In the Rhetoric (4th century BCE), Aristotle identified the three modes of persuasion, or persuasive appeals, that are in: the character of the speaker (ethos), the emotions of the audience (pathos), and the argument itself (logos).
Ethos, pathos, and logos are referred to as artistic means of persuasion, and contrasted to non-artistic means, that is, to hard evidence, such as laws, witnesses, and contracts.
Unlike dialectic (reasoning), rhetoric (speech-making) has no rules: you can commit any fallacy, so long as you can get away with it. But it is a risky business: if you get caught out, you debase your most valuable asset: your credibility as a thinker and speaker—in other words, your ethos.
According to Aristotle, the three qualities of ethos are soundness, virtue, and goodwill, since the lack of either one is likely to lead to untruths or bad advice.
Ethos and decorum
In a speaker, ethos is also a matter of agreeability and meeting the expectations of the audience in terms of appearance diction, and comportment. The Romans referred to this aspect of ethos as decorum.
Anything that grates with the audience, or sets you apart from it, is a violation of decorum. What this might be varies from audience to audience. For example, an audience of academics would expect some jargon, which, however, would jar with a general audience. Boastfulness and vulgarity can be a violation of decorum, as can be, unfortunately, complexity and subtlety.
In the Rhetoric, Aristotle remarks that it is their simplicity that makes the uneducated more effective than the educated before a general audience:
It is this simplicity that makes the uneducated more effective than the educated when addressing popular audiences—makes them, as the poets tell us, “charm the crowd’s ears more finely.” Educated men lay down broad general principles; uneducated men argue from common knowledge and draw obvious conclusions.
Becoming one with the audience
Like air or manners, decorum is noticeable only in its lack: when it’s there, you don’t give it a second thought. A decorous speaker is one who blends in or even merges with the audience, forsaking “me” and “you” for “we”.
Martin Luther King merged so entirely with his audience that he co-opted them as orators, with their antiphonal responses transforming his speech into something like a Southern Baptist sermon: “One hundred years later—my Lord—the Negro still is not free…”
Rhetoric that is too obviously rhetorical is a violation of decorum in that it looks contrived and manipulative and, in that much, sets the speaker apart from the audience.
Obama, Churchill, and Harris
Obama is often hailed as the greatest rhetorician of our age. His one weakness, if it can be called a weakness, is that he is too good.
This is the same problem that Winston Churchill had: for a long time, people would turn up to the House of Commons to admire his speeches but, ultimately, pay them no heed.
Reading from a prompter can also be a violation of decorum, and for similar reasons. In the run-up to the 2024 United States presidential elections, Kamala Harris delivered several soaring speeches, undermined by her reputation (fair or unfair) for reading from a prompter.
How to sound less suspect and more natural
In public speaking, a lack of polish is often an advantage.
One technique for sounding more natural and ingenuous is the dubitatio, that is, the expression of doubt and uncertainty about what to say.
An especially effective strategy is to begin with a show of awkwardness, and gradually gain in confidence and fluency as if carried by the force of the argument.
Another approach is to tell a story, start a conversation, and ditch the blatant rhetoric. Instead of trying to sell something, try instead to share or give something. No one is in the least suspicious of a TED talk, although that too is rhetoric, rhetoric in disguise.
By Dr Neel Burton — Psychiatrist, philosopher, and wine writer; Fellow of Green Templeton College, University of Oxford; author of over twenty books.
The ancient Greek sophist Gorgias compared the power of words to the power of drugs. More than two thousand years later, his insight is as compelling as ever. Words can persuade and deceive, comfort and inspire, alter the course of a life—or even the march of history.
Gorgias (483—375 BCE) hailed from Leontini in Sicily. He studied the art of persuasion—or rhetoric—under Corax and Tisias in nearby Syracuse and was also acquainted with the pre-Socratic philosopher Empedocles. In 427, he led an embassy to Athens to forge a defensive alliance against an overbearing Syracuse.
If Athens gave birth to philosophy, Sicily gave birth to rhetoric. Gorgias inherited the techniques of Corax and Tisias, the nominal founders of rhetoric, but transformed them into something that could dazzle audiences.
