The Rime of the Ancient Mariner by Samuel Taylor Coleridge | Structure, Summary, Critical Analysis

Hello and welcome to the Discourse. The Rime of the Ancient Mariner is a seminal narrative poem by Samuel Taylor Coleridge, first published in 1798 as part of Lyrical Ballads, a collaborative work with William Wordsworth that marked the beginning of the English Romantic Movement. The poem is renowned for its supernatural elements, vivid imagery, and moral themes, blending Gothic horror with allegorical depth. The poem follows an old mariner who stops a wedding guest to recount his harrowing sea voyage. After he kills an albatross (a symbol of good luck), his ship is cursed, leading to supernatural punishments. The poem is known for its vivid symbolism. The Albatross represents innocence, nature’s grace, and later, the burden of guilt. The Ship is a microcosm of human folly and divine judgment. The sea, or water, is a paradoxical symbol of life, and death, beauty, and terror. Coleridge’s masterpiece captivates readers with its haunting atmosphere, moral ambiguity, and psychological depth. The mariner’s tale is a universal parable about human transgression, repentance, and the interconnectedness of all life.

The poem holds pivotal importance in Lyrical Ballads (1798), the groundbreaking poetry collection by Samuel Taylor Coleridge and William Wordsworth. Often regarded as the manifesto of English Romanticism, Lyrical Ballads sought to revolutionize poetry by focusing on ordinary language, emotion, and the supernatural, and Coleridge’s Ancient Mariner played a crucial role in shaping its vision. While Wordsworth’s poems in Lyrical Ballads (e.g., Tintern Abbey, The Idiot Boy) emphasized rustic life and everyday language, Coleridge’s Ancient Mariner introduced Gothic imagination, supernatural elements, and archaic diction. In the 1798 Preface, Wordsworth explained their ‘division of labor’ for the Lyrical Ballads. Wordsworth would write about the "real" (ordinary life infused with poetic wonder), while Coleridge would explore the "supernatural" while making it feel psychologically real ("willing suspension of disbelief"). The Rime of the Ancient Mariner became the flagship poem for this supernatural strand, contrasting with Wordsworth’s naturalistic pieces.

Thematic exploration:

Unlike Wordsworth’s benevolent nature, Coleridge portrays nature as both beautiful and terrifying, reflecting Nature’s Sublime Power and divine justice (e.g., the curse after killing the albatross). The mariner’s guilt and isolation prefigure modern explorations of trauma and psychological depth. The poem is known for its moral ambiguity as it avoids didacticism, leaving readers to grapple with its themes of sin, penance, and redemption. The gothic supernatural symbolism in The Rime of the Ancient Mariner paved the way for later Romantic works (e.g., Keats’s La Belle Dame sans Merci, Shelley’s Frankenstein). Though initially controversial, The Rime of the Ancient Mariner became the defining poem of Lyrical Ballads, embodying Coleridge’s genius for blending the supernatural with profound moral and psychological insight. Its inclusion underscored the collection’s radical departure from tradition, cementing its place as the birth certificate of English Romantic poetry.

Structure of The Rime of the Ancient Mariner:

The poem follows the basic structure of a traditional folk ballad, using quatrains (four-line stanzas) with an ABCB rhyme scheme, where the second and fourth lines rhyme. However, Coleridge expands and varies this form, sometimes using extended stanzas or alternating line lengths to heighten dramatic tension. The meter is primarily iambic, alternating between tetrameter (four beats per line) and trimeter (three beats per line), giving the poem a rhythmic, songlike quality. Yet, Coleridge frequently breaks these patterns to mirror the mariner’s psychological turmoil—such as in the chaotic, fragmented lines during the ship’s curse.

The poem is divided into seven parts, each marking a shift in the narrative: the initial crime, the curse, the mariner’s suffering, his moment of grace, the return home, and his eternal penance. This episodic structure creates a sense of inevitability, as though the mariner’s fate is unfolding like an old, oft-told tale. The framing device—the mariner stopping a wedding guest—adds another layer, embedding the supernatural story within a realistic setting and emphasizing its moral weight.

The poem’s imagery is intensely visual and sensory, painting stark contrasts: the "rotting sea" under a "bloody sun," the "slimy creatures" that become objects of beauty, and the ghostly ship with its skeletal crew. These images oscillate between the grotesque and the sublime, mirroring the mariner’s shifting perception of nature—from something to be dominated to something sacred.

Coleridge uses alliteration (“The fair breeze blew, the white foam flew”), internal rhyme (“The ice was here, the ice was there”), and refrain (“Water, water, everywhere / Nor any drop to drink”) to create a hypnotic, incantatory rhythm. These techniques mimic the relentless, cyclical nature of the mariner’s guilt, as well as the oral tradition of ballads, where repetition aids memory and emotional impact. The poem’s structure and style bridge the gap between medieval balladry and Romantic experimentation. By bending traditional forms to suit his psychological and moral aims, Coleridge crafts a work that feels both ancient and urgently modern. The result is a poem that lingers in the mind like a half-remembered dream—uneasy, vivid, and impossible to shake.

Summary of The Rime of the Ancient Mariner:

Part 1

The poem tells the eerie and supernatural tale of an old sailor who stops a wedding guest to share his harrowing story. The poem opens with the Ancient Mariner, a weathered sailor with a "long grey beard and glittering eye," stopping a Wedding Guest en route to a celebration. Despite the guest's protests (as he's the groom's close relative), the Mariner compels him to listen to a haunting tale. The wedding guest tries to resist the Ancient Mariner, but when he sees at his "glittering eye," he becomes captivated and stops to listen to him.

The Mariner recounts how his ship sailed joyfully until a violent storm drove them into treacherous Antarctic waters, trapping them in a frozen, lifeless world of groaning ice. When an albatross—seen as a good omen—appears through the mist, the ice miraculously splits, freeing the ship. The crew reveres the bird as a divine sign, feeding and playing with it as favorable winds return.

