1 Aristotle Let me begin with two specific examples. Both will have a familiar ring. I do not intend to discuss either example in any detail. They merely serve to illustrate, however briefly, the kind of problem I am trying to address. My first case concerns Aristotle, and more particularly John Jones’ book On Aristotle and Greek Tragedy (1962, 1971). In the history of readings, of interpretations, and therefore also of translations of Aristotle’s Poetics, Jones’ book is regarded as a landmark which altered our modern perception of the way in which Aristotle conceived of ancient Greek tragedy.
Crucially, Jones demonstrated that Aristotle did not operate with a concept of a ‘tragic hero’ in an individualized or romantic or Hamlet-like sense. Instead he argued that Aristotle thought of tragedy in ‘situational’ terms, and that a notion like the ‘change of fortune,’ so crucial in Aristotle’s description of tragedy, should be understood not in a ‘personal’ but in a ‘situational’ sense. Jones pointed out, for instance, that Aristotle does not speak of ‘the change in the hero’s fortune’ (as e. g.Ingram Bywater’s 1909 translation has it) but simply of ‘the change of fortune’, the reference being to ‘a state of affairs’ rather than to ‘the stage-portrayal of one man’s vicissitude’ (Jones 1971: 14-16). A different understanding of Aristotle’s meaning means a different translation.
A translation into English may then need to make an extra effort to wrap itself around the specificity of the Greek words as understood, or understood anew, by the modern commentator. Jones shows his awareness of this in his rendering of one of the terms that crop up in connection with anagnorisis, the ‘recognition’ of the fatal error in a tragedy.
The current Penguin version of the Poetics, which in this instance has not followed Jones, translates Aristotle’s definition of anagnorisis as a change from ignorance to knowledge, [which] leads either to love or to hatred between persons (Dorsch 1965: 46; my underlining, TH). Jones translates the definition rather awkwardly as a change from ignorance to knowledge, and thus to a state of nearness and dearness [philia] or to a state of enmity, on the part of those … (Jones 1971: 58; my underlining, TH).
His comment picks up the Greek term philia, which, he says, I render, hideously, “state of nearness and dearness” in my determination to avoid “love”, the word favoured by English translators (ibid. ). Jones’ reason for so emphatically sidestepping the seemingly obvious rendering of philia as ‘love’ becomes apparent when he quotes a fellow classicist, Gerard Else (Aristotle’s Poetics: the Argument, 1957), who explains why ‘love’ will not do as a translation of philia:
[philia] is not friendship or love or any other feeling, but the objective state of being [philoi], ‘dear ones’, by virtue of blood ties. When Oedipus ‘recognizes’ Laius – that is, realizes who it was he killed at the crossroads – he changes from ignorance to knowledge, and at the same moment, since Laius was his father, he moves into a state of [philia] … his feelings do not count as much as the new situation into which he has moved with his shift from ignorance to awareness. (Else quoted in Jones 1971: 58).
Another, more recent translation of the Poetics, by Richard Janko (1987), speaks of ‘recognition’ as a change from ignorance to knowledge, and so to either friendship or enmity (Janko 1987: 14; my underlining,TH) While Janko has gone for ‘friendship’, his annotations, which are more than double the length of the actual translation, point out that the Greek term philia ‘is much stronger’ than the English ‘friendship’ and ‘has connotations of kinship by blood, marriage or ties of hospitality’ (Janko 1987: 95-6).
These additional glosses help us appreciate why Jones felt pressed to steer clear of standard dictionary phrases and opt instead for ‘state of nearness and dearness’, despite the hideousness; they also remind us that in cases like these we cannot read the translation without simultaneously consulting the notes and critical apparatus. I was put on the trail of Jones’ re-reading of Aristotle by Lawrence Venuti’s The Scandals of Translation (1998) – although Venuti highlights other examples than those given above.
Towards the end of his discussion Venuti remarks that all these readings, including Jones’, are necessarily partial and localized: they are what he calls ‘domestic representations’ (Venuti 1998: 70) – a useful phrase. What he means is that Jones was a child of his age, and was quickly recognized as one. Indeed, when Venuti checked the contemporary reviews of Jones’ book, he found several that linked Jones’ approach to Aristotle with the prevailing philosophical climate of Existentialism: As reviewers suggested, Jones’ concept of determinate subjectivity reveals an “existentialist manner of thinking” that enabled him both to question the individualism of classical scholarship and to develop an interdisciplinary method of reading, not psychological but “sociological” and “anthropological” (Venuti 1998: 70).