Indeed, Gorgias was something of a showman. He delighted in making unconventional, counterintuitive, or absurd arguments appear the stronger, and spoke in a florid, rhyming style that hypnotised all those who heard him. When in the theatre at Athens, he would say, “Come, propose me a theme!” He took great pride in his ability to defend any position, on any subject, and founded the art of extempore (‘off the cuff’) oratory.
In the Rhetoric, Aristotle characterises Gorgias’ style of oratory as ‘ironic’—and Gorgias’ opinions, if he had any at all, are hard to decipher. Rather than any positive philosophy, he offered an agnostic art of persuasion which he held to be of the utmost value.
In Plato’s Philebus, the sophist Protarchus tells Socrates: “I have often heard Gorgias maintain, Socrates, that the art of persuasion far surpassed every other; this, as he says, is by far the best of them all, for to it all things submit, not by compulsion, but of their own free will.”
Of Gorgias’ works, two short display speeches survive, the Encomium of Helenand the Defence of Palamedes, along with a fragment of a funeral oration and two paraphrases of a lost treatise, On Non-Being.
Words as Magic
In the Encomium of Helen, Gorgias sets himself the unlikely task of praising Helen and exculpating her for leaving Sparta with Paris and sparking the Trojan War. Gorgias argues that Helen could have been persuaded to leave in one of four ways: by the gods; by physical force; by the power of love; by the power of speech. But whichever way it was, she herself would have been blameless.
In defending Helen, Gorgias compares the effect of speech on the soul to the effect of drugs on the body: ‘Just as different drugs draw forth different humours from the body—some putting a stop to disease, others to life—so too with words: some cause pain, others joy, some strike fear, some stir the audience to boldness, some benumb and bewitch the soul with evil persuasion.’
A doctor’s diagnosis, a judge’s verdict, a declaration of love, a political speech, a prayer, or a promise may consist of nothing more than words, yet each can change the course of a life—even the course of nations and the march of history.
Perhaps this is why so many ancient cultures regarded words as sacred. In the Vedas, speech is revered as a divine power, and even personified as the goddess Vac. A similar idea can be found in the Bible, at John 1:1: ‘In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.’ In Genesis, God does not create the world with his hands, but by speech: ‘And God said, “Let there be light,” and there was light.’
As a psychiatrist, I am often reminded of Gorgias’ insight. Faced with a suicidal patient, everything may depend upon finding the right words at the right moment. A single sentence, if it is the right one, can alter a person’s entire outlook. Equally, a single sentence can break—or make—a career or a relationship.
The linguist may insist that ‘casting spells’ and ‘spelling words’ have different etymologies; the psychologist suspects that they spring from the same ancient intuition. If they had told us at school that we were learning magic, we would have paid a lot more attention.
Nothing Exists
In On Non-Being, Gorgias pushes his fascination with language to its absolute limit. Responding to the pre-Socratic philosopher Parmenides, who held that reality is one and accessible to reason, he parodies his arguments by turning each of them on its head: (1) nothing exists; (2) even if something did exist, nothing could be known about it; (3) even if something could be known, this knowledge could not be communicated to others; and (4) even if it could be communicated, it could not be understood. But as ever with Gorgias, it is far from clear whether these stood among his genuine opinions.
Gorgias spent much of his long life in Thessaly where he enjoyed the patronage of Aristippus of Larissa and Jason of Pherae. He taught Aristippus’ one-time beloved, the Meno who lent his name to Plato’s Meno, as well as the orator Isocrates, who came to rank among the Ten Attic Orators.
In his autobiographical Antidosis, Isocrates tells us that Gorgias:
…spent his time in Thessaly when the Thessalians were the most prosperous people in Hellas; he lived a long life and devoted himself to the making of money; he had no fixed domicile in any city and therefore paid out nothing for public weal nor was he subject to any tax; moreover, he did not marry and beget children, but was free from this, the most unremitting and expensive of burdens…
Having no wife or children, Gorgias died at the grand old age of 108.
Plato’s attacks ensured that the Sophists would long be remembered as clever tricksters rather than serious thinkers. Yet Gorgias deserves a more generous hearing. More than two thousand years ago, he recognised something we are still apt to forget: words do not merely describe the world. They shape how we experience it.
