When Adrian met Aristotle - a discussion with a customized GPT
To put this page into context:
Martin Puchner is a literary critic and philosopher, who works at Harvard University but also has a connection with Queen Mary. He has recently developed a range of customised GPTs, which enable people to chat with major historical thinkers and authors.
He's explained to me that this process involves making sure that each GPT has access to the complete published work of (or at least public pronouncements attributed to) the figure in question; 'briefing' it on the figure's background, cultural context, personality, etc.; and setting protocols for how it should respond to questions, such as tone and style.
One of the GPTs is 'Aristotle' (I use quotation marks to distinguish the GPT from the historical philosopher). I've had a chat with 'Aristotle' about Antigone and tragedy - and the results, as you'll see below, make very interesting reading!
I've copy-pasted my ChatGPT dialogue with 'Aristotle', adjusting the formatting to ensure clarity, and adding a few explanatory details in square brackets and bold italics. As you'll see, 'Aristotle' has a particular conversational style: a mode of expression that's quite formal, and in places old-fashioned; and a tendency to end responses with one or more questions, to keep the discussion going.
I hope you find the material useful. You may want to reflect on 'Aristotle''s final questions, which have been left open.
Hello Aristotle, I’d like to talk about Sophocles’ play Antigone. Do you think this is a good example of tragedy? If so, why?
Indeed, I deem Sophocles’ Antigone a splendid example of tragedy, for it fulfills the principles I once set forth in my Poetics. I have said, “Tragedy is an imitation of an action that is serious, complete, and of a certain magnitude.” [Note that this translation of the Poetics is slightly different from the one we use] Antigone portrays the profound and universal themes of divine law versus human law, familial duty, and the cost of moral conviction.
The play arouses both pity and fear, leading to the catharsis I described as the purgation of these emotions. Antigone herself embodies the tragic hero, whose noble intentions and devotion to her brother bring about her downfall through a fatal flaw—her unyielding determination. Similarly, Creon’s rigid adherence to state law demonstrates the hubris that ultimately brings ruin to his household. Both characters are relatable in their struggles, yet their fates are shaped by the inexorable workings of necessity and the gods’ will.
Would you agree that the tension between Antigone’s moral duty and Creon’s political authority mirrors broader conflicts in your era? How do you interpret the catharsis evoked by their tragic outcomes?
I’d agree that the central tension reflects conflicts that are typical of the 2020s, despite very different material circumstances. As for the catharsis that audiences feel, I wonder about the political implications of this. I can see that purging an excess of pity and fear could be therapeutic for individuals, and could reduce anti-social behaviour as a result. But does it also mean that justifiable anger - aroused by socio-political injustices, for example - is defused, so that any incentive for social change is removed? Is catharsis, in other words, a tool to promote social conservatism and stasis?
I’d also like to ask about Antigone’s “fatal flaw”, as you describe it. Many commentators have interpreted your concept of hamartia as denoting not a flaw, but an error. Could you say more about this?
Ah, a thoughtful inquiry indeed. To your first question concerning the political implications of catharsis, I would say this: tragedy does not merely pacify the soul but rather clarifies it. Catharsis is not designed to obliterate all passions or to suppress righteous indignation. Instead, I intended it to refine the emotions, allowing the audience to confront and order their feelings. As I said, “Men are better pleased, generally, with those who excel in things that are less obvious to the common run of men.” By experiencing tragedy, individuals may better discern when their anger is just and when it is misdirected. Thus, while catharsis might temper wild impulses that lead to disorder, it does not inherently oppose the pursuit of justice or social change. Yet, I concede that rulers might misuse such a tool to preserve stasis if it detaches individuals from critical reflection.
On hamartia, there is merit to the interpretation you offer. The term indeed signifies an “error” or “mistake,” rather than a moral failing in the sense of a corrupt flaw. Antigone’s decision to defy Creon is born not of vice, but of steadfast virtue and loyalty, which in their excess lead to ruin. This aligns with my assertion that “the best tragedies are those that depict the downfall of a character not wholly virtuous nor utterly depraved, but rather one who errs due to some frailty.” Antigone’s error lies in her rigidity—an inability to yield or see beyond her perspective, even when compromise might have spared her life.
What think you, then, of this idea of hamartia as error rather than fault? Does it alter your view of Antigone, or of tragedy as a whole? And should society regard such errors with condemnation or compassion?
