THE

BIRTH Or TRAGEDY

OUl of the Spirit of Music

Preface to Richard Wagner

To keep at ~ distance 311 the po',ihle sCTnpks. <:~cilemellts, and misunderstandings that the (hL)u~hIS unifeu in (hi~ essay will occa­sion, in view of the peculiar chor3C(Cr of our Je~lhc\k public, aud to be able to write these inlroduclOry remarks, too, with lhe same contemplative delight whose rdketion-the di,tillation of good and elevating hQurs-is evident on every page, I picture Ihe mo­meut when yQU, my highly respectcd frienu, will receive this r;;s~)'.

Perhaps after an evening walk: in the wintcr SIlOW. you will brhold Promctheu~ uubouuu on the title page, read my name, anu be e,m­\'i~ccd at once th"t, whatever lhis essay ;;houlu contain. the author rertainly has :iOm'::lhing serious and urgent to say; also lll"t, as he hatrh.::d lhe~~ ideas, he was communicming with you as if yOU were present, and heu~~ wulu write dQwn only whal wa~ in keeping wilh th~[ presence. You will recall that it was during the same p"iou when your splendid Festschrift on Beethoven came into being, amid the [eITors aud suhlimitics of lhe war that hau ju~t broken ont, that I collected myself for these reflecliom. Yet anyone would be mistaken if he as~ocialed my reflection~ with lhe contrast between patriOlic excitement anu ae~lhetic euthusia~m, (If couragcou~ seri­ousness and a cheerful game: if he really read this essay, it would dawn on bim, 10 his surpri~e, ..... hat a -"eri()u~ly Germ:!n problem is faced here and placed right in lhe ceuter of Gerrmn hllpes, a~ a VOHex anu turning point.1 But perhaps sULh readcrs ..... ill find it offensive lhat an aesthetic pmbkm should be taken so saiously­assuming they are unablc to con,iLier art mllre [han a plt'asant ~ide­line, a readily dispcusahle linkling of bcll, th'l[ accompanies the "seriousness of life," just as if nohouy knew what wa~ involved in such a comrast wilh lhe "~eri()u;;ncss of life." LeI <;uc!l ··serious" readers learn something from the fact lhat I am convinced lhal art rcprcsems lhe highc~t task and lhe lruly memphy,ical Hclivhy of

1 Thi~ il11~g~ OC,ll" al;(1 in i~Clion 15 below,

THE BIRTH OJ' TIIAGEDY !I:(;TION I" " thi:i life, in the sense of that m;H1 to whom. as my sublimE predeces­sor on this path,] wish to dedic:ale this essay.

Basel,end of the year 187\ We shall have gained mu.h (or the scic':1ce of aesthetio. once we perceive not merely by logic:ll inference. hUI with the jJnm~Jiale

certi,inty of vi~ion, lhat~lle cominuol1\ development of art is bound

u~L t!!~,~~_Dion,vsia1/ duality ju.s0"L.£~Oc~§~-lion de~s on the uuulily ?~~h~_~c~e~mv6T~-p-e(petual strife wjlh onl}:perjoJlc.illlYi\itCr-YCnjflg_{~~'-t:'<:iTi?I1Q~ The lerm., DIl)uysian and Apollinian \l't borrow [rom the Greeks, who disclose (0 \he discerning mind the profo\llltj myslerie, "f their view of aTl, nol, III he sure, in C'1nccpts, bul in lhe intensely clelle figures a/their ?0t.!S. TI!TO~h Apo1l9_i1!1d q!~';US~ the two arl deities of the Greeks, we (I'mI.' to reeoe,nize that in-the-ureCK wo;'T.::rlhcreexi"iiit'-.J',.-'(re. rue!i;jQu.s..:9£r~ii~ti-n,'in orig~n ~nd ~ij.s}belW~en til-eApoJlinj~r'" art of sculp)\,re, and thl.' nllTIimngislic, DIOnysian art of music.

,!\\,,-S_~_t~Q _~yt~~I~.!- lffiUJ:.nci.~um._p.a.[llllclJ~l c.,lC~. ?tJ.1er" fQ~ the most part openly at varinllcej amI they cOlltinu<l,\Iy incite ea.c~~1.t!!~!.

l(i·iJ-ewnnumme F?\vdul births, which per.ci0alc an alltagoni,m, on!)'-superficially rcconcikd hy the common term "arC; till evcntu­- ..,_. '. , -.--r,-.-r.:- . all~by a mcta\Jhyslcal mlro* QUhe Helienic ~w.!J.!," they appear. coupled with each other, aud throllgh this coup!i(l£...ultimatc!12· ~!..a~ cqualI) D10rl)'sian and Arulliujan rOID!.of art.:-AllIC illg~