Every day we persuade, comfort, deceive, negotiate, inspire, forgive, and fall in love with nothing more substantial than sounds carried through the air. That is the nearest thing to magic that human beings have ever possessed.
Learn the Six Classical Parts of Discourse Used by Cicero
Cicero (106–43 BCE), Rome’s greatest orator and one of the principal architects of classical rhetoric.
By Dr Neel Burton — Psychiatrist, philosopher, and wine writer; Fellow of Green Templeton College, University of Oxford; author of over twenty books.
Every good speech and essay has a structure. Yet few students are ever taught one.
For more than two thousand years, great speakers have relied on a simple six-part structure—a framework that stretches from Cicero to Churchill and remains just as useful today. Many Oxford students have told me that no one had ever taught them these six parts of discourse, despite years of essay writing. Yet, until surprisingly recently, they formed part of every educated person’s rhetorical training. Today, few people have even heard of them.
The six parts of discourse are, of course, just as useful for structuring essays as they are for composing speeches.
Introduction (Exordium)
The exordium introduces your subject and purpose. It may also establish your authority for speaking or writing.
Above all, it should capture your audience’s attention. You might begin with a striking fact, an intriguing question, or a sense of urgency—but whatever your approach, make your audience want to hear more.
Keep it brief and clear. Never bore, confuse, or test your audience, and certainly not in the opening lines.
Winston Churchill’s first speech as Prime Minister begins:
I have nothing to offer but blood, toil, tears and sweat.
In just twelve words, he captures attention, establishes the gravity of the moment, and prepares his audience for what is to come.
Narration (Narratio)
The narratio provides the background your audience needs to understand the issue.
How did the problem arise? Why does it matter? What has already been tried? What does the evidence suggest? Have similar situations arisen before?
Important: Although the narration appears objective, it is also your first opportunity to frame the debate. The facts you include—and the order in which you present them—shape everything that follows.
Consider the difference between saying, “Taxes have risen by 2%” and “Investment in schools and hospitals has increased by 2%”. The facts may be identical, but the way you present them shapes how your audience understands them.
Division (Divisio)
The divisio is the turning point in your speech.
In effect, the division says:
This is the issue. This is why it matters. And this is how I intend to address it.
Like the introduction, the division should be brief. If it becomes too elaborate, it begins to feel contrived.
The rhetorical handbook Ad Herennium (c. 80 BCE) illustrates division with this dilemma from Greek mythology:
Orestes killed his mother, Clytemnestra; on that everyone agrees. But was he justified in doing so? That is the real point in dispute.
Proof (Confirmatio)
The proof is the heart of your speech. Here you present your arguments and support them with examples and evidence.
Aristotle distinguished between technical proofs, such as logical arguments (logos), and non-technical proofs, such as laws, contracts, witnesses, and authoritative testimony.
In the Rhetoric, he observes that ‘witnesses’ need not be living people. Homer, Hesiod, Solon, proverbs, and received wisdom can all serve as ‘ancient witnesses’. Today, we do much the same whenever we quote recognised experts or respected authorities.
Ancient witnesses can be appealed to indirectly, as when Barack Obama echoed Martin Luther King, who in turn echoed Abraham Lincoln, who echoed the King James Bible in the opening line of the Gettysburg Address of 1863:
Four score and seven years ago [i.e. 87 years ago] our fathers brought forth on this continent, a new nation, conceived in Liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal.
Refutation (Confutatio)
A persuasive speech anticipates objections.
The confutatio acknowledges opposing arguments before answering them. Ideally, it does so fairly and convincingly, though in practice speakers often exaggerate or caricature an opponent’s position.
Modern political campaigns often do exactly this. Terms such as ‘death tax’ or ‘dementia tax’ deliberately reframe an opponent’s proposal before it can be considered on its merits.
One particularly effective technique is concession (concessio). By conceding a limited point, you appear reasonable and fair while strengthening your larger argument:
Yes, that’s true. But the real question is…
Far from weakening your case, a well-judged concession often makes it more persuasive.