Venuti concludes by suggesting that … Jones’ study was able to establish a new orthodoxy in classical scholarship because it met scholarly standards for textual evidence and critical argument, but also because it reflected the rise of existentialism as a powerful current in postWorld War II culture.
(Venuti 1998: 70-1) I am not in a position to judge whether Jones’ reviewers were right in positing a link between Jones and existentialism, whether all or most or only some reviewers made the connection, or for that matter whether Venuti’s explanation of why Jones’ view came to be widely accepted hits the mark or constitutes simply another domestic representation.
I mention this aspect only to emphasize that the process of reading other people’s readings of individual texts has no end – and of course anyone reading this is entitled to wonder about my reading of Venuti’s reading of Jones’ reading of Aristotle’s reading of the nature of ancient Greek tragedy. Let me sum up this first example.
My point in revisiting Jones’ reinterpretation of Aristotle was to indicate, first, the difficulty and complexity of the cross-cultural and historical interpretation of terms and concepts, even when the exercise is applied to such canonical texts as the Poetics; secondly, the fact that this revisionary enterprise is an ongoing process extending into the here and now and on into the future; thirdly, the inevitability of translation as the companion of cross-temporal and cross-cultural interpretation; and, fourthly, the pertinence of what Venuti refers to as ‘domestic representations’ and what hermeneuticists might call the interpreter’s historicity, with all the particular pre-judgements and horizons of expectation that come with them.
While these pre-judgements and horizons allow us to recognize – or to construe – similarity in what is different and ‘other’, they also generate their own forms of dyslexia, enlarging certain aspects or kinds of similarity while creating blind spots elsewhere. 2 Yan Fu My second example involves Chinese, a language and tradition I am wholly ignorant of. The case concerns the celebrated set of three terms occuring right at the start of the ‘General Remarks on Translation’ with which Yan Fu prefaced his rendering of Thomas Huxley’s Evolution and Ethics in 1898. The terms have been rendered into English in a number of different ways. The issue I want to highlight is not so much what the best translation might be, but what would be needed to give me, as an outsider, access to the range and depth of meaning of the terms. The terms, transliterated, are xin, da and ya.
A quick, random sampling of translations into English can be tabulated as follows: xin faithfulness faithfulness faithfulness faithfulness trueness faithfulness faithfulness faithfulness fidelity faithfulness ‘to be faithful, faithfulness fidelity faithfulness fidelity da comprehensibility communicability expressiveness expressiveness intelligibility expressiveness comprehensibility comprehensibility intelligibility intelligibility expressive, and readability fluency comprehensibility clarity comprehensibility ya elegance elegance elegance gracefulness elegancy elegance elegance elegance of style elegance elegance elegant’ refinement elegance elegance or elegance or fluency C. Y. Hsiu 1973: 4 Hung & Pollard 1998: 371 Wang Nin 1996: 43 Liu Miqing 1995a: 3 Huang Yushi 1995: 278 Ma Zuyi 1995: 382 Gilbert Fong 1995: 582 Elisabeth Sinn 1995: 441 Wu Jingrong 1995: 529 Wang Zongyan 1995: 560 Wang Zuoliang 1995: 999 Fan Shouyi 1994: 152 Yuen Ren Chao Xing Lu 1998: 10 Venuti 1998: 182.
It may look as if there is a reassuringly large amount of agreement between the renderings on offer, but when I put that observation alongside the remark by one critic that for Yan Fu’s terms da and ya, ‘so far at least eight and fifteen interpretations are on record respectively’ (Liu 1995b: 1034), I wonder how much the apparent agreement among the translations conceals. That nagging doubt only increases when we see Yan Fu himself rehearsing his key terms later in his preface and, in the process, evoking both Confucius and the Book of Changes: The Book of Changes says that rhetoric should uphold truthfulness [xin]. Confucius says that expressiveness [da] is all that matters in language. He adds that if one’s language lacks grace [ya], it will not travel far.