Suddenly, the Mariner shocks the Wedding Guest by revealing he shot the albatross with his crossbow—an act whose consequences unfold in later parts. Part 1 ends with the guest's horrified interruption ("God save thee!") and the Mariner's grim confession, foreshadowing the curse to come.

Part 2

Following the Mariner's killing of the albatross, the ship enters the Pacific Ocean under deceptive conditions. Initially, the sailors condemn the Mariner for murdering the bird they credit with bringing favorable winds ("Ah wretch!... That made the breeze to blow!"). But when the mist clears and the sun blazes intensely ("like God’s own head"), they hypocritically reverse their judgment, praising the act as justified ("'Twas right... to slay").

This fickle approval is short-lived. The ship drifts into a nightmarish calm—windless and stagnant ("As idle as a painted ship / Upon a painted ocean"). Coleridge’s iconic lines underscore their torment: surrounded by undrinkable saltwater ("Water, water, every where, / Nor any drop to drink"), the crew endures blistering heat, thirst, and visions of slimy sea creatures and phantom fires. As despair sets in, the sailors hang the albatross’s carcass around the Mariner’s neck like a grotesque crucifix, marking him as the sole bearer of their collective guilt.

Part 3

As the stranded crew succumbs to thirst and delirium, a ghostly ship emerges on the horizon—a terrifying sight with tattered cobweb sails and an unnatural speed despite the dead calm. The Mariner, desperate to alert the others, bites his own arm to moisten his parched throat with blood and cries out. The phantom vessel approaches ominously, its masts framing the setting sun like prison bars, casting an eerie glow ("As if through a dungeon-grate he peered").

The ship reveals its ghastly crew: Death (a skeletal figure) and Life-in-Death (a beautiful yet horrifying woman with golden hair and leprous-white skin). They gamble with dice for the Mariner’s soul—Life-in-Death wins, condemning him to eternal suffering, while Death claims the sailors. As night falls abruptly, the ghost ship vanishes, leaving only whispers in its wake.

Under the rising crescent moon, the cursed sailors fix the Mariner with accusing stares before collapsing dead, their souls whizzing past him like his fatal arrow ("Like the whiz of my cross-bow!"). Alone amid the corpses, the Mariner is left to grapple with his guilt under Life-in-Death’s cruel sentence.

Part 4

The Wedding Guest interrupts, frightened by the Mariner's ghastly appearance - his skeletal frame, sun-cracked skin resembling desert sand, and hypnotic "glittering eye." The Ancient Mariner assures him that he has not returned from the dead. He explains that he endured a living hell: while his crew's corpses mysteriously refused to decay (their accusing eyes forever fixed on him), he suffered seven days of scorching isolation amidst the slithering sea creatures.

Paralyzed by guilt, he found himself unable to pray until a transformative moment - watching the water snakes' graceful dance in the moonlit waves. Overcome by their beauty, he spontaneously blesses them ("unawares"), breaking his spiritual curse. This unconscious act of reverence triggers his redemption: the albatross carcass plunges from his neck into the sea, its weight symbolic of his lifted guilt.

Part 5

After his redemption, the Mariner collapses into exhausted sleep, dreaming of life-giving dew. He awakens to a miraculous storm - rain quenches his thirst while celestial fire (possibly St. Elmo's Fire or auroras) illuminates the sky. In a surreal twist, the dead sailors reanimate as spectral crew members, silently working the ship, which now moves without wind. Their dawn chorus transforms into an unearthly harmony, with even the sails joining the song as the vessel glides supernaturally.

The Wedding Guest recoils in terror, but the Mariner clarifies these aren't malevolent spirits. The ship's journey culminates at the equator where, after a violent lurch, the Mariner overhears two disembodied voices debating his fate: one reveals the albatross was beloved by a polar spirit, making the killing a cosmic betrayal; the other declares his penance must continue. This divine discourse confirms that the Mariner's crime disrupted the natural and spiritual order, condemning him to ongoing atonement.

Part 6

The section begins with the two mysterious voices debating the forces propelling the ship—one suggests the moon controls the ocean’s tides, while the other claims the air itself pushes the vessel forward. After their cryptic exchange fades, the Mariner awakens to find the reanimated corpses of his crew still staring at him with silent condemnation, though they soon vanish. Yet he knows their haunting gaze will return—his torment is cyclical, not over.

Suddenly, a wind rises, speeding the ship toward familiar shores. Overwhelmed with emotion, the Mariner weeps at the sight of his homeland—the moonlit harbor, lighthouse, and church—unsure whether he has returned alive or in death. Then, a surreal vision unfolds: crimson spirits rise from the water as angelic figures materialize over the sailors’ bodies, guiding the ship silently toward port.

As hope stirs in the Mariner, he spots a small boat approaching with three figures—a Pilot, his boy, and a Hermit. Desperate for absolution, the Mariner longs for the Hermit, a holy man, to cleanse him of his sin and "wash away the Albatross’s blood." This moment bridges his supernatural ordeal with human redemption, setting the stage for his final confession and the poem’s moral reckoning.

Part 7

As the Hermit’s hymn heartens the Ancient Mariner, the small boat draws near the eerie ship—its warped planks and tattered sails unsettling the Pilot, while the Hermit remains curious. Suddenly, a thunderous underwater noise erupts, and the spectral ship plunges violently into the abyss, creating a whirlpool. The rescuers haul aboard the Mariner, whose deathly pallor—"like one that hath been seven days drowned"—terrifies them.