If your proof is weak, you might instead begin with a forceful refutation in the hope that no one notices the lack of argument. It is a trick as old as rhetoric itself—and one that is still surprisingly common.
Conclusion (Peroratio)
The peroratio brings your speech or essay to a memorable close.
It usually summarises your main arguments before ending with an emotional appeal or call to action.
President Franklin D. Roosevelt’s famous Day of Infamy speech, delivered the day after the attack on Pearl Harbor, ends with precisely such a peroration:
Hostilities exist. There is no blinking at the fact that our people, our territory, and our interests are in grave danger.
With confidence in our armed forces, with the unbounding determination of our people, we will gain the inevitable triumph—so help us God.
I ask that the Congress declare that since the unprovoked and dastardly attack by Japan on Sunday, December 7th, 1941, a state of war has existed between the United States and the Japanese empire.
When to Break the Rules
Many great speeches follow this six-part structure, whether consciously or intuitively. But the framework should never become a formula.
Once you’ve mastered its principles, they can also be broken.
Cicero himself ignored his own advice in the opening of the First Catilinarian, launching immediately into a passionate attack:
When, O Catiline, do you mean to cease abusing our patience? How long is that madness of yours still to mock us? When is there to be an end to that unbridled audacity of yours, swaggering about as it does now?
Nor must every speech contain every part. Aristotle regarded only two as essential: statement (narratio) and argument (confirmatio). Everything else is optional.
The six parts of discourse are not rules but tools. They provide a framework within which clarity and originality can flourish.
The aim is not to sound methodical but natural. Techniques such as using simple language, expressing uncertainty (dubitatio), or correcting yourself aloud (epergesis) can all help create the impression of sincerity and spontaneity.
Craft is something that you learn; art, that you unlearn.
The first Roman orator of whom we can form a distinct impression is Marcus Porcius Cato (234-149 BCE), also known as Cato the Elder or Cato the Censor—known, ironically, for his austere conservatism and staunch opposition to Hellenization [Greek influence]. Despite his high senatorial rank, Cato rode a packhorse laden with saddlebags. He made a point of writing his history of Rome and his treatise on agriculture in Latin instead of the more usual and scholarly Greek. ‘The words of the Greeks’ he said, ‘are born on their lips, but those of the Romans in their hearts.’ Today, his De agri cultura [On the Cultivation of the Fields] is the oldest extant work of Latin prose.
Cato wrote a kind of encyclopaedia for his son, which includes a part on rhetoric. In it, he says, ‘An orator, son Marcus, is a good man skilled at speaking.’ Cato is reputed to have ended every speech in the Senate with the words, Ceterum censeo Carthaginem esse delendam [‘Moreover, I think Carthage should be destroyed]—often abbreviated or simplified to Carthago delenda est. His speech, On His Own Expenses, is remembered for mentioning the topics that he will not mention, a figure of speech known as apophasis, paralipsis, or praeteritio—a classic example being, ‘No point saying that I told you so.’ Or Monica from Friends: ‘Chandler, you know, the old Monica would remind you to scrub that Teflon pan with a plastic brush. But I’m not going to do that.’
The Gracchi
The most notable orators of the late second century are the aristocratic grandsons of Scipio Africanus, Tiberius and Gaius Gracchus, also known as the Gracchi brothers.
In 133 BCE, as tribune of the plebs, Tiberius introduced a land reform to benefit the poor. When he met with opposition, he persisted with his reform and was beaten to death.
Some ten years later, Gaius in turn became tribune of the plebs and took up the mantle of his late brother—and ended up either being killed, or committing suicide to avoid being killed.
His most famous words, spoken on the last day of his life and recorded by Cicero as an epitome of delivery, brought even his enemies to tears:
Whither shall I, unhappy wretch, betake myself? Whither shall I turn? To the Capitol? But that is drenched with the blood of my brother! Or to my home, that I may see my afflicted mother in all the agony of lamentation?
Cicero
The greatest of all Roman orators is, of course, Cicero himself.
The name of Cicero is regarded not as the name of a man, but of eloquence itself. Let us, therefore, fix our eyes upon him, take him as our pattern, and let the student realize that he has made real progress if he is a passionate admirer of Cicero. —Quintilian X, 2.