These qualities, then, are the criterion of good writing and, I believe, of good translation too. (Yan Fu quoted in Wang Zuoliang 1995: 999) As the passage shows, and as several critics (e. g. Liu Miqing 1995a: 9) have noted, Yan Fu’s terms carry textual echoes taking us back two thousand years and more. Indeed there are studies available in English which explore this historical dimension and delve into the reasons for Yan Fu’s conservative choice of style as a writer and translator (Wong 1999; Chan forthcoming). In overwriting Yan Fu’s terms with English labels we obliterate these echoes – or worse. Venuti, for example, equates Yan Fu’s third term with ‘fluency’.
In view of the intertextual import of Yan Fu’s term on the one hand, and, on the other, the very specific load with which Venuti has charged the word ‘fluency’ in his own work, this translation seems limiting at best. The fact that at least one critic (Yuen Ren Chao) saw fit to render Yan Fu’s second term as ‘fluency’ does not help matters either. But the question remains: where do we locate Yan Fu’s concepts in the web of western terms, and what would be an appropriate vocabulary or conceptual grid to render them? The author of a recent comparison of ancient Greek and Chinese rhetoric pits Yan Fu against Walter Benjamin (Xing Lu 1998: 10) and, to my mind at least, seriously misrepresents Benjamin when he writes: Of these three principles, faithfulness is considered of utmost concern to the translator, even at the expense of expressiveness and elegance.
In Walter Benjamin’s opinion, however, this emphasis on fidelity is no longer ‘serviceable. ’ He argues for a revised theory of translation based upon the notion that translation is a process of interpretation rather than a mere reproduction of the original meaning. Accordingly, translation is not a one-to-one correspondence or mere substitution of words and sentences from one language into another. Therefore, a translator should be primarily concerned with ‘appropriation’ as opposed to fidelity. ’ (Xing Lu 1998: 10) Because I do not think Benjamin says anything like what Xing Lu makes him say, this attempt to place Yan Fu by contrasting him with a western theorist misfires as badly as Venuti’s hasty appropriation.
Perhaps the question of how to represent Yan Fu’s concepts in the terminology currently available to Anglophone translation studies is not quite as simple as the apparent agreement of terms proposed so far suggests. Assuming Yan Fu’s concepts can in principle be explicated, should we perhaps take a leaf out of Jones’ book, sidestep standard vocabulary and embrace something hideous? 3 Richards Let me leave these examples behind and try to formulate the more general problem. It is at least twofold. First, there is the problem of grasping, understanding and gaining access to concepts and discursive practices, including concepts and practices of translation, in languages and cultures other than our own.
Secondly, there is the fact that the cross-lingual and cross-cultural study of concepts and discursive practices, including concepts and practices of translation, requires the use of translative operations. We need to translate in order to study translation. Both issues are familiar territory for anthropologists and historians. In recent decades a number of ethnographers and historiographers – Edward Evans-Pritchard, Edmund Leach, Talal Asad, Quentin Skinner, Hayden White and Francois Hartog, among others – have marshalled notions of translation to clarify their own cross-cultural interpretive activities. In the world of literary criticism and cultural history Wolfgang Iser has lately been describing interpretation as a form of translatibility (Iser 2000).
Steven Mailloux’ 1998 essay ‘Interpretation and Rhetorical Hermeneutics’ likewise defines interpretation as ‘acceptable and approximating translation’ – and Mailloux shows political as well as epistemological alertness when he immediately goes on to ask: ‘(1) Approximating what? (2) Translating how? and (3) Acceptable to whom? ’ (Mailloux 2001: 40). I will return to Mailloux later, and in what follows try to keep both the political and the epistemological aspect on board. First a few words about the epistemological aspect, and the self-reflexive moment in it. Among earlier attempts to reflect on the methodology of the cross-cultural study of concepts and its relation with translation, it is worth recalling I. A. Richards’ book Mencius on the Mind (1932).
In it, Richards developed what he called a ‘technique of multiple definition’, which amounted to a ‘description of the natural history of meanings’ of particular terms (Richards 1932: 127), in other words a wide-ranging semantic and historical exploration of the uses to which certain terms had been put. He applied the technique to a number of ethical and philosophical terms used by the ancient Chinese thinker Meng Tzu (Mencius), presenting the reader with a combination of interlinear cribs and lengthy glosses on key terms.