'91­.' In order ',(J grasp these IWO lendenci~s, let liS fir~l cllTIeeive of

lhem as the >ep;l!~!-eo~orld-,!_of l!.!...e!!'ri.:2. and..i!112!is:a{ir!TI, The,e phy,i(l!ogicarp1i'Criomena present 3 contrast nnaiogous 10 lh~[ e'{­iSling betWl.'en the Apollininn and Ihc Dionysian'~~Te~ms,

sap ~.~~~Uu;,lhatthegloriQu, divine fl/,-ures first appeared to the sl"JI.'i..QLlJlcll~jnJrcams'-the grC:ll shaper hehdd lbe splendid bodies of stlperhum"n beill~~: and the Htlknie poel, if questioned al;Jolil

the mY5lerie~ of poctic in,piralion, \lIould like"",i.'e have sugge~ted

lln Ihe lir,( edili"n: " an Op?,"ilion of ,I:,t" Iwo dllfer~r\1 I,ndenci.! nJrl parallel in ii, fm the nJO.\1 p"r[ in Lon~icL ullJ ..hey." Mo,', o( the change, In the revi'ion o( H74 ar~ a, ,li~hl", Ihi, (wrnp.re Ihe nnl lom­nOle) and Iherefore nOI ;nJI"<II~d in Ihe following r,'g~" Th" lr~n.,I~lron,

like the ,Ian~~fd German eJ,I;On\, follow' ~,'llScl.e·, rn"lf,n

~ Firsl ediljon: "1,llevenluallv, al th. moment of (he rlowering uf (he ~tenellic

'II.'ill.' (hey appear [u,.,d 10 generJLt IOgelher Ihe arl form of AUoc II;;goJy,"

34 THE BIRTH OF TR"OEI)Y SECTION I

dreams and he might have given an explanation like that of Hans Sachs in the Meistersinger:

( The poet's task is this, my friend, , to read his dreams and comprehend. The truest human fancy seems

\ to be revealed to us in dream ..

J all poems and versification {Ue bu()n1e dreams' interpretation.1t

.' "".l0'

, I \.(U~~(-ul-*ill~i~of_the...dream worlds, in the creation of t" w~ch every man is truly lin artist1 is the prerequisite of all plastic

art, and,-as-we...sbal1J;J;.e, of an important part of poetry also..~r

dreams we delight in the immediale understanding of figures; all f~ us; t eI1 's-nlflliing ummportaiifor superflUOus. But even when Ihis dream reality is most intense. we still have, glim­mering through it, the ensation mat it is mere.-Eppearonce: at least this is my experience. and for its equency-indeed, normalily-I could adduce many proofs. including the sayings of the poets.

Philosophical men even have a presentiment that the reality in ~.bi h we live and 'Ie our in ~ also mer~a~rance and lhat

_,another, quite different reality lies beneath it. S<:hopenhauer actu­afiyrndicates as e criterion otptiilosophical ability the occasional ability to view men and things as mere phantoms or dream images. Thus the aesthetically sensitive man stands in the same relation to the reality of dreams as the philosopher does to the reality of exist­ence; he is a close and willing observer, for these images afford him an interpretation of life, and b reflecting 00 these processes he trains himselfforlife. A",in r[' ('"e. rc..!", ..... ..M I'':' t

It is not only the agreeable and friendly images that he experi­ences as something universally intelligible: the serious, the trou­

.1 Wa!!ner'l originaltexl reuds: Mein Frellnd. du.• Kmd' i.fl Dic/lIrr., Wl'rk. doss., 'ein Triit"''''11 delli' lind ma~·. G/rUthl nrir, dr.' Mellsell"'t wallr.\lf/' WI/hn ll'ird illm im TTYlIImr allfgethan: all' Dichlkllnsl ulld POi'lu('i iSlllkhls al.! Wahrtraum-Dl'lIll'rri.

• Schl'in ha. been rendered in these pages sometimes 1lI "illusion" aDd some­limes as "mere appearance."

bled, the sad, the gloomy, the sudden restraints, the tricks of acci­dent, anxious expectations, in short, the whole divine comedy of life, including the inferno, also pass before him, not like mere shad­ows on a wall-for he lives and suffers with these scenes-and yet not without that fleeting sensation of illusion. And perhaps many will, like myself, recall how amid the dangers and terrors of dreams they have occasionally said to themselves in self-encouragement, and not without success: "It is a dream! I will dream on!';' I have likewise heard of people who were able to continue one and the same dream for three and even more successive nights-facts which indicate clearly h w our innermost being. our common ground. experiences dreams with profound delight and a joyous ne­cessity.

This. joyous n'" it of the dream ex rience has been em­!x>died b the Greeks in th ir A 110: _Apollo, the lad of aU plastic ene ies, is..a}. e time the ·ooth. aying god. He, who (as the etymology of the name indicates) is the "shining one," , the deity of light, is also ruler over lhe beautiful illusion of the inner world of fantasy. The higher truth, the perfection of these stat s in contrast to the incompletely intelligible everyday world, this deep con­sciousness of nature, healing and helping in sleep and dreams. is at the same time the symbolical analogue of the soothsaying facuJty and of the arts generally, which make life possible and worth living. But we must also include in our image of Apollo that delicate boundary which the dream image must not overstep lest it have a pathological effect (in which case mere appearance would deceive us as if it were crude reality). We must keep in mind that measured restraint, that freedom from the wilder emotions, that calm of the sculptor god. His eye must be "sunlike," as befits his origin; even when it is angry and distempered it is still hallowed by beautiful illusion. And so, in one sense. we might apply to Apollo the words of Sch~penhauer when he speaks of the man wrapped in the veil of m6yiJ ~ (Welt als Wille und Vorslellung, I, p. 416'): "Just as in a

a Der "Schr.;'ttndl'." Tbe German words for iIlu.ion and appearance are Sdll'in and Erscheillung.