When the Mariner abruptly moves, the crew panics: the Pilot shrieks, the Hermit prays, and the Pilot’s Boy hysterically laughs, convinced they’ve saved a demon. Ashore, the Mariner kneels before the Hermit, desperate for absolution. The Hermit, wary, demands, "What manner of man art thou?"—unleashing an agonizing compulsion in the Mariner to confess. The act of recounting his tale becomes both torment and catharsis; once spoken, the weight lifts, offering fleeting relief.

The Ancient Mariner reveals that his curse compels him to wander eternally, driven by an agonizing need to recount his tale to chosen listeners—those he instinctively recognizes as destined to hear it. Though the wedding festivities beckon, he shuns such revelry, having learned through his ordeal that true fulfillment comes from prayer and reverence for all life. His parting wisdom to the Wedding Guest distills the poem’s moral: "He prayeth well, who loveth well / Both man and bird and beast." This encapsulates the Mariner’s hard-won lesson—that divine love encompasses all creation, and humanity must honor this sacred bond.

As abruptly as he appeared, the Mariner vanishes, leaving the Wedding Guest profoundly altered. Rather than joining the celebration, the guest stands in a daze, his worldview irrevocably changed. The poem concludes with its most famous lines, underscoring the tale’s dual impact: the guest emerges "A sadder and a wiser man" the next morning—sadder for the suffering witnessed, wiser for its cautionary truth.

Life-in-Death

Life-in-Death is one of the poem’s most haunting supernatural figures, embodying the horror of eternal suffering—a fate worse than death itself. She appears alongside Death in Part III, arriving on a ghostly ship to decide the mariner’s punishment for killing the albatross. While Death claims the lives of the crew, Life-in-Death wins the mariner in a macabre dice game, condemning him to an existence of undying torment. Unlike Death, who simply ends life, Life-in-Death represents eternal suffering without release. She robs the mariner of the peace of death, forcing him to endure loneliness, guilt, and supernatural horror while surrounded by the corpses of his crew. Her victory in the dice game suggests that moral consequences are arbitrary yet inescapable—a terrifying cosmic irony. After her appearance, the mariner endures seven days and nights of torment, staring into the eyes of his dead crew, unable to pray. Only when he spontaneously blesses the sea creatures (Part IV) does her hold weaken—yet she leaves him with a lingering penance: the compulsion to endlessly retell his tale.

Life-in-Death reflects Romantic anxieties about eternal consciousness without peace, a theme later explored in works like Frankenstein and The Flying Dutchman legend. Life-in-Death is the poem’s most chilling antagonist because she denies the mariner the mercy of oblivion. Her presence transforms the tale from a simple ghost story into a metaphysical parable about the price of transgression and the elusive nature of forgiveness. She ensures the mariner’s suffering—and his story—will never truly end.

Critical Analysis of The Rime of the Ancient Mariner:

The poem is a profound exploration of guilt, redemption, and the interconnectedness of all living beings, wrapped in a supernatural narrative that blurs the boundaries between reality and the divine. The poem’s enduring power lies in its rich symbolism, psychological depth, and moral ambiguity, which invite multiple interpretations. At its core, the poem functions as a Christian allegory—the mariner’s killing of the albatross represents a fall from grace, his subsequent suffering mirrors penance, and his redemption through love and prayer suggests the possibility of salvation. Yet, the poem resists a purely didactic reading, as the mariner’s punishment seems disproportionate to his crime, raising questions about divine justice and the nature of suffering. Coleridge’s use of Gothic elements—such as the ghostly ship, the reanimated corpses, and the spectral figure of Life-in-Death—serves to heighten the psychological horror of the mariner’s isolation. These supernatural elements are not merely decorative but reflect the mariner’s internal torment. The ship becomes a microcosm of a damned soul, adrift in a universe that is both indifferent and vengeful. The albatross, initially a symbol of good fortune, transforms into a mark of sin, weighing the mariner down both literally and spiritually. Only when he experiences a spontaneous moment of grace—blessing the water snakes—does the albatross fall, suggesting that redemption comes not through ritual but through a genuine change of heart.

The poem serves as a powerful ecological parable, foreshadowing modern environmental concerns through its depiction of humanity’s reckless exploitation of nature. The mariner’s senseless killing of the albatross—a creature initially welcomed as a benevolent omen—mirrors humanity’s tendency to dominate and destroy the natural world without regard for its intrinsic value. The catastrophic consequences that follow, including the ship’s immobilization in a lifeless sea and the crew’s agonizing deaths, reflect the inevitable repercussions of ecological imbalance, suggesting that nature operates by its own moral laws that humans violate at their peril. The mariner’s redemption occurs only when he spontaneously recognizes the beauty and worth of the “slimy things” in the sea, marking a crucial shift from arrogance to reverence. This moment underscores the Romantic belief in nature’s sacred interconnectedness and serves as a warning: Those who disrupt this harmony, whether through cruelty or indifference, will face dire consequences. The poem’s enduring resonance lies in its prescient critique of human arrogance toward the environment, making it a timeless allegory for the ecological crises of the modern age, from species extinction to climate change. The mariner’s fate—condemned to wander and repeat his cautionary tale—mirrors humanity’s current predicament, urging readers to reconsider their relationship with the natural world before it is too late.

Formally, the poem’s ballad structure—with its rhythmic repetitions and archaic language—lends it the quality of a folk tale or myth, reinforcing its universal themes. However, Coleridge subverts traditional ballad conventions by infusing the poem with philosophical and psychological complexity. The mariner’s compulsive retelling of his story suggests that trauma cannot be easily resolved; it must be continually relived and shared. The wedding guest’s reaction—"a sadder and a wiser man"—implies that the tale’s moral is not clear-cut but leaves a lingering unease, challenging the reader to grapple with its ambiguities.

Ultimately, The Rime of the Ancient Mariner resists singular interpretation. It is at once a moral allegory, a psychological study, and an ecological warning, woven together through Coleridge’s mastery of language and imagery. The poem’s power lies in its ability to unsettle, forcing readers to confront the mysteries of sin, suffering, and the possibility of forgiveness in an often inscrutable universe.

