
Il quitta d’ailleurs bientôt ces dames pour rentrer à la maison. Il
avait hâte d’être seul et de pouvoir songer à Berthe. Il s’étendit sur
son lit, ferma les yeux, et couvrit son oreiller de baisers frénétiques.
Il usait sa passion dans ces crises violentes. Cette fois encore, il
en sortit écœuré, et l’image de Berthe lui apparut, toute dénuée
maintenant de son charme.
Il se disait : Est-ce que je serai vraiment ainsi quand elle sera ma
femme ? Est-ce que tout à coup je ne lui voudrai plus rien, je n’aurai
plus rien à lui dire ? Son visage sera-t-il, comme maintenant, d’une
insoutenable fadeur ? J’ai peut-être tort d’engager ma vie. Je crois
que je ne l’aime pas.
On frappa à la porte de sa chambre.
— Monsieur votre papa vous attend, dit la cuisinière. Il veut vous
parler.
Son père était en train de nouer à son cou la cordelière d’une
chemise en satinette, à pois bleus. Mme Henry l’écoutait assise sur
un fauteuil. Daniel, maussade, la bouche sèche, s’arrêta à l’entrée
de la chambre.
— Eh bien ! dit M. Henry, sois heureux, l’amoureux ! Tu auras ta
Berthe ! M. Voraud m’a fait visite aujourd’hui, au magasin. Qu’est-ce
que tu es allé lui raconter hier ? Il n’y a rien compris, et moi, je
t’avoue que je n’ai pas saisi non plus… Bref, nous avons parlé de
ses affaires. Il m’a dit tout de suite que si j’avais la moindre arrière-
pensée, il nous rendait notre parole…
Il m’a donné des renseignements qui ne m’ont pas déplu.
Certainement ses affaires sont difficiles à liquider. Mais dame ! c’est
qu’il ne s’agit pas de quatre sous. Le jour où cet homme sera un peu
plus maître de la situation, il aura une position magnifique… Entre
donc et pousse un peu la porte… J’étais en train de dire à ta mère,
mais cela il ne faut le répéter à personne, qu’il m’avait parlé aussi
d’une affaire extraordinaire, où il fera son possible pour
m’intéresser… Si cette chose réussit comme il croit, et comme je
crois d’ailleurs aussi, je n’ose seulement pas dire ce qu’on peut
gagner là-dedans.
— Ça, dit Mme Henry, ça ne m’enthousiasme pas. Je n’aime pas
beaucoup que tu fasses des affaires en dehors de ta maison. Tu te
rappelles cette coutellerie, où tu n’as jamais revu tes quinze mille
francs ?
— J’aurais voulu, répondit simplement M. Henry, que tu entendes
ce Voraud quand il cause affaires. C’est un homme comme il n’y en
a pas trois sur la place de Paris… Nous avons ensuite parlé du
mariage. Nous sommes tombés d’accord que c’était tout de même
un peu long de faire attendre ces jeunes gens. Nous allons fixer ça
au mois de janvier, du 10 au 15. A moins, ajouta-t-il avec finesse,
que Daniel me désapprouve et préfère attendre davantage ?
Non ?… Ah ! il est entendu, j’oubliais de te dire, qu’ils doivent tous
dîner ici après-demain.
— Oh ! dit douloureusement Mme Henry. Nous sommes si mal
installés !
— Nous sommes à la campagne, dit M. Henry. Et, d’ailleurs, est-
ce qu’on ne trouve pas ici tout ce qu’on veut ? Je rapporterai de
Paris de mon vin fin, quatre bouteilles… ou six bouteilles.
Daniel souriait avec effort. Il se sentait lassé, incapable de joie.
— Tu vois, lui dit encore son père, que tout finit par s’arranger.
XXIV
REPAS OFFICIEL
Le jeudi qui suivit fut un grand jour. Pour la première fois, les
Voraud venaient dîner chez les Henry.
Mais Daniel n’aimait pas les grands jours. C’était pour lui
l’occasion de toutes sortes d’ennuis. D’abord, il craignait que ses
parents n’offrissent pas aux Voraud une réception impeccable.
Et puis les invitations n’avaient pas été faites absolument selon
ses désirs. On avait bien invité Louise Loison, mais on n’avait rien dit
à M. et Mme Loison, avec qui Daniel avait fait connaissance, et qui
seraient certainement venus de Paris pour assister à cette fête.
Daniel, la veille au soir, avait répété à Berthe, à satiété : « Alors, ça
ne fait rien que l’on n’ait pas invité les parents de Louise ? Jurez-moi
que ça ne fait rien. » Berthe avait répondu : « Puisque ça vous
tracasse tant, il fallait les inviter. » Et Daniel s’était désespéré.
Autre préoccupation au sujet de la grand’mère de Berthe. Elle
avait dit qu’elle viendrait. Mais ça n’était pas sûr. Comme elle
occupait une des places d’honneur, on n’aurait pas été fâché d’avoir
une réponse ferme. Il avait fallu prévoir deux combinaisons de
placement des convives pour l’hypothèse où elle viendrait, et pour
celle où elle ne viendrait pas.
Daniel, triomphant des résistances de ses parents, avait réussi à
faire inviter son ami Julius, et s’en repentait maintenant. Julius allait