• A Sanskrit ord usually translated as illusion. For detailed discussions see, e.g., A Sourct' Book of Indian PlrilosopTi)', . ~. Radhal:ri lin n and Char~ Moore (Princeton, N.J.. Princeton University Press, 1957); Heinrich Zim­mer, i'hilosophirs of India, ed. Joseph Campbell (N;w York, Meridian

36 TH' B1.11.TII OF TUOEDY BIlCTION 1 " stonny sea that, unbounded in all direcliom, raises and drops mountainous wnves, howling, a sailor sits in a boat llnd trusts in his frail bark: so in lh~ midst of a world of torments the individual human being sits quietly, ,upported by and trusting ill the princip_ ium indiYidUCllirJllix." ~ In fael, we might say of Apollo [hat in him the unshaken faith in Ihis principillm and the calm repose of the maD wrapped up in it receive thdr most sublime expressiOn; and we might call Apollo him,d[ the glorious divine image of the prin­cipium indh'iduor;oniJ", through whose ge~lures and eyes aU the joy and wisdom of "illusion," together with ils beauty, speak to us.

In the same work Schopenhuucr ha~ depicted for liS the tre­mendous lerrOr which seizes man when hI: i, sUdd~nly dumfounded by the cognilive form 01 phenomella b~c·au,e tlie plineipl~ of suffi· cienl reason, in some aile of its manifestatiolls, se~ms to suffer arl exception. If we add 10 this terror the blissful ecslasy that wdls Irom the innermost d~pths of ill'll1, ind~ed of nature, at this col­lapse ollhe prinripium inrlividuQtioni.I, we steal a glimpse into the nature of the Diony!ian, whi_ch is brought home to us most inti­mately by lhe arialngTcitinloxiealRlO.

Eith~r un'dcr the influence of the narcotic draught, of which the songs of all primjti~e men and peoples speak, or wilh the potent coming of spring Ihat penetrates all uature .",ilh joy, ~"-_

n emotions awake, and as they grow in illle ,. e~,,;:r)::thing sub­jective Vlln.s es IOta c et se -for et ulness, In -lne German

1aiiIare ges, to , Sl gmg and dancing crow s, e ef increasing in number, whirled themselves from place to place uuder this same Dionysian impulse. In th~~ dancers of Sf. John and SI. Vitus, we rediscover the Bacchic choruses of Ille Greeks, with their prehis. tory in Asia Minor, liS far back as Babyion and the orgiastic Sa· caea.~ There are wme who, from obtus~ness or lack of experience,

Boob. t9~6); and Hc]mulh von Gta,enapp, Dif Philosophif du l1ld~r

(Srul1gart, Kroner, 1949), COn,ulling lhe indices. TThi. relerence, like sub,equcnl ,eferences 10 Ihe lame work, i~ 1'lielnche'l o....n &.lid rde,... to the edilion of 18il e,JiIcd by Juliu. Fraueo.liidl_lill ODe

Df the ~u.ndBrd edilions of Sch"p"nhaller's ....(lru. a Prineiple Df indivldualion. • A Babylonian !e5rival lhal las led five days and wa. marked by general IiceflllC. DUrUlg thu urn" ~Iaves are 1aid lU ha"" ruled lbeir nlBSrerS, .nd •

tum away from such phenomena as [rom "folk-diseases," wilh con­tempt or pity born of th~ consciousness of their own "heallhy­mindedn~ss." But of course such poor wretche, hav~ no idea how cQrpselik~ and ghostly th~ir s('l~call~d "h~allhy.milld~dn~ss" looks when the glowing life of Ih~ Djony~ian re".d~r~ roaTS past them.

Under [h~ charm of the Diony\ian not only is the union be­twe~n man and man reaffirm~d, but nature which has b~come ali~n­

aled, hostile, or snbjugllt~d, c~lebrales once more h~r recondliation with her los! son,'" man, Fr~ely, eanh proffers her giflS, and peace­fully the beasls of prey of the rocks and desert approach. Th~ char­iot of Dionysus is covered with flowers and garland;;; panthers and tigers walk under its yoke. Transfonn Beelhoven's "Hymll to Joy" into a painting; lei your imagination conceive the muhil\ld~s bow­ing to the dust, awestruck-th~n you will approach lhe Dionysian. Now the slave is a free man; now all the rigid, ho~tjj~ barrin> lhat n~eessity, caprice, or "impudent Cl'll,..enl;on" 11 have fix~d between man and man are broken. Now. Wilh the gospel of universal har­mony, each one feels himself not only unlled, reeouciled, and fused with his neighbor, but a~ one with him, as il the veil of miiya had been torn aside and were now mer~ly flUlterinf, i)'. taller, befor~ the mysterious primordial unity. ,<"