Deux ex Machina | Literary Terms and Devices | Literary Terms

Hello and welcome to the Discourse. The term "Deus ex Machina" (Latin for "god from the machine") originates from ancient Greek theater, where a god would be lowered onto the stage via a mechanical crane (machina) to resolve a seemingly unsolvable conflict. In literature, it refers to an unexpected, artificial, or improbable character, device, or event introduced suddenly to resolve a complicated plot.

Deux ex Machina is often used in storytelling to offer a sudden resolution when an external force abruptly resolves a story’s conflict (e.g., a character being saved by a last-minute miracle). One of the popular examples is Steven Spielberg’s War of the Worlds.  In the movie, the aliens are defeated not by human effort but by an unforeseen bacterial infection.

It is also used to suggest Divine Intervention, which is common in myths and epics where gods directly influence outcomes. In Mahabharata, Karna, a fierce warrior, is about to defeat Arjuna in battle. However, that is not what is intended. The resolution comes as Karna’s chariot wheel gets stuck in the mud due to a curse, allowing Arjuna to kill him. It is Deux ex Machina, a supernatural curse (not strategy) that decides the duel.

Similarly, in Ramayana, Lakshmana is mortally wounded in battle, and he loses consciousness. The resolution to this conflict occurs as Hanuman flies to the Himalayas to fetch a magical herb last-minute. It is Deux ex Machina because the herb’s existence isn’t foreshadowed—it’s a sudden fix.

Deux ex Machina is also used in weaker storytelling to force an ending when logical solutions fail. For example, a protagonist suddenly finding a hidden will that solves all financial problems in a drama. Some modern works use Deux ex Machina mockingly to highlight absurdity. For example, Monty Python and the Holy Grail ends abruptly with police arresting the characters. King Arthur’s quest for the Holy Grail builds to an epic battle. Modern police suddenly arrest everyone, ending the movie abruptly and thus mocking medieval epics by introducing an absurd, nonsensical ending. When Deus ex Machina is used deliberately for satire, it exposes how artificial narrative resolutions can be. It’s a tool to mock conventions, not a crutch for weak writing. When Deux ex Machina is used intentionally, it can serve thematic purposes (e.g., highlighting fate, randomness, or divine power). It reflects ancient beliefs in divine control over human lives, contrasting with modern storytelling that emphasizes character-driven resolutions. Generally, it is often seen as lazy writing because it undermines tension and character agency. Audiences may feel cheated if conflicts are resolved without buildup.
Aristotle’s Criticism of Deus ex Machina

Aristotle, in his seminal work Poetics, strongly opposed the use of Deus ex Machina as a cheap and artificial narrative device. His critique was rooted in his theories on plot structure, probability, and unity in tragedy. Aristotle believed a well-constructed plot should follow cause-and-effect logic, where events arise naturally from earlier actions. Deus ex Machina disrupts this by introducing an external, illogical solution, breaking the chain of probability (eikos) and necessity (anankē). If a hero is saved by a sudden god instead of their own choices, the resolution feels unearned.

Great tragedies rely on character decisions leading to their fate (e.g., Oedipus’s downfall comes from his own actions). Deus ex Machina robs characters of moral responsibility, making their arcs less impactful. Aristotle valued catharsis (emotional purging through pity and fear), which requires a believable, inevitable tragedy. A forced, divine resolution diminishes emotional impact because the audience feels manipulated. Euripides often employed Deus ex Machina (e.g., Medea, Orestes), which Aristotle criticized as lazy writing. Sophocles and Aeschylus, by contrast, structured tragedies where endings arose organically from the plot (e.g., Oedipus Rex).

While Aristotle generally condemned it, he acknowledged one exception. According to Aristotle, Deux ex Machina is appropriate for events "outside the drama" (e.g., backstory or distant futures).

Aristotle’s rejection of Deus ex Machina shaped Western literary standards, emphasizing organic plotting, character-driven conflict, and emotional authenticity. While the device persists, his critique reminds writers that great stories rely on internal logic—not divine intervention.

So this is it for today. We will continue to discuss literary terms and devices used in English literature. Please stay connected with the Discourse. Thanks and Regards!

On the Sublime by Longinus | Classic Literary Criticism

Hello and welcome to the Discourse. Longinus is the conventional name given to the author of the influential literary treatise "On the Sublime" (Peri Hypsous), a foundational work of literary criticism from antiquity. Though his exact identity remains uncertain, the text is traditionally attributed to Cassius Longinus, a 3rd-century Greek rhetorician and philosopher. However, modern scholarship often dates the work to the 1st century AD and suggests it may have been written by an unknown Greek author.

Longinus defines the sublime as excellence in language that evokes elevation, grandeur, and intense emotion, transcending mere persuasion. It is what makes a work powerful, unforgettable, and awe-inspiring. He identifies five key sources of sublimity in literature: Greatness of thought (lofty ideas), Strong emotion (pathos), Figures of speech (skillful use of rhetoric), Noble diction (word choice and phrasing), and Dignified composition (harmonious arrangement). He also criticizes False sublimity and warns against bombast (inflated language), puerility (immature style), and affectation (forced emotion). He criticizes Misdirected Passion – Emotion misplaced or excessive, lacking context, and Stylistic Excess – Fashionable but hollow rhetoric that prioritizes trend over truth.

While rhetorical skill is important, Longinus emphasizes that natural genius and passion are essential for sublime writing. He praises Homer, Sappho, and Demosthenes as exemplars of the sublime.