Marcus Tullius Cicero (106-43 BCE) was born in Arpinium, around 60 miles south of Rome, into a wealthy equestrian family. He began practising the law in around 83-81, and, in 80, made his name on the back of his brilliant defence of Sextus Roscius against a fabricated charge of patricide. He climbed the cursus honorum, or ‘ladder of offices’, holding each office at or near the youngest possible age: quaestor in 75, aedile in 69, praetor in 66, and consul in 63. He became consul at the age of just 42, making him the youngest non-patrician to serve as a consul in the five-hundred-year history of the Republic.
As quaestor in Western Sicily, Cicero seemed so formidable that the locals asked him to prosecute Gaius Verres, who, as governor, had plundered the province. He fought the case with such aplomb that he came to be regarded as the greatest orator in Rome. As praetor, he made his first big speech in the senate, in favour of conferring upon Pompey the command of the campaign against Mithradates VI, King of Pontus. But the crowning glory of his career came in his consulship, when, by the force of his four Catiline Orations, he put down the Catiline conspiracy to overthrow the Republic. He had five of the conspirators executed and announced their deaths to a cheering crowd with the single word, Vixerunt [‘They lived’]. For ‘saving the Republic’ (as he liked to boast), he received the honorific Pater Patriae [‘Father of the Fatherland’] from his ally Cato the Younger (the Stoic great-grandson of Cato the Elder), but lived forever after in fear of reprisal for having put Roman citizens to death without trial.
Cicero was not a party to Caesar’s assassination in 44, although Brutus did call out his name upon raising his blood-soaked dagger, beseeching him to ‘restore the Republic’. Cicero later wrote to one of the conspirators, ‘How I wish that you had invited me to that most glorious banquet on the Ides of March.’
Mark Antony, as consul, leader of the Caesarian faction, and unofficial executor of Caesar’s public will, began throwing his weight around. Cicero, who had been hoping to restore the Republic, responded by playing the young Octavian, Caesar’s grandnephew, adopted son, and heir, against Antony. More than that, he overtly and vehemently attacked Antony in a series of speeches which he referred to as the Philippics, after the speeches delivered by Demosthenes to rouse the Athenians into fighting Philip II of Macedon. But this strategy backfired when Octavian and Antony reconciled and joined forces with Lepidus to form the Second Triumvirate.
Estimating that Caesar had been undone by his clemency, the Second Triumvirate brought back the ruthless proscription [the legally sanctioned murder of opponents and rivals], not seen in Rome since the time of Sulla. When Antony put Cicero at the head of the proscription list, Octavian tried to have him removed but, it would seem, did not insist or prevail. On 7 December 43, Cicero, betrayed by a freedman [former slave] of his brother, was intercepted near his villa at Formiae, travelling down to the coast in a bid to escape to his son in Greece. He literally bowed to his assassins, extending his neck out of his litter to ease their task. After killing him, they hacked off his head and hands so that Antony could have them displayed on the Rostra in the manner of Marius and Sulla. According to the historian Cassius Dio (d. 235 CE), Antony’s wife Fulvia took up Cicero’s severed head, pulled out his tongue, and jabbed at it with her hairpin.
Many years later, Octavian, now Augustus, chanced upon one of his grandsons reading a book by Cicero. The boy tried to hide the book in his gown, but the emperor took it from him and stood a long time leafing through its pages. Finally, he handed it back, saying, ‘My child, this was a learned man, and a lover of his country.’
Atticism vs Asianism
In his 12-volume Institutes of Oratory, Quintilian contrasts the style of Cicero to that of the Athenian orator Demosthenes, whom both Cicero and Quintilian held in the highest esteem:
Demosthenes is more concentrated, Cicero more copious… from Demosthenes’ speeches nothing can be taken away, to Cicero’s nothing can be added…
In the Orator, one of his latest works, Cicero paints a picture of the ideal orator, and responds to criticisms, from Brutus and other so-called Atticists, of his abundance and elaboration of style.
The Atticists, so called because they took for models the Attic writers of the fifth and early fourth centuries BCE (Lysias, Demosthenes, Hyperides…), argued that the spread of Greek into Asia in the wake of Alexander had led to a degeneracy of style, and called for a return ad fontes [to the sources]. This unadorned plain speaking chimed with the Stoicism or Stoic leanings of many Atticists, including Brutus himself.
Hortensius
The orator Quintus Hortensius Hortalus (114-50 BCE), second only to his friend Cicero, and more florid, had the good fortune of dying a year before Caesar crossed the Rubicon—of dying, if you will, with the Republic that had afforded him the freedom to speak. A noted piscinarius [‘fish-fancier’], Hortensius bred fish (possibly lampreys, eels, or mullet) in pools, and may have introduced the peacock to the Roman table. As an orator, he so perfected the swish of the toga that actors came to watch and learn from him. Cicero entitled his invitation to philosophy, the Hortensius, after him, and dedicated his history of Roman oratory, the Brutus, to his memory.
Rhetoric After the Republic
Fortunately, rhetoric, unlike Hortensius, did not die with the Republic. Au contraire, as if to compensate for its newfound impotence, it rose into the pinnacle of education.
In the Hellenistic period, a distinction had been drawn between the elementary teaching of the grammarian and the more advanced instruction of the rhetorician, which boys of a certain background might begin between the ages of 12 to 14. Even before Cicero, who listed them, rhetorical instruction consisted of five parts, or canons: invention (what to say), arrangement (how to lay it out), style (how to say it), memory (how to commit it to memory), and delivery (how to convey it with more than just words).
For centuries after the fall of the Western Roman Empire, rhetoric remained the cornerstone of Western education. Five of the major Latin fathers of the Church had been teachers of rhetoric prior to their conversion: Tertullian (d. 240 CE), Cyprian (d. 258), Lactantius (d. c. 325), Arnobius (d. c. 330), and Augustine (d. 430). In 425, to train administrators, the Eastern Roman emperor Theodosius II founded the Pandidacterium, the first incarnation of the University of Constantinople, with 31 chairs—of which ten in Greek grammar, five in Greek rhetoric, ten in Latin grammar, three in Latin rhetoric, two in law, and one in philosophy.
During the Middle Ages down to Shakespeare’s time at school, boys began with the study of grammar, dialectic (or ‘logic’), and rhetoric. Having completed this so-called trivium, they could progress to the quadrivium of arithmetic, geometry, music, and astronomy. These seven ‘liberal arts’ were regarded as ‘thinking skills’, and distinguished from practical arts such as medicine and architecture.
Cicero’s On Invention
At the age of just 16 or 17, Cicero had written a handbook of rhetoric, On Invention, which contains the first recorded use of the term ‘liberal arts’. During the Middle Ages through to the Renaissance, On Invention became the standard text for the teaching of rhetoric, alongside the anonymous Rhetoric for Herennius, which benefited from being attributed (or rather, misattributed) to the great Cicero. Cicero himself regarded On Invention as superseded by his mature works on rhetoric, On the Orator, Brutus, and Orator, but these were little known after the classical period, until the Renaissance.
Although practical in scope, On Invention opens with a preface in which Cicero reflects upon the relationship between dialectic and rhetoric, concluding from the height of his teenage years that
wisdom without eloquence has been of little benefit to states, but eloquence without wisdom has for the most part been a great hindrance and never an advantage’.
Until recently, everyone who was anyone would have read this.
Rhetoric Today
Cicero’s influence perdured well into the twentieth century, and it is not until the 1960s that the Universities of Oxford and Cambridge dropped the matriculation [entry] requirement for an O level in Latin.
Speaking at her old school in 1982, Margaret Thatcher, by then Prime Minister of the United Kingdom, recounted her struggle to learn Latin to apply for chemistry at Oxford:
Well, there you are, I was taught Latin and I must tell you—anyone who wishes to do an O level in Latin can do it in ten weeks flat.
A decade later, in a 1991 KERA interview, the journalist Lee Cullum challenged Thatcher on the benefits and relevance of a classical education:
I read several years ago in the Sunday Times that a classical education, for which Oxford and Cambridge are so famous, is fine for running an empire, but not so good for running an economy. Do you think there is any truth in that?
No, I don’t. If you excel at a classical education, Latin and Greek, not only at the language but at learning the literature, you will have learnt a great deal about the philosophy of life, about democracy, about fundamental principles, and you will have a very good mind … Heaven knows, these days, we are still up against human nature rather more than anything else.
Exploring the Origins of Rhetoric in Ancient Greece
The Embassy to Achilles. Phoenix and Odysseus seek to persuade Achilles to return to battle. Attic red-figure hydria by the Kleophrades Painter, c. 490 BCE. Staatliche Antikensammlungen, Munich.
By Dr Neel Burton — Psychiatrist, philosopher, and wine writer; Fellow of Green Templeton College, University of Oxford; author of over twenty books.
We often think of rhetoric as a dark art: the ability to make weak arguments appear strong, manipulate emotions, and persuade people of things that aren’t true.
The ancient Greeks saw things differently. They did not invent rhetoric because they wanted a bag of tricks for getting their way. Rather, they invented it because their new political order created a need for it.
When people must decide together, they must first learn how to persuade one another.
In democratic Athens, citizens had to argue in assemblies, defend themselves in courts, and persuade their peers on matters of war, law, and public policy. Words, then as now, had become a form of power capable of rivalling shields and spears.
The study of rhetoric would grow into one of the foundations of Western education—and raise one of the deepest questions in philosophy:
Is persuasion a path to truth, or merely a way of gaining influence?
Speech Before Rhetoric
From the earliest times, the Greeks had known about the power of persuasive speech. In Homer’s Iliad, Phoenix teaches the young Achilles to be both ‘a speaker of words and a doer of deeds’. In the heroic world, the ability to speak was inseparable from the ability to act. A great leader needed not only courage but the words—almost incantations or spells—to counsel, deliberate, and inspire.
For this reason, Homer describes his hero Odysseus as polymetis (‘man of many devices’) and polytropos (‘man of many twists and turns). Unlike his other hero, Achilles, who triumphed through brute force, Odysseus succeeded through cunning, guile, and an ability, in every situation, to find the right words—to cast the right spell.
In Homer’s largely oral world, stirring speech was often imagined as something breathed into the speaker by the gods (this is the origin of our word, ‘inspire’). Hermes, the messenger of Zeus, was also the god of cunning, exchange, and communication. His wife, Peitho, personified persuasion itself. Even the ability to seize the right moment for speech had its own god: Kairos.
But eloquence was not simply a gift of the gods—or Phoenix would not have troubled to teach Achilles. Already in Homer, an art of persuasion was beginning to emerge.
Democracy and the Birth of Rhetoric
The formal study of rhetoric arose in fifth-century BCE Greece, especially in Athens. This was no coincidence.
Following the reforms of Cleisthenes in 508 BCE, Athens became a radically participatory democracy. Citizens served as jurors, debated laws, and voted on matters of war and peace. For the first time, political influence depended not only on birth or wealth, but on the ability to persuade.
A citizen who could not speak effectively risked being ignored. A defendant who could not argue his case risked conviction—and, in the gravest cases, exile or even death.
Unlike today, Athens had no professional politicians or lawyers. Citizens had to represent themselves. Citizens had to represent themselves.
This created an urgent demand:
Could the power of speech be taught?
The first professional teachers to answer that question were the Sophists.
Gorgias and the Discovery of Rhetoric’s Power
Among the Sophists, none made the case for rhetoric more dramatically than Gorgias.
Born in Leontini in Sicily, Gorgias became famous throughout Greece for his extraordinary abilities as a speaker. He was not merely a teacher of rhetoric, but a performer, master of verbal display, and intellectual celebrity.
According to tradition, when he appeared in the theatre at Athens, he would invite the audience: “Come, propose me a theme.” He took pride in his ability to speak on any subject and defend even the most improbable of positions.
His Encomium of Helen is one of the most famous demonstrations of the power of rhetoric. Seeking to defend Helen of Troy for leaving her husband Menelaus and sparking the Trojan War, Gorgias argues that she would have been compelled to do so by one of four forces: the gods, physical necessity, love, or the power of speech. Whichever it was, she could not be blamed.
Gorgias compared the effect of words on the soul to the effect of drugs on the body:
Just as different drugs draw forth different humours from the body—some putting a stop to disease, others to life—so too with words: some cause pain, others joy, some strike fear, some stir the audience to boldness, some benumb and bewitch the soul with evil persuasion.
Speech was not merely a vehicle for thought. It was a force capable of changing it.
But if words could be so powerful, who should police them—and for what purpose?
Plato’s Challenge: Persuasion Without Wisdom
The power of rhetoric fascinated and troubled Plato, who had seen his teacher, Socrates, put to death by words. In the Gorgias, Plato presents Socrates questioning Gorgias about the nature of his art.
Plato’s concern was not that rhetoric could be powerful, but that it could be, and was, so easily abused. A speaker such as Gorgias might persuade an audience without being right—or even understanding the subject.
Plato compares rhetoric without philosophy to pastry-baking without medicine, or cosmetics without gymnastics: something designed to please rather than to improve.
Even so, Plato did not outright reject rhetoric. In the Phaedrus, he concedes that truth is more persuasive when allied with rhetoric, and that dialectic and rhetoric ought to go hand in hand, since ‘he who would deceive others, and not be deceived, must exactly know the real likenesses and differences of things.’
The challenge, then, was not to abandon rhetoric, but to place it in the service of truth. It fell to Aristotle to show how this might be done.
Aristotle Makes Rhetoric an Art
It was Aristotle who transformed rhetoric into a systematic art. Rather than dismissing rhetoric as manipulation, Aristotle sought to understand how persuasion actually works.
In his Rhetoric, he defines rhetoric as the ability to discover the available means of persuasion in any situation.
He identifies three fundamental modes of persuasion:
Ethos — the character and credibility of the speaker
Pathos — the emotions of the audience
Logos — the argument itself
For Aristotle, persuasion was not opposed to reason. Human beings are rational creatures, but they are not purely rational ones. We are also influenced by trust, emotion, experience, and judgement.
Aristotle also identified three main branches of rhetoric:
Deliberative rhetoric — speeches about future actions, such as political decisions
Judicial rhetoric — speeches concerning accusation and defence in courts
Epideictic rhetoric — speeches of praise or blame, such as funeral orations
With Aristotle, rhetoric became not merely a collection of techniques, but a philosophical discipline. Although the earlier Sicilian rhetoricians Corax and Tisias had begun the tradition of rhetorical handbooks, it was Aristotle who gave the subject its philosophical foundation.
It is not his ability that makes a man a sophist, but his moral purpose.
Rhetoric itself was morally neutral. Whether it served truth or deception depended upon the character of the speaker.
From Greece to Rome
The Romans inherited and expanded the Greek tradition of rhetoric.
For Cicero, the ideal orator was not simply someone who could speak beautifully. A true statesman needed both eloquence and wisdom: the ability to persuade, but also the judgement to know what he ought to be arguing for.
As he writes in De Oratore:
Wisdom without eloquence does too little for the good of states, but eloquence without wisdom is generally highly disadvantageous, and is never of any benefit.
This ideal—the union of thought and speech—became one of the defining ambitions of a classical education.
Why Ancient Rhetoric Still Matters
More than two thousand years later, the questions the Greeks explored remain with us. We still debate political questions. We still have it out in courts. We still try to sway colleagues, customers, friends, and strangers.
And the same timeless principles continue to apply. People are persuaded not only by what is said (logos), but by who says it (ethos), what emotions it awakens (pathos), and whether it is said at the right moment (kairos).
The ancient Greeks understood something that modern communication often forgets:
Words do not merely express thoughts. They shape them.
Used wisely, rhetoric is not the enemy of truth but one of its greatest allies.
Continue Exploring
If you enjoyed this introduction to the origins of rhetoric, you’ll find a much fuller exploration of the art of persuasion in How to Think Like Plato and Speak Like Cicero. The book examines the techniques of the great Greek and Roman orators, from ethos, pathos, logos, and kairos to the practical principles of clear thinking, compelling argument, and effective public speaking.
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