In song and in dance miln ~xpresses himsell as a member of a higher community; he has lorgollen how to walk and speak and is on the way toward flying imo Ihe "ir, danciug. His v~ry ge~tures

express enchamment. Just as the animals now llllk, and lhe earth yields milk aud honey, supernatural sounds emauate from him, 100: he feels himself a god, he himself now walks about enehanted, ~.... 1ike the gods he saw walhng in his dreams:tIe 1~ no longer an artist, he has become a work of arl: in t~e paroxysms o~~i_c.~iQ!lJhe.~rti.stic p-"wer Qf all nature rcveal~ iIfl!lt1trllie· h!ghest gr~iE.~~!!on_pf IheE.rimor~i!l1 uuily. The noblN clay, the mosCcostly marbie, mun. is here kll~aded and eUI. and III tile souud of the chi5el strokes of lhe Dionysian world-artist riugs out lh~ cry

crimi"al wal give" all royal rights f><-f",' he Wa, pUI l() dealh al lh. eml o( lhe feativa!' For reference~, 'ce, e,g., T!te O"!Jr,f Clus"ical DicUona'.l'. lI'I" Genna", ·'Ihe prO<ligal '''n'' i' der vrr!,>rfne Solrn (lhe lost ,on), 11 An allu,ion [0 Friedrich S"hilld, hymn A" die Fr~ude (10 joyl, I,l",d hy Beelhoven in lhe fir.al muvemem o( hi~ Ninlh SympllOllY

THE UMTH OF Tll.~GEOV

of the Eleu,inian mvstcries: "Do you prostrate yourselves. mil· lion,? Do you ,eMe l~ur Maker, world?" 12

2

Thus be we have con~idered the ~011inian and its opposite, the Dionysian, as aryi,;tic enc~s which ourst forth from-'~-~ure herseIl, wi/holll Ihe meJialion 0/ rhe hllman arnsl==e-nergles in which nature's an imp\llses are s"ti,fiea in the most immediate and direct way-~~ima~~~~_~9~~!!...m~, ~s_~_lJ1-.P!.~t~­ness jS_JtUldepcndcJlt Upou_HII;.iJlle)kl:lual altitude or the artIstIC ~i~re or any single being; a~en ~JE.t~.\icaled r_ea!!.ty, ~1Jich likewise does not heedJh.e~t O;-Vl:n ~e!.!s ~_d~st.!.o)' .the indiVIdual an~~~JIL.hjm b¥ a l!1)·~li'O..fcclinf_of onl:n~~, With rererence--tolhe~e immediate art-states of natnre. ~~'ervartist is an "imitalor," that is 10 sa)', either an Apollinian anist In dieilln-i, -or' a Dionysian fITlisr in-ecsrnsies;-or-umilly-as for example in Greek trilgeclj----=lit once artisl iii- hOlh dream!' and ecstasies; so we may perhaps picture bim sinking down in his Dionysian into~icalion

and mvslical self-abnegalion, alone and npart from the singing reveler~_ and we may -imagine how, thrnugh Apollinian dream­inspiration. his own slale, i,e., his oneness with the inmost ground of the world, is revealed to him in a s)'mb()licaI dream ima;:e.

So much for these general premi~es and contrasts. let us now approach the Greeks in prder to learn how highly these art im­pU!,<e,f P,f nrmH/, wne ul:leloped in thcm. Thus we ~hall be in a position to under,t.1nd ~nd <lppreciate more deeply that relalion of thl: Grl:ek ~rtist to hi, archelypes whieh is, aeeording to the Aristo­telian l:Apre"ion, "(ht: imimlion of nature." In spite of all (he dream literature and lhe numerous dream anecdotes of the Greeks, we can spe,'k of th~ir dnwns only conjecturally, though with rea­sonable 2.s'uranle. If we consider the incredibly preeise and uner­ring plastk po""er of tbeir eyes, togelher with their vivid, frank delight in c(llors. we can hardly refrain from assuming even for their dreams (10 th~ shame of alllhose born later) a cenain logic of line and contour. colors and groups, a eerlaiu pietorial sequence reminding us pf [heir finesl ba~-relid, whose perfection would cer­

,2 Quotal;ou from Sdli!lcr', hymn.

SECTlOll 2 " tain!y justify us. if a compariwn wne pos~ible. in designating the dreaming Greeks as Hr>mers and Homer as a dreaming Greek-in 8 deeper sensl: than that in whil:h modern man, speaking of hili dreams, ventures 10 compare him,elf with Shakespeare.