Introduction to On The Sublime:

On the Sublime by Longinus is a foundational work of literary criticism believed to have originated in 1st-century Rome. The text explores the nature of aesthetic greatness in writing, analyzing both exemplary and flawed passages from nearly a thousand years of literature. Longinus defines the sublime as a transcendent quality—whether intellectual, moral, artistic, or metaphysical—that eludes precise measurement or imitation. Its power lies in its ability to evoke awe and elevate the reader beyond ordinary experience.

The treatise is structured as an epistolary work, likely composed as a letter or series of letters, though its final section—reportedly on public speaking—has been lost. It is addressed to Posthumius Terentianus, a cultured Roman public figure. Longinus draws from an impressive range of sources, referencing about fifty authors, including Homer, Sappho, and Plato, as well as the Book of Genesis. This inclusion of Hebrew scripture has led scholars to speculate that Longinus may have been familiar with Jewish traditions or even a Hellenized Jew himself.

Central to Longinus’s argument is the idea that achieving the sublime requires "moral excellence" in the writer. Some theories suggest that he may have avoided attaching his name to the work to preserve this very virtue, which could explain the ambiguity surrounding its authorship. He also contends that while societal norms matter, transgressing them does not automatically disqualify a writer from greatness—what matters most is the authenticity and power of expression. However, he warns that while freedom nurtures eloquence, excessive liberty can lead to its decline, undermining the conditions necessary for sublime art.

Longinus identifies five key sources of the sublime: (1) grandeur of thought, (2) intense emotion, (3) skillful use of rhetorical figures, (4) noble diction, and (5) harmonious composition. Its effects are profound: it overwhelms rationality, stirs deep emotion intertwined with pleasure, and creates a sense of alienation that compels the reader to engage with the creative process. True mastery, Longinus argues, lies not in the writer’s self-expression but in their ability to evoke these responses in the audience.

Among the writers he admires, Homer stands supreme, alongside Sappho, Plato, and Aristophanes, whose works generate sublime pleasure. However, he critiques later poets like Apollonius of Rhodes and Theocritus for lacking the boldness required to reach such heights. Risk-taking, in Longinus’s view, is essential for greatness. He laments the decline of oratory, attributing it to the erosion of both political freedom and moral integrity—conditions he sees as vital for nurturing the "high spirit" that produces sublime art.

The modern understanding of the term "sublime" stems from translations of Longinus’ Greek hypsos, which more accurately denotes "the essentials of a noble and impressive style." Ironically, Longinus’ own writing has been criticized for excessive hyperbole and occasional tediousness, falling short of the perfection he extols. The text’s transmission history is equally complex: by the 10th century, it was miscopied into a manuscript that conflated its author with Dionysius of Halicarnassus. Later, it was mistakenly linked to Cassius Longinus despite the chronological inconsistency. After resurfacing in the 16th century through editions by scholars like Francis Robortello, the treatise gained renewed influence during the Baroque period and beyond, with its ideas continuing to shape literary and philosophical discourse to this day.

Longinus conceives of sublimity as literature's highest achievement - the resonant voice of a noble mind that simultaneously demonstrates masterful craftsmanship and creates deep emotional transformation. This sublime quality transcends ordinary persuasion, instead delivering a revelatory experience that strikes with sudden, overwhelming power while elevating the reader's consciousness. Sublimity is the echo of a great soul—writing that elevates through both excellence of composition and profound emotional impact.

At its core, the sublime represents a perfect synthesis of opposing creative forces. It balances raw, inspired genius with disciplined technical skill - the divine spark of creativity with the hard-won mastery of rhetorical technique. This dynamic tension between nature and art produces writing that doesn't merely communicate but fundamentally alters the reader's perception.

The sublime's distinctive power lies in its dual capacity to dazzle the intellect while moving the spirit. Like a lightning bolt, it illuminates truth with shocking clarity while simultaneously stirring the soul to greater heights. This transformative experience lingers beyond the initial encounter, continuing to shape the reader's understanding long after the words are first absorbed. For Longinus, such writing doesn't just achieve aesthetic perfection - it approaches the realm of revelation.

Edmund Burke, in his work A Philosophical Enquiry into the Origin of Our Ideas of the Sublime and Beautiful (1757), revived interest in Longinus by distinguishing the sublime (terror, awe, vastness) from mere beauty. Burke’s psychological approach aligned with Longinus’ focus on emotional impact, influencing later Romantics.

James Scott on Longinus:

The characterization of Longinus as the "first Romantic critic" comes primarily from 19th-century Romantic writers and scholars, who saw in On the Sublime a precursor to their own literary ideals. James Scott (a 19th-century literary critic and classicist) wrote influentially about On the Sublime in his Essays on Ancient Literature (1876), offering a Victorian-era interpretation of Longinus that bridges Romantic idealism and emerging philological rigor.

Scott argued that Longinus was ahead of his time in focusing on the reader’s emotional response (anticipating modern reader-response theory), the psychology of awe, rather than just formal rhetoric, and the "ineffable" quality of great art—why some works transcend technical analysis. Scott compared Aristotle’s Poetics and Longinus and suggested that while Aristotle focused on structure (plot, mimesis), Longinus stressed on effect (emotion, transport). Aristotle emphasized rules (unity and decorum), while Longinus emphasized artistic Genius and suggested that inspiration is greater than rules. Scott notes that while Aristotle analyzes poetry, Longinus experiences it.

Why Longinus Was Called the "First Romantic Critic"

Romantics saw in On the Sublime key themes that mirrored their own revolt against Neoclassical rigidity. Longinus placed Emotion over rules; he valued pathos and ecstasy rather than just technical perfection. Longinus supported Nature and grandeur. His examples (e.g., Homer’s storms, Sappho’s love poetry) celebrated wild, overwhelming forces, much like Romantic nature worship. Unlike Aristotle’s focus on structure, Longinus praised individual creativity and divine inspiration ("The sublime is the echo of a great soul"), and thus, Longinus praised artistic genius. Longinus cared about how literature moves the audience, a proto-Romantic idea, and thus emphasized subjectivity and reader response.