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The Oedipus Plays of Sophocles:

Philosophical Perspectives Paul

THE OEDIPUS PL AYS OF SOPHOCLES

Oxford Studies in Philosophy and Literature

Published in the Series

Shakespeare’s Hamlet: Philosophical Perspectives

Kafka’s The Trial: Philosophical Perspectives

Austen’s Emma: Philosophical Perspectives

The Oedipus Plays of Sophocles: Philosophical Perspectives

THE OEDIPUS PL AYS

Edited by Paul Woodruff

Published in the United States of America by Oxford University Press

© Oxford University Press 2018

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in

You must not circulate this work in any other form

CIP data is on file at the Library of Congress

Series Editor’s Foreword vii

4. “Tyranny,” Enlightenment, and Religion: Sophocles’s

SERIES EDITOR’S FOREWORD

at least officially, the importance of plot, figuration, and imagery in

between those disciplines and the experiences of extra-​institutional

A NOTE ON THE COVER

The image on the cover is of “Colonus,” constructed of found objects

Peter J. Ahrensdorf is James Sprunt Professor of Political Science and

Noël Carroll is a distinguished professor of philosophy at the

(Oxford University Press, 2014). He is a past Guggenheim Fellow

Garry L. Hagberg is the James H. Ottaway Professor of Philosophy

Philip Kitcher teaches at Columbia University, where he holds an

Grace Ledbetter is a professor of philosophy and classics, chair

Theories of Poetry (Princeton University Press, 2003), examines

C. D. C. Reeve is Delta Kappa Epsilon Distinguished Professor

Franco V. Trivigno is a professor of philosophy in the Department

Paul Woodruff is a professor of philosophy and classics at the

plays of Sophocles for the Hackett Publishing Company. He has also

THE OEDIPUS PL AYS OF SOPHOCLES

Sophocles probably saw himself mainly as a poet. He must have been

In staging Oedipus’s progress toward self-​understanding in the two

Dating the plays is difficult. We have firm dates for neither of

Sophocles’s two plays about Oedipus were probably separated by

11. As in Hesiod, Theogony 80–​103.

In this volume Ahrensdorf ’s chapter shows how clear it is that

14. On Oedipus as tyrant, see Edmunds (2002).

To understand OC we need to appreciate the importance of

THE CHAPTERS OF THIS VOLUME

In “Oedipus Tyrannus and the Cognitive Value of Literature,” Noël

in the true sense by showing us the disasters we mortals bring upon

calls “immoderate political rationalism,” and so the play is meant as

of pleasures and pains—​a hedonic calculus—​it really is better to not

—​—​—​. 1995. Sophocles’ Tragic World: Divinity, Nature, Society. Cambridge,

Oedipus Tyrannus and the

A central question in the philosophy of literature concerns whether

philosophical wisdom, and concluding with a suggestion about the

AGAINST LITERATURE’S CONNECTION

The case against philosophical knowledge

example, appears to be committed to some notion of relativism. Or,

will not accept this as a case of literature delivering philosophy. For,

ARISTOTLE, OEDIPUS T YR ANNUS, AND THE

1. Aristotle, Poetics, translated by Malcolm Heath (London: Penguin, 1996), 7.

with a person of a given kind in accordance with probability or ne-

2. Aristotle, Poetics, 16.

In the midst of his raging at Teiresias, Oedipus fastens upon the

recognize people like Oedipus and to comprehend how they are

The No-​Evidence Argument

between those disciplines and the experiences of extra-institutional

In staging Oedipus’s progress toward self-understanding in the two

11. As in Hesiod, Theogony 80–103.

14. On Oedipus as tyrant, see Edmunds (2002).

of pleasures and pains—a hedonic calculus—it really is better to not

———. 1995. Sophocles’ Tragic World: Divinity, Nature, Society. Cambridge,

1. Aristotle, Poetics, translated by Malcolm Heath (London: Penguin, 1996), 7.

2. Aristotle, Poetics, 16.

The No-Evidence Argument