On Ihe mher hand, we net:d not conjt:cture regarding tht: im­mense gap which ~epar<lte~ the Dionysian Greek from the Diony­sian barbarian, From all quarters of tht: ancient world-to say nothing here of the modern_from Rome to Bahylon, we can point to the exis!ence of Dionysian festivals, typt:s which bear, al best, the same relation to the Greek fe~tivals which tht: bt:arded satyr. who borrowed his name and a!lribme~ from the goat, bears 10 Dio­nvsus himself, fn nearly every (<\'t: these festivals ct:ntered in ex­- . . . - I travagant sexual IIt:enlJousnl;Ss. whose wavt:s overwhelmt:d all fam­ily life and its vt:nerabk traditions; the 1Il05t savage natural instincts I wert: unleasht:d, induding t:vcn that hOrrible mixture of St:nsuality and cruelly whieh has always seemed to me 10 be the real "witches' brew." For some time, however. the Greeks were apparently per­fectly insulated and guarded against the fewmh l:xcitemenl5 of these festivals, Ihough knowledge of them mll,t have wme to Greece on all the routes of land and sea; for the fi!=ure of Apr>Il{l. rising full of pride, held oul lhe Gorgon's head 10 this grotesquely uneouth Dionysian power-and really could not have counlered any more dangerous force. It i~ in Doric art that this maje,tically rejecting altitude of Apollo is immortalized.

The oppo~ition between Apollo and Dionysus became more hazardous and even impos~ihle, when similar impulse~ finally burst forth from the deepest roots of the Hellenic namre and made a path for them,elves: the Delphic god, by a seas~lnahly effected rec~lnciH­ation. now conlented himself with taking the destructive wearons from [he hand. of his powerful amagonisl. This reconciliation is [he mO,l important moment in the hi.tory of the Greek cult: wher­ever Wl: turn we nole the revolntions resulting from this event. The two anlagonists were reeont:iled; the boundary line, to be observed heneeforlh by t:ach were sharply defined, and there W:J.' to be a periodical eAchange of gifts of esteem, At bottom, however, the chasm was not bridged over. But if we observe how, under the pre,;;ure of Ihi~ lre,lty of peace, the Dionysian power revealed it­self, we shall now ree\lgnize in the Dionysian orgie, of the Greek~,

as compared with the Babylonian Satae;l with their rever,;ion of

40 THE BIRTH OP TRAGEDY SECTION 3 41

man to the tiger and the ape, the significance of festivals of world redemption and days of transfiguration. It is with them that nature for the first time attains her artistic jubilee; it is with them that the destruction of the principium individuationis for the first tinle be­comes an artistic phenomenon.

The horrible "witches' brew" of sensuality and cruelty be­comes ineffective; only the curious blending and duality in the emo­tions of the Dionysian revelers remind us-as medicines remind us of deadly poisons-of the phenomenon that pain be e joy, that' ecstasy may wring sounds of agony from us. At the very climax of joy there sounds a cry of horror or a yearning lamentation for an irretrievable loss. In these Greek festivals, nature seems to reveal a sentimental! trait; it is as if she were heaving a igh at her dismen­berment into individuals. The song and pantomime of such dually­minded revelers was something new and unheard-of in the Homeric­Greek world; and the Dionysian music in particular excited awe and terror. If music. as it would seem, ha'i been known previously as an Apollinian art, it wa!\ so, strictly speaking, only as the wave beat of rhythm, whose formative power was developed for the rep­resentation of Apollinian states. The music of Apollo was Doric architectonics in tones, but in tones that were, merely suggestive, such as those of the cithara. The very element which forms the e.~sence of Dionysian music (and hence of music in general) is carefully excluded as un-Apollinian-namcly, the emotional power of the tone, the uniform flow of the melody, and the utterly in­comparable world of barmony. In the Dionysian dithyramb man is incited to the greatest exaltation of all his symbolic faculties; some­thing never before experienced struggles for utterance-th annihi~

lation of the veil of maya, oneness as the soul of the race and of nature itself. The essence of nature is now to be expressed symboli­cally; we need a new world of symbols; and tbe entire symbolism of the body is called into play. not the mere symbolism of the lips. face, and speeeh but the whole pantomime of dancing. forcing every member into rhythmic movement. Then the other symbolic powers suddenly press forward, particularly those of music, in rhythmics, dynamics, and harmony. To grasp this colJeclive release

1 Senfimenraliseh (not se,,'iml"llIal): an allusion 10 Schiller's influential con­trast of naiYe (Goelhean) poetry withlJis own sentimentaliselle Dichlung.

of all the symbolic powers, man must have already altai ned that height of self-abnegation which seeks to express itself symbolically through all these powers-and so the dithyrambic votary of Diony­sus is understood only by his peers. With what astonishment must the Apollinian Greek have beheld him! With an astonishment that was all the greater the more it was mingled with the shuddering suspicion that all this was actually not so very alien to him after aU, in fact, that it was only his Apollinian cOllsciousnes'> which, like a veil, hid this Dionysian world from his vision

3

To understand thi!\, it becomes neces ary to level the artistiC structure of th Apollinian culture, as it were, ston by stone, till the foundations on which it rests become visible. First of all we see the glorious Olympian figures of the gods, standing on the gables of this structure. Their deeds, pictured in brilliant reliefs, adam its friezes. We must not be misled by the fact that Apollo stands side by side with the others as an individual deity, without any claim to priority of rank. For the same impulse that embodied itself in A.pollo gave birth to this entire Olympian world, and in this sense Apollo is its father. What terrific need was it that could produce ..uch an illustrious company of Olympian beings?