Two decades later Richards reviewed his cross-cultural mapping tool in his book Speculative Instruments (1955), especially in the essay ‘Toward a Theory of Comprehending’ – which, interestingly, had first appeared under the title ‘Toward a Theory of Translating’. We compare things, Richards observes, in certain respects, and we select those respects that will serve our purpose. How effective these respects are will emerge only in the act of comparing; or, as Richards disarmingly puts it: ‘we make an instrument and try it out’ (1955: 21). In that sense the comparison, as a move towards comprehending, also continually inspects its own procedure, because it is only by trying out a certain instrument that we can ‘develop our comprehending of what it is with which we seek to explore comprehending’ (Richards 1955: 22; also Richards 1932: 12).
Any similarity thus established is therefore a function of the respects that were selected for comparison in the first place. Comprehending, as the positing of similarities, is continually thrown back on an examination of the instrument which enables the similarities to be perceived. A comprehending that ensues from comparison must begin by realizing the contingent nature of comparing. This was also one of the conclusions which Rodney Needham reached in his Belief, Language and Experience (1971). Needham’s book, another extensive reflection on the modalities of cross-cultural translation, leans towards both philosophy and ethnography; it takes its cue from Edward Evans-Pritchard’s study of the beliefs of the Nuer in southern Sudan.
Like Richards, Needham knows that there is no ideal metalanguage in which the invariant of the cross-lingual and cross-cultural comparison could be expressed (a point also made, incidentally, in Umberto Eco’s recent Experiences in Translation). The absence of such a metalanguage forces us to reconsider the language in which we do conduct the analysis. The cross-cultural mapping, comparison and translation of concepts, it seems, can hardly avoid being selfreflexive. When we then turn more specifically to the cross-cultural study of concepts and practices of translation, we encounter the additional paradox that, as I mentioned before, this form of translation studies must enlist translation to study concepts and practices of translation.
Or, as Lydia Liu expresses it in the introduction to her Translingual Practice, a cross-cultural study is itself a translingual act and as such ‘it enters, rather than sits above’ its object (Liu 1995: 20). This awareness brings on a self-reflexive stance. In the absence of a fixed external point from which to ascertain the adequacy of our renderings, we can only, pragmatically, try out certain instruments and see what they allow us to see and to what extent they remain open to critical self-examination. If this is a pragmatic stance, it feeds into and is in turn fed by the philosophical antifoundationalism associated with the work of Richard Rorty, today’s best-known neo-pragmatist. For Rorty it makes no sense to speak of statements as being ‘true’ in the sense of a matching, or mirroring, between those utterances and the external world.
Language does not give us access to the essence of things. We can never know whether our statements and formulas have wrapped themselves ‘correctly’ around phenomena or not. We can however say that certain vocabularies apparently allow us to handle certain aspects of the world more effectively. As Rorty puts it: ‘the fact that Newton’s vocabulary lets us predict the world more easily than Aristotle’s does not mean that the world speaks Newtonian’ (Rorty 1989: 6). If predicting the world is the aim, then it pays to work with Newton rather than Aristotle; that does not mean that Newton is therefore more ‘true to nature’ than Aristotle. Two things follow from this.
Firstly, in the cross-cultural translation of translation we should drop the idea that what we are aiming for is a full and accurate representation of foreign concepts of translation, that the accuracy of this representation could be measured in a way that would allow us to compare representations and choose the best one, and that once we have arrived at the correct representation the matter can be closed. Once we drop that idea, we are ready to accept that what we are about is the creation of vocabularies which will enable us to do certain things, such as mapping concepts of translation cross-culturally and at the same time reexamining the prevailing vocabulary of the kind of translation studies that we use as a tool to perform those mappings.
In proposing that we drop the aim of full and accurate representation of foreign concepts I am not suggesting a lowering of scholarly standards or a form of intellectual defeatism. I am recommending the pragmatic recognition of the impossibility of total description, and replacing the chimera of complete understanding with the critical inspection of the vocabularies we employ to conduct the cross-cultural hermeneutic exercise.
Secondly, as a translingual act the cross-cultural study of translation obliges us to propose in our own language terms that need to cover the foreign terms, thus continually positing our terms implicitly or explicitly, tentatively or not, as approximations of, as matching, as equivalent to, those foreign terms. In doing so we run into the more political kind of questions which Lydia Liu poses in her book when she asks: ‘In whose terms, for which linguistic constituency, and in the name of what kinds of knowledge or intellectual authority does one perform acts of translation between cultures?