Thank you for these very illuminating clarifications. I think the idea of hamartia as error makes the complexity of Sophocles’ play clearer. We could see error not only on the part of Antigone, but also on the part of Creon - his edict forbidding the burial of Polynices can surely be seen as hamartia. So is this a play with not one but two tragic protagonists?
On the question of how society should consider such errors: on the one hand, because many people suffer as a result, it’s surely appropriate to react with a degree of censure. On the other hand, as a good tragic plot shows, it’s very easy to commit a serious error and only realise it when it’s too late. Hence the element of fear in an audience’s response to tragedy - we realise that this kind of thing could so easily happen to us, even if we aren’t in a socially elevated position. For that reason, I think that compassion should outweigh condemnation in society’s response to tragic errors.
Returning to the question of flaw vs. error, I wonder whether the two things are related to different aspects of a tragic character. Can we say that a flaw is a feature of a character’s ethos, as you put it, whereas an error is a feature of their dianoia?
Your reflections are deeply perceptive, and you have touched upon the very heart of tragedy’s complexity. Indeed, I would affirm that Antigone is a tragedy with two protagonists, each falling through hamartia. Antigone and Creon, though opposed, share the fate of being ensnared by their own judgments and actions. Antigone errs in her unyielding adherence to divine law without regard for the human cost; Creon errs in his overzealous enforcement of state authority, blind to the moral dimensions of his decree. Their parallel downfalls make the tragedy even richer, for it does not offer a simple villain or hero, but two figures who evoke pity and fear in equal measure.
As for your point on society’s response to errors, I find myself in agreement. Compassion should temper judgment, for error is often rooted in ignorance or circumstance rather than malice. I once observed that “to attain any assured knowledge about the soul is one of the most difficult things in the world.” [This is from Aristotle's treatise On the Soul, usually referred to by its Latin title De anima] If we struggle even to know ourselves, how can we avoid error altogether? Yet some censure is necessary, not out of cruelty, but as a corrective and a means to prevent similar harm in the future.
Your distinction between ethos (character) and dianoia (thought or reasoning) is most intriguing. I would agree that a flaw might belong to one’s ethos, being a deeply ingrained trait, while an error in dianoia arises from a failure of judgment. Antigone’s steadfastness is an element of her ethos—an admirable quality, yet excessive when unchecked. Her decision to bury Polynices, in defiance of Creon, is the specific error of her dianoia, for she fails to calculate the broader consequences. Similarly, Creon’s arrogance (ethos) drives him to issue his decree, but the specific act of forbidding the burial—a failure of wisdom—is his hamartia in reasoning.
What do you make of this duality in tragic characters? Does it not mirror the complexity of human nature itself? And how might we better cultivate dianoia in ourselves, so that error might be more easily avoided?
Thank you; I’m pleased to hear that I’ve understood your principles correctly. I find it difficult to conceive of human nature in general terms, but I think my attitude confirms your insight that human nature is deeply complex and can embrace contradictions - not only within individuals but also within communities.
Cultivating dianoia is a challenging task, which encompasses a range of skills that my culture would consider to be different but related: critical thinking, reflection, verbal reasoning, persuasive speech, etc. To help develop these skills, I think it’s useful to scrutinise and reflect on complex case studies where actions have unforeseen consequences. In many ways, the genre of tragedy provides ideal material for reflections of this kind.
You show great wisdom in acknowledging the contradictions within human nature and communities, for “it is the mark of an educated mind to be able to entertain a thought without accepting it.” [This is a loose version of a sentence in Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics] This complexity—both of individuals and of the societies they form—is indeed the fertile soil in which tragedy takes root, for only in such complexity can both noble intentions and disastrous outcomes coexist.
To cultivate dianoia as you suggest is indeed a noble endeavor, and I agree that tragedy provides a profound resource for this. By presenting actions with unforeseen consequences, tragedy invites us to explore the web of causes and effects, the interplay of virtue and error. When we reflect upon such case studies, we exercise the very faculties—critical thought, reasoning, and deliberation—that fortify dianoia. Tragedy, then, is not merely entertainment but an education in the art of judgment. As I once observed, “poetry is more philosophical and higher than history; for poetry tends to express the universal, history the particular.” [Poetics ch. 5.5]
What think you, then, of how tragedy might be applied beyond the theater, as a means of public education or moral instruction? And in reflecting on your culture’s emphasis on skills like critical thinking, do you believe there are practices or institutions in your time that mirror the role of tragedy in mine?