Whoever approaches these Olympians with another religion in his heart, searching among them for moral elevation, even for

netity, for disincarnatc spidtuality. for charity and benevolence, will soon be forced to turn his back on them, di couraged and disappointed. For there is nothing here that uggests asceticism. spirituality, or duty. We hear nothing but the accents of an exu­berant, triumphant life in which all things, whether good or evil, are deified.! And so the spectator may stand quite bewildered before this fantastic excess of life, asking himself by virtue of what magic potion these high-spirited men could have found life so en­joyable that, wherever they turned, their eyes beheld the smile of Helen, the ideal picture of their own existence, "floating in sweet cnsuality." But to this spe<ctator, who has already turned his back,

\ This presage of !be later coinage "beyond good and evil" is losl when Msft is mbtranslated as "bad" instead of "evil."

-Jfe must say: "Do not go away. but ~tny and hear whal Greek lolk ....isdom hil~ to Lay of lhis vcry life, which Wilh ~uch inexplicabk gaiety unfolds ilself bef(1re your eyes.

"There is an ancicul ,;~my that King :.1i,Li' hUllted in the forest a long time for the wi<c Sil"I)~~, the eOI;lranion of Di()r"\Ysu~, with­OUI capluring him \"hcu SiIcnus :.( lall kll mlO his hands. the king asked what was the best ami mo'! dC';inble of all things fDr man. Fixed and immo..able, the demi('od ~Jill not a word, till at la~l.

urged by the king, he gave a ~hnl1 lau('h and broke out inlo these words: 'Oh, wrelched cpnemeql race, children of ~hance and mis­ery, why do you compel me to lell you whal it. would be mosl expet.lienr for you not 10 h~:,r? Whnl i, best of all l~ utte!ly beyond your reach: not to be born, nol to hr, to I)~ nothing. But the s~col1d

best for you i~-to die soon.'''' . How is the world of the Olympian gods rebted 10 thiS folk

wisdom? Even a, the f~,\ltllroUS yi~ion of lhe Io.Wred manyr to his suffering.

Now it is as if the Olymp;;m magic mOLllll.1in' had opened he­fore us ilild revealed it~ roOI, to llS, The Greek knew and felt the lerror and honor of existence. That he mighl endnre this tenor at all, he had to int~rpose between himself :Iud life the radiant dream­birth of the Olympiilns. That overwhdrning dismay in the face of the tilanic power~ Dr nalure, the Moira l enthroned inellor:lbly oyer all knowledge, lhe YU]lUre of lhe ~rcat lover of mankind, Prome­theus, Ihe lerrible fatc of the wise Oedipu~, lhe family clme of lhe Atridae which drove Ore~tcs 10 m:Jtri~ide: in ~hort, that enlire phi­losophy of the ~ylyan god, with its mythkal exemplars,. which caused the downfJlI of the melancholy Etru,cans-all thiS wal> again and again overcome by lhe Greeks with Ih.e aid of the Olym­pian middle world of art, or al any rale il was veded Jnd Withdrawn from sight. Ii was ill order to be able 10 liye that the Greeks had to create these gods from a most profound need. Perhaps we may picture the process 10 ourselw;; ~Dm~what as foll?w~: .O~l 01 the original Tilani~ di~ine order o[ terror, the OI~mpl.an dlYIUe order of joy gradually evolved t!lrollgh the Apolll:1lan Impulse toward

2 cr, S"ph"cle,. Oed'!,IL< ." C,':"nu." line:; t22Aff. ~ ZIllJ.I)ub~'g. H< in the lille of Thom;" M"~~', noveL • Yale.

44 THE BIRTH OF TRAGEDV

tained-that consummate immersion in the beauty of mere appear­a~.!>w unutterablYsublime is Homer therefore, who, as an individual being, bears the same relation to this Apollinian folk culture as the individual dream artist does to the dream faculty of the people and of nature in general.

The Homeric "naivete' can be understood only as the com­plete victory of Apollinian illusion; this is one of those illusions which nature so frequently employs to achieve her own ends. The true goal is veiled by a phantasm: and while we stretch out our hands for the latter. nature attains the former by means of our illusion. In the Greeks the "will" wished to contem late itself in th transfiguration oTgemus and tiie-;QridOfart; in order to I! onfy themselves, its~~es ~..!QJeel themselv' worthy of ~gIOry; tfiey. a to be old thcmsel es ~gain In a ht.,g _ .phcre,-wltnout this perfect worJd...o.f.cQ.!l1.emp'latio~actingas a command o~e­pro~ch. This is the sphere of beauty, in which they saw their mirror images, the Olympians. With this mirroring of beauty tbe Hellenic will combated its artistica1!ycorrrllItive tatent forsu.tfermg ana-roc the -wlsdom 'of suffering-and. as a monument of it:> victory, we have Horner, th~ naive artist.