’ (Liu 1995: 1) Similar questions have been asked about the human sciences in general; they are questions about the conditions under which knowledge is produced, who that knowledge is directed at, and how this production and reproduction of knowledge affects the structure, status and development of individual disciplines (Hopper 1995: 65-66). 4 Ryle, Geertz, Appiah It is not easy, perhaps not even possible, to answer all these questions, but we can attempt to devise approaches and methods that create room for them. It is for this reason that one profitable way of practising the intercultural translation of translation seems to me to lie in what Kwame Anthony Appiah, in an essay first published in 1993, has called ‘thick translation’ (Appiah 2000).
The term ‘thick translation’ is grafted on Clifford Geertz’s characterization of the work of the ethnographer as ‘thick description’, a notion Geertz introduced in a programmatic essay (‘Thick Description: Toward an Interpretive Theory of Culture’) that served as the preface to his Selected Essays of 1973. The essay, and the collection as a whole, was intended to counter what Geertz at the time saw as the poverty of the Structuralist reductiveness and schematism in anthropology. Geertz borrowed his term ‘thick description’ from the philosopher Gilbert Ryle (Geertz 1973: 6-7; Ryle 1971: 465ff and 480ff). He recalls Ryle’s story about two boys rapidly contracting the eyelids of their right eyes. Is one of them, or are they both, deliberately winking or involuntarily twitching?
Could they be parodying either a wink or a twitch, or just rehearsing winks for later use? Establishing which is wink and which is twitch not only requires detailed engagement with the phenomenon and its context, but also considerable interpretive effort, if only because, as a cultural category, a twitch is as much a non-wink as a wink is a non-twitch. Culturally speaking the two concepts are ‘parasitic’ on each other (Ryle 1971: 474). Moreover, the way in which winks and twitches mutually define each other in a particular culture is unphotographable. Distinguishing and identifying winks and twitches requires us to negotiate the gap between what is manifest and what is implied (the terms are Iser’s; Iser 2000: 98).
Thick description is the term for that detailed engagement and interpretive negotiation. Applying this line of thought to ethnographic work, Geertz stresses both the interpretive and the constructivist nature of the ethnographer’s descriptions. There are several aspects to be singled out here. First, the point at issue in the ethnographer’s thick description is not so much whether the end product is a complete and accurate account of a particular society – Geertz subscribes to a Rorty-style pragmatism – but whether it allows us to appreciate both what is similar and what is different, and exactly in what ways or, to rehearse Richards’ term, in what respects things are described as similar and different.
Secondly, such a description involves a self-conscious moment – indeed in a footnote Geertz, writing in 1973, lamented the lack of selfconsciousness about modes of representation in anthropology (1973: 19); there would be no need of that today, but god knows there is a need for it in contemporary translation studies! Finally, thick description requires the universalizing urge of theory to be kept in check. What matters in thick description is, in Geertz’ words, ‘the delicacy of its distinctions, not the sweep of its abstractions’ (1973: 25). As one commentator phrases it, thick description privileges the many over the one (Inglis 2000: 115). For all these reasons ‘thick translation’ seems to me a line worth pursuing in the crosscultural study, interpretation, mapping and translation of translation.
It seems well placed to address both the epistemological complexities and the political implications of cross-cultural translation studies, in that it is capable of bringing about a double dislocation: of the foreign terms and concepts, which are probed and unhinged by means of an alien methodology and vocabulary, and of the describer’s own vocabulary, which needs to be wrenched out of its familiar shape to accommodate not only similarity but also alterity. Especially this latter operation requires a measure of imaginative and experimental vigour.
My emphasis on this double dislocation will hopefully also make it clear that I think of thick translation at least in part as a critique of current translation studies, and not as a generalized form of description or translation (which also means that my use of the concept differs considerably from Appiah’s) . As an instrument of cross-cultural translation studies, thick translation has the potential to counter the flatness and formulaic reductiveness of the jargon of translation studies, and foster instead a more diversified, richer vocabulary. There is a further aspect. To the extent that thick translation works from the bottom up rather than from the top down, it seeks to avoid the imposition of categories deriving from one particular paradigm or tradition. At the same time its anthropological streak should prevent it from turning into the well-meaning but smothering embrace one associates with the ‘fusion of horizons’ of the hermeneuticists.
