A Tragedy (n.) is that moment where the hero comes face to face with his true identity.
Tragedy (n.) grew by slow degrees, each new element developed in turn, until it found its natural form — and there it stopped.
Tragedy (n.) tries to confine itself to a single revolution of the sun; the epic has no limits of time.
Tragedy (n.) is an imitation of an action that is serious, complete and of a certain magnitude, acted not narrated, through pity and fear effecting the proper purgation of these emotions.
Tragedy (n.) is an imitation not of men but of an action and of life — and life consists in action, its end a mode of action, not a quality.
Tragedy (n.) must not show a virtuous man brought from prosperity to adversity: that moves neither pity nor fear — it merely shocks.
Tragedy (n.) gives the pleasure that comes from pity and fear through imitation — and nothing else may be demanded of it.
Tragedy (n.) happens between those near and dear — brother kills brother, son father, mother son; an enemy killing an enemy moves no pity.
Tragedy (n.) is absent, though there is shock, when one is about to act knowing whom one strikes, and then does not act — for no disaster follows.
Tragedy (n.) fails when you cram an epic into it: those who staged the whole fall of Troy or the whole tale of Niobe failed utterly.
Tragedy (n.) reveals its power by mere reading; overacting is the fault of the actor, not of the poem.
Tragedy (n.) is the higher art than epic: it has all the epic's elements, plus music and spectacle, and reaches its end in narrower compass.