+ If 0'"4J7l: ­Now the dream analogy may thro;....,~!Jl'lig t on the na'ive

artist. Let us imagine the dreamer: in the midst of the illusion of the dream world and without disturbing it. he calls out to himself; "It is a dream, I will dream on." What must we infer? That he experiences a deep inner joy in dream contemplation; on the other hand, to be at aU able to dream with this inlier joy in contempla­tion, he must have completely lost sight of the waking reality and its ominous obtrusiveness. Guided by the dream-reading Apollo, we may interpret all these phenomena in roughly this way.

Though it is certain that of the two halves of our existence, the waking and the dreaming states, the former appeals to us as infinitely preferable, more important. excellent. and worthy of being lived, indeed, as that which alone is Jived-yet in relation to that mysterious ground of our being of whieh we are the phenomena, I should, paradoxical as it may seem. maintain the very opp~it es­timate of the-value of d,ulams. For the more c1early~J erceive in

nature those omnipotent art impul ,and in them an ardent Ion rng form lon, or re emptIOn through iJlusion, ~re myself rmp lTeiflOtheiile'iajJh 'sical assumption that the ex­istent primal unity. rn I enn and contradicto • Iso nee the rapfiJfouSvlslon, the pleasurable illusion, for it ntinuous redemption. And we, completely wrapped up Tn this illusion an composed of it, are compelled to consider this illusion 3S the truly nonexistent-Le., as a perpetual ecomin in time, space. and causality-in other words, as em--rrkl rea ity. f, or mltTOment, we do not consider the question of our own "reality," if we con­ceive of our empirical existence, and of that of the world in gen rdl, as a continuously manifested representation of the primal unity, we shall then have to look upon the dream as a mere a earan of mere appearance, hence as a till higher appeasement of the pri­mordiiildesire for mere appearance. And that is why the innermost heart of nature feels thai ineffable'o in the naive artist and the naive wor~ of art, wbiccnllsslHce\i~seS::-tioliijr=-me'i'!""lIJl~mtffi:crt mere appearance."

In a symbolic painting. Raphael, himself one of these immor­tal "naive" ones, has represenled for us this demotion of appear­ance to the level of mere appearance, the primiliv process of the nai've artist and of Apollinian culture. Tn his TransfigurQrion. the lower half of the pic.ture, with the possessed boy, the despairing bearers, the bewildered. terrified disciples, shows us the reflection of suffering. primal and elernal, the sole ground of the world: the "mere appearance" here is the reflection of eternal contradiction. the father of things. From this mere appearance arises, like ambro-. sial vapor. a new visionary world oTinere appearanccs:1ilV1ible to those WTapped in the first appearance-a radiant ftoatin in purest bliss, a serene contemplation beaming from wide-open '£y"e_~ Here we have .prcsente.d,...in.-.th.e-most sublime artistic . ymholi m, inat Apollinian world of beautX.il.!ld its su s . he {WIble wi. dom of SiJenn. Intuitively we compr ~d their neees. aey inlerde­pende.n~. Apollo. however, a ain appears to us as the apotheosi of the' principium individuQriollis, in which alone is consummated the perpetually attained goal of the primal unity, its redemplion through mere appearance. With his sublime gestures, he shows us how necessary is the entire world of suffering, that by means of it the individual may be impelled to realize the redeeming vision, and

47 THE BIIlTH OF TIl~G[()Y

SECTIO'" 4

then, sunk in contemplation of it, sit quietly in his los8ing bark, amid the waves

If we conceive of it at all as impcrative and mandatory, this apotheosis of individnation knows bnl one law-the individual, Le., the delimiting of the boundaries of the individual, measl.I.re in

j the Hellenic sense. Apollo, as elhical deily, exacts measure of his disciples, and, to be able to maintain it, he requires self-knowledge. And so, side by side with the aesthetic necessity for beanly, there ClCCnr the dem::mds "know thyself" and "nOlhing in exeess"; eonse­quenlly overweening pride and exeess are regarded as the unly hostile demons of the non-Apollinian sphere. hence as charaeteris­ties of the pre-Apollinian age-that of the Titans; and of lhe exlra­Apollinian world-that of the barbarians, Becanse of hi~ litanie love for man, Prometheus must be lOrn 10 picccs by vnltnres; be­eause of his exccssive wisdom. which eonld solve the riddle of the Sphinx, Oedipns must be plnnged inlo a bewildering vortex of crime. Thus did the Dclphic god interpret the Greek pas!.

The effects wronghl by the Diofly.liurl also seemed "litanie" and "barbaric" lO the Apollinian Grcck; while at the same lime he eonld not conceal from himself that he. 100, wa, inwardly related to lhese overthrown Titans and heroes. Indeed, he had to recognize even more than this: despite all its beauly and moderalion, his en­lire exislence resled on a hidden subslratum of 8nffering and of knowledge, revealed 10 him by thc Dionysian. And behold: Apollo could not live withoul Dionysus! The "tilanic" and the "barbaric" were in the last analysis as necessary as the Apollinian.

And now let us imagine how into this world, built on mere appearance and moderation and arlificially dammcd np, there pen­etrated, in tOnes ever more bewitching and alluring. the ecstatic sound of Ihe Dionysian festival; how in these strains all of nalnre's txcess in pleasure, grief, and knowledge beeame audible, even in piercing shrieks; and leI us ask ourselves whal the psalmodizing artist of Apollo, wilh his phantom harp-sound, could mean in the face of Ihis demonic folk-song! The muses of lhe art;; of "illusion" paled before an art that, in its intoxicalion, 8poke the truth. The wisdom of Silenus cried "Woe! woe!" 10 lhe serene Olympiam. T];]e individual, wilh all his restraint and proportion, succumbed to the self-Qblivion of the Dionysian states, forgetting the precepts 01 Apollo. Excess revealed ilself as truth. Contradielion, [he blis~

, bam of pain, spoke oUl from the very heart of nalnre. And so, wherever the Dionysian prevailed, the Apollinian wa~ checked and destroyed. BHt, on the other hand, it is equally certain that, wher~

ever lhe firsl Dionysian omlanght was successfully withslood, lh'e amhority and majesty of lhe Delphic god exhibited ilself as more rigid and menacing than ever, For to me the Doric ,lale' and Doric an are explicable only as a permanent military enenmpment of lhe I\pollinian, Only incessanl resislance to lhe titanic-barbaric nature of the Diony~ian eonld account for the long survival of an art so.' defianlly prim and so encompassed \.vith bulwarks, a lraining so warlike and rigorous, and a pohlical structure so crud and relent­less.

Up to lhis point we have ~imply enlarged upon the observa­tion made allhc beginni~g of lhis essay: that lhe Diony,ian and the Apollinian, in new births ever following and mutually augmenting one anolher, conI rolled the Hellenic genius; lhat OIlt of the age of "bronze," with ilS wars of the Tilans and iB rigorom folk philos­ophy, lhe Homeric world developed nnder lhe sway of the Apolli­nian impliise lo beauty; thaI thi, '·na"lve" splendor was again over­whelmed by the influx of the DIOnysian; and thaI again8t lhis new power the Apollinian rose to the austere ma.iesly of Doric art and the Doric view of the world. If amid lhe >lrife of lhese two hoslile principles, lhe older Hellenic hislory lhllS falls into four great pe­riods of art, we arc now impelled 10 iuquire after lhe IInal goal of these developments and processes. lesl perchance we should regard the last-atlained period, lhe period of Doric arl, as the climax and aim of thesc artistic impulses. And here lhe sublime and celebrated art of Allie [ragedy and lhe dramatic dilhyramb presents itldf as the common gOlll of both lhese lendencies whose mysterious union, afler many and long precursory struggles, found glorius consnm­malion iH this child-at once Anligone and Cassandra."

, Sparta, ~ In fOO!n()le n of hlS r""l polenlLe (1~72) Wibmowil7 _aid: "Whoever e,· plojns lhese la'l word" 10 which MephLSlophek" remar~ aboUl the wilCh's arilhmelLc [Goelhe', Fau.<l, lines 2563-661 "pplie', reeel""' ;, ,uiLable reward from me," It wOLlld 'Cern Ih"t %plJocl"" Anli~"ne i, hcl'o ,eOn a, rcpl'o~enl"

Rlive of Ihe Apolliman, willie Al'>ciJy]U" C"'''ndm (in A~~mem",m) l~ as,ocialed wllh the Dlony,i.1l1.

48 SECTIO!'I ,THE BIRTH OF T.~GEDY " 5

ence which w~s snown to hIm-the pocr-in very rell1arbb1c \ll­

teram:es t>v !he Delphic orade itself, the cemCf of "objective" art? Schilier ha~ thrown ~nme light on the podie pnl<.:e.;'; by a psy­

chological observation, inc~pli"ablc but unprohkm;itic 1<1 hi~ own mInd. He eonfe~sed lhal t>dore the acl of crcalilJll he [hd not have pcfore him or within him :my ~tric~ of imagc~ in a ca\15al arrange­menl, but ralher a mu,ira/ mood. (,'With me [he perception has <It

first no ckar and definite obieer; this i~ formed bIer. A ccrl<lj" musical mood comes first, and the poetical idea only rollow~

later.") Let us add to this the most impnrlunt phenomenon 01 all ancient lyrk poetry: they look for granted rhe ~Ni(J". indeed the identity, of lhe Iyrisl willi t}le musician. Compareu with lhis, our modern lyric poelry seems Jjke lhe slalue of a god withoul a heau. Wilh (hi~ in mind we may now, 011 lhe basis of OUT <lWhelical m