It is only a mild exaggeration to say that thick translation contains within it both the acknowledgement of the impossibility of total translation and an unwillingness to appropriate the other through translation even as translation is taking place. At the risk of sounding facetious or propagandist, let me list some advantages such an approach might hold: • it advertizes the fact that translation, interpretation and description are played out in the same discursive space; it remains aware that, in Lydia Liu’s words, ‘as a translingual act itself, it enters, rather than sits above, the dynamic history of the relationship between words, concepts, categories and discourses’; it highlights the constructed nature of the similarities and differences it establishes; • • • it is more interested in what.
Geertz called ‘the delicacy of its distinctions’ than in ‘the sweep of its abstractions’; it seeks to disturb the prevailing vocabularies of translation studies by importing other conceptualizations and metaphorizations of translation, thus querying the assumptions underpinning Western translation theory and its contemporary avatar, translation studies; as a highly visible form of translating it flaunts the translator’s subject position, counteracting the illusion of transparency or neutral description, and introducing a narrative voice into the account, thereby arming it with an explicit viewpoint. • 5 There are several ways of envisaging ‘thick translation’ as a practice.
One of these, although it may not exactly seem the most obvious parallel, is to think of it as something not wholly unlike Erasmus’ New Testament. That was a translation engulfed by footnotes, annotations, explications and digressions in a way that would have delighted Nabokov, but, unlike Nabokov’s Onegin, its abundance of detail and diligent exploration of the depths of the original’s meaning and context was not geared to the validation of one particular mode of translating. Rather, its patient but relentless probing of and swirling around the original’s terms signalled their inexhaustibility, and hence the tentative nature of the understanding informing the translation.
The towering annotations dwarfed the actual translation, underscoring both their own necessity and the hollowness of the pretense that one linear text could adequately match another. At the same time Erasmus also conceived of his work as a corrective (in his own terms, a castigatio) of the reigning version, i. e. Jerome’s Vulgate. In that sense thick translation possesses the potential to function as a critique of contemporary translation studies, their easy but self-serving assumption that whatever translates as translation is translation, and their eagerness to rush into generalizations, laws and universals at the expense of the complex entanglements of concepts and practices of translation in their environment and history.
An alternative way, one that is perhaps closer to home and more firmly anchored in contemporary theory, is to think of ‘thick translation’ as a form of what Steven Mailloux calls ‘rhetorical hermeneutics’ (Mailloux 2001). I mentioned Mailloux earlier as a critic who describes literary interpretation as translation and whose interpretive translations assume the shape of critical essays. A distinctive feature of Mailloux’ rhetorical hermeneutics is its orientation towards what he calls ‘the rhetorical politics of interpretive disputes’ (2001: 44). In other words, this brand of hermeneutics is less concerned with the traditional hermeneutic relation between interpreter and text than with investigating the ways in which texts and their authors engage in debates, in power struggles, in competing claims and counterclaims.
In our case this would mean translating and unpicking not just vocabularies of translation but also the conflicts and alliances in which these vocabularies are deployed. Such analyses, however, do not forget that the researcher’s distinctions, descriptions and translations themselves also form part of a scene of conflict – just as the present essay, too, seeks to initiate critique in the interests of a reconsideration of the kind of disciplinary knowledge produced by cross-cultural translation studies. In that sense Mailloux’ rhetorical hermeneutics also chimes – emphatically so – with anti-foundationalist pragmatism: there is no transcendental position from which to judge the rightness of a particular translation, but some translations and some vocabularies allow us to do certain things better than others.
It could be the task of a cross-cultural translation studies to work towards the creation of such new vocabularies to speak about translation in different cultures. REFERENCES Appiah, Kwame Anthony. 2000. ‘Thick Translation’ . The Translation Studies Reader, ed. L. Venuti, London: Routledge, 417-29 Chan, Elsie. Forthcoming. ‘Translation Principles and the Translator’s Agenda: A Systemic Approach to Yan Fu’. Crosscultural Transgressions, ed. T. Hermans, Manchester: St Jerome. Chan, Sin-wai & Pollard, David. 1995. Eds. An Encyclopedia of Translation. Chinese-English, EnglishChinese. Hong Kong: Chinese University Press. Dorsch, T. S.. 1965. Transl. Aristotle, Poetics.
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