So this is it for today. We will continue to discuss the history of literary criticism and Classical literary theories. Please stay connected with the Discourse. Thanks and Regards!

A Note on Ontology by John Crowe Ransom | New Criticism

 

John Crowe Ransom (1888–1974) was an influential American poet, essayist, and critic, best known as a leader of the Southern Agrarians and a key figure in the New Criticism movement. His work emphasized formalism, close reading, and the literary text's autonomy, thus supporting the school of New Criticism. Ransom's poetry is known for its wit, irony, and classical restraint. His first poetic collection, Poems About God, was published in 1919 and was admired by Robert Frost and Robert Graves.

In 1930, alongside eleven other Southern Agrarians, he published the conservative Agrarian manifesto I'll Take My Stand: The South and the Agrarian Tradition, a manifesto defending agrarian values against industrialism. He was a founding member of The Fugitives, a group of Southern poets who promoted traditionalism and regional identity. Other prominent members of The Fugitives included Allen Tate, Robert Penn Warren, and Donald Davidson. Later on, Allan Tate and Ransom also contributed to the movement of New Criticism.

His collection of essays, The New Criticism (1941), helped define the movement, which focused on analyzing texts as self-contained works rather than through historical or biographical context. He mentored other major critics like Cleanth Brooks and Robert Penn Warren. Ransom’s ideas shaped mid-20th-century literary criticism, and his poetry remains admired for its intellectual depth and formal precision.

His essay, A Note on Ontology (1934), is considered an important document that played a crucial role in his development of New Criticism and his theory of poetry. It is a foundational essay in 20th-century literary criticism, bridging modernist poetics, Southern Agrarian thought, and the emerging New Criticism. Ransom borrowed the term "ontology" (the study of being) from philosophy but applied it to poetry, asserting that a poem is not just a vehicle for meaning but an object with its own mode of existence. Unlike science or philosophy, which seek abstract truths, poetry preserves the "world's body"—the concrete, sensuous, and often contradictory nature of reality.

John Crowe Ransom's essay "A Note on Ontology" presents a fundamental argument about the nature of poetry, asserting its unique ontological status as an autonomous form of being. He categorizes poetry into three distinct types based on its relationship to objects and ideas.

Physical Poetry:

The first type, physical poetry, focuses exclusively on concrete objects and material reality, employing literal, scientific language that emphasizes surface appearances without engaging with deeper meaning. While this form maintains purity in its visual representation, Ransom finds it ultimately limited due to its lack of intellectual depth and inability to sustain reader interest. According to him, Physical poetry is pure poetry because it has a visual context. It is too realistic, and it does not maintain interest because it does not engage with meaning beyond the physical.

Platonic Poetry:

In contrast, Platonic poetry represents the opposite extreme, dealing primarily with abstract ideas, philosophical truths, and moral lessons rather than concrete reality. Ransom associates this form with much of Romantic and Victorian poetry, citing Keats's "Ode on a Grecian Urn" as a prime example. He criticizes Platonic poetry for sacrificing sensory richness and imagery in favor of intellectual abstraction, resulting in work that becomes too idealistic and divorced from the tangible world. While these first two categories represent opposing approaches, Ransom ultimately rejects both as incomplete forms of poetic expression. He says that Platonic or Didactic poetry is too abstract; it sacrifices sensory richness for intellectualism, reducing poetry to mere ideology.

Metaphysical Poetry:

The third and most valued category in Ransom's taxonomy is metaphysical poetry, which synthesizes the strengths of both physical and Platonic poetry. This form achieves a sophisticated balance between reason and emotion, intellect and sensation, through the use of conceits - extended, often surprising metaphors that create tension between concrete images and abstract ideas. Ransom particularly admires seventeenth-century poets like John Donne and Abraham Cowley for their mastery of this approach, where physical objects become vehicles for complex philosophical and emotional exploration. Ransom termed metaphysical poetry as the Ideal Fusion that blends physical and platonic poetry, merging reason and emotion, intellect and sensation appropriately.
Ransom’s Theory of Criticism: Ontological Criticism versus Pure Speculation

Ransom extends his ontological analysis to literary criticism, rejecting traditional methods that rely on biographical, psychological, or moral frameworks. He dismisses these approaches as speculative and external to the text itself, arguing instead for what he terms ontological criticism. This method treats the poem as a self-sufficient entity with its own independent existence, focusing analysis on the interplay between two fundamental elements: structure (the paraphrasable core or logical framework of the poem) and texture (the aesthetic elements including meter, rhyme, and metaphor that resist paraphrase). For Ransom, true poetic excellence emerges from the inseparable fusion of these components. True poetry exists in the tension between structure and texture—neither pure abstraction nor mere description, but a fusion of thought and sensation. This makes poetry an autonomous art form, irreducible to paraphrase or external analysis.

Poetic vs. Scientific Discourse

The essay further distinguishes between poetic and scientific discourse, characterizing poetry as inherently democratic due to its openness to multiple interpretations. The presence of irony and ambiguity in poetry invites diverse readings, in contrast to scientific discourse, which demands singular, authoritative meanings.

Poetic discourse is democratic—open to multiple interpretations due to irony, ambiguity, and metaphor. Scientific discourse is authoritative—it demands a single, objective meaning.

Ransom concludes by emphasizing the need for innovative critical approaches that engage with the poem's unique ontological status rather than relying on conventional frameworks. In his view, great poetry exists as a complete artistic being where structure and texture merge inseparably, creating a rich, complex reality that transcends both pure abstraction and mere description. Ransom argues that good criticism must innovate, not just repeat conventions. A critic should engage with the poem’s unique form and being rather than imposing pre-existing frameworks.

Ransom’s ontology of poetry became central to New Criticism as he asserted the Autonomy of the Text; The poem is a self-sufficient object (not a biography or historical document). He emphasized on Close Reading; attention to form (meter, diction, ambiguity) reveals the poem’s unique being. Ransom was against utilitarianism and suggested that Poetry doesn’t "do" anything—it simply is. His essay offers a defense of the humanities. If science explains how things work, poetry reveals what it means to exist. His essay responds to the rise of positivism (the belief that only scientific knowledge is valid). His counter-argument is that Science abstracts, generalizes, and reduces reality to laws (e.g., physics reducing a rose to molecular structures). He says that Poetry resists this reductionism by preserving Particularity (the unique rose, not the category "rose"), Contradictions (love as both divine and grotesque in Donne), and Irrationality (the emotional, inexplicable aspects of life).

So this is it for today. We will continue to discuss Literary theories and literary criticism. Please stay connected with the Discourse. Thanks and Regards!

Shakespeare’s Sonnets: Form, History, and Themes

Hello and welcome to the Discourse. Shakespeare’s 154 sonnets, published in 1609, are among the most celebrated works in English poetry. They explore themes of love, beauty, time, mortality, and artistic legacy, blending personal emotion with universal reflections. A sonnet is a 14-line poem following a specific rhyme scheme. Shakespeare’s sonnets adhere to the pattern abab cdcd efef gg, where the final couplet often summarizes the preceding lines or delivers a surprising twist. The meter is iambic pentameter—each line consists of five iambs (metrical feet with an unstressed followed by a stressed syllable: da-DUM, da-DUM, da-DUM, da-DUM, da-DUM). The strict structure of the sonnet makes it a challenging poetic form.

Shakespearean sonnets differ from the traditional Petrarchan sonnets, which are divided into two parts (Octave and Sestet with a volta in between). Unlike a Petrarchan sonnet, Shakespearean sonnets have four stanzas, three quatrains developing a theme or argument (rhyme scheme: ABAB CDCD EFEF), and an ending couplet concluding or resolving the conflict or idea (GG).

Though Shakespeare’s complete sonnets were not officially published until 1609 (and likely without his consent), references to them appeared earlier. In 1598, Francis Meres mentioned Shakespeare’s "sugred Sonnets" circulating privately among friends. A year later, five of Shakespeare’s poems—including two later identified as the "Dark Lady" sonnets (138 and 144)—were printed without permission in William Jaggard’s anthology The Passionate Pilgrim.

While Shakespeare dominated as a playwright in his time, the sonnet’s popularity waned quickly. By 1616, the form had fallen out of fashion, and for the next two centuries, both Shakespeare’s sonnets and the sonnet form itself received little attention.

Publication and Editorial Controversies

The authoritative text of Shakespeare’s sonnets comes from the 1609 Quarto, published by Thomas Thorpe, a disreputable printer. Titled Shake-speare’s Sonnets: Never Before Imprinted, this edition remains the foundation for modern versions.

The Quarto might have been forgotten if not for John Benson’s 1640 edition, a pirated and heavily altered version. Benson rearranged sonnets into groups, added clumsy titles, and even changed pronouns (e.g., turning "he" to "she") to obscure the male addressee in some poems. He also mixed Shakespeare’s sonnets with other poems, further confusing their original sequence.

The Sonnets’ Structure and Key Themes

Shakespeare’s sonnets are broadly divided into two sections:

Sonnets 1–126: Addressed to a young man, these sonnets explore themes of beauty, time, and poetic immortality. The early sonnets (1–17) urge the youth to marry and preserve his beauty through offspring. Later, the poet immortalizes him through verse (Sonnet 18: "Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?"). The relationship grows strained, marked by jealousy (especially when the youth befriends a rival poet) and emotional turmoil. Shakespeare addresses the theme of a rival poet (or lover) competing for the young man's attention in several sonnets, particularly in Sonnets 78–86. These poems express the speaker's anxiety, jealousy, and insecurity about another writer (possibly a more fashionable or flattering poet) who seems to have captured the youth's favor. In Sonnet 80, the rival is compared to a "better spirit" (possibly a more talented or famous poet).

Sonnets 127–154: Focused on the Dark Lady, a mysterious, unfaithful mistress, these sonnets subvert traditional love poetry. Unlike the idealized beloved, she is flawed, and the poet’s obsession with her is fraught with lust, betrayal, and self-loathing. The poet grapples with her infidelity and his own moral conflict.

Controversies and Debates

• Dedication ("Mr. W. H."): The 1609 Quarto’s enigmatic dedication has sparked theories. Leading candidates are Henry Wriothesley, Earl of Southampton (Shakespeare’s known patron) and William Herbert, Earl of Pembroke (linked to Mary Fitton, a possible Dark Lady figure).

• Autobiographical or Fictional? Scholars debate whether the sonnets reflect Shakespeare’s life or are purely literary creations. Regardless, their enduring value lies in their poetic brilliance and emotional depth.

Legacy

Though the sonnet form faded after Shakespeare’s death, his sonnets remain celebrated for their exploration of love, time, and human frailty. Their complexity ensures they continue to be studied, debated, and admired as masterpieces of English literature.

Child by Sylvia Plath | Structure, Summary, Analysis

Hello and welcome to the Discourse. Much of Sylvia Plath’s poetry was extremely autobiographical in nature, and yet still, by drawing from her own personal experiences as a woman, the poet’s writing touches on countless global experiences to which many female readers might still relate to in this modern day. Arguably, one of the most prevalent examples of this phenomenon comes in the form of a common theme throughout much of Plath’s poetry: that of parental relationships. Sylvia Plath wrote several poems that explore themes of childhood, motherhood, and family dynamics. One of her notable poems is "Child" (1971), a short but poignant piece from her posthumous collection Winter Trees. It is a deceptively simple poem that explores complex emotions surrounding motherhood, innocence, and existential anxiety. Plath’s son was born in January 1962. A year later, shortly before her death, she wrote Child, a short poem that reflects her intense feelings about motherhood. The poem shows Plath’s sensitivity to the needs of her child and also includes her wishes for the child’s future. The poem’s themes reflect Plath’s own struggles with depression and her fears about passing on her inner turmoil to her children. It is a poem of love and anguish. The poem opens with an almost reverent admiration for the child’s purity. Plath contrasts this idealized vision with her own troubled psyche, highlighting the tension between parental love and self-doubt. "Child" encapsulates Plath’s dual vision of motherhood—as both a source of transcendent love and a mirror of one’s deepest fears. Its themes resonate with her broader preoccupations: the fragility of the self, the weight of legacy, and the struggle to protect innocence in a broken world.

Structure of Child:

Plath’s “Child” is a short poem of twelve lines. The poem is written in four three-line stanzas. There is no set rhyme scheme in the poem as it is written in free verse. The irregular rhyme pattern mirrors its emotional tension—moving from hope and tenderness to anxiety and despair. The poem has no regular meter or rhyme scheme, typical of Plath’s later confessional style. Enjambment (lines flowing without punctuation) creates a sense of urgency and fluidity, especially in the transition from idealized imagery to darkness. Plath has used Enjambment & Fragmentation, Metaphors & Symbolism, Imagery, Alliteration & Assonance, Juxtaposition & Contrast, and subtle Personification in the poem.

Summary of Child:

Stanza 1 Lines 1-3

“Your clear eye is the one absolutely beautiful thing.

I want to fill it with color and ducks,

The zoo of the new”

These opening lines introduce the central conflict of the poem: a mother's awed admiration for her child's innocence and her desperate desire to protect it by filling the child's world with joyful, vibrant experiences. The imagery shifts from purity ("clear eye") to playful imagination ("color and ducks," "zoo of the new"). The "clear eye" symbolizes the child's untainted perception, a blank slate uncorrupted by the world's darkness. The hyperbolic phrase "absolutely beautiful thing" emphasizes the mother's reverence for this purity, suggesting it's the only thing she finds unquestionably good in her troubled world. She wants to "fill" the child's vision with happiness ("color") and playful, innocent creatures ("ducks"). A "zoo" represents controlled wildness—new, exciting experiences that are safe for the child. The last line suggests ambiguity as "The new" could mean novelty or the child's future, but it’s fragile (zoo animals are caged, hinting at latent anxiety).
“Clear eye’ is a metaphor for the child’s innocence.

Stanza 2 Lines 4-6

“Whose name you meditate —
April snowdrop, Indian pipe,
Little”

These lines depict the child's innocent contemplation of nature, focusing on delicate flowers ("April snowdrop, Indian pipe") that symbolize purity and transience. The fragmentary "Little" suggests both the child's smallness and the fragility of this idyllic moment before the poem's darker turn. The child "meditates" on nature’s names, implying a quiet, almost spiritual connection to the world. The abrupt dash in the fourth line creates suspense, hinting at the vulnerability of this peaceful scene. April snowdrop is an early spring flower symbolizing hope and fragility (blooms in snow), while Indian Pipe is a ghostly white, chlorophyll-less plant that thrives in darkness—foreshadowing the poem’s later gloom. "April" (spring rebirth) vs. "Indian pipe" (decay) mirrors the poem’s tension and contrasts between joy and despair. Indian Pipe (also known as the corpse plant) is an allusion subtly introducing death imagery. The fragmented line (Little) presents ambiguity, which could modify the child ("little one"), the flowers, or their voices.

Stanza 3 Lines 7-9

“Stalk without wrinkle,
Pool in which images
Should be grand and classical”

These lines extend the floral metaphor ("stalk") while introducing water imagery ("pool") to depict the child's mind as a pristine, untouched space where only perfect reflections belong. The shift to "should be" reveals the mother's anxious idealism, foreshadowing her fear of failure. The extended flower metaphor continues from "snowdrop/Indian pipe," now emphasizing smooth perfection ("without wrinkle"), which symbolizes vulnerability. A stalk is easily broken, mirroring the child's fragility. The child's consciousness is a clear pool that reflects the world. The ninth line brings ambiguity and tension. "Should" reveals the mother’s desperate hope rather than reality. "Grand and classical" suggests timeless, orderly beauty. The gap between "should be" and what is (the mother’s darkness) drives the poem’s anguish.

Stanza 4 Lines 10-12

“Not this troublous
Wringing of hands, this dark
Ceiling without a star.”

The poem's closing lines shatter the earlier idyllic imagery with a stark admission of the mother's anxiety. Where she wanted to fill the child's world with color and classical perfection, she instead sees only her own nervous agitation ("wringing of hands") and oppressive despair ("dark ceiling without a star"). The abrupt "Not" negates all preceding hopes. "Troublous" (an older form of "troubled") lends a Shakespearean gravity to her distress. Hand-wringing is a classic gesture of helplessness. The eleventh line break after "dark" suspends the reader in emptiness before revealing the full horror of the "ceiling." The ‘Ceiling without a star’ is a Claustrophobic symbol. A ceiling typically shelters, but this one stifles—no stars imply no hope, no navigation points (contrasting with earlier "zoo of the new"). Unlike the expansive "grand and classical" ideals, this is a closed, starless universe, suggesting cosmic despair. The "dark ceiling" evokes a dungeon or coffin, suggesting emotional suffocation.

The poem ends on a depressing confessional note, suggesting the mother's failure to protect the child from her own darkness.

So this is it for today. We will continue to discuss the history of American English literature. Please stay connected with the Discourse. Thanks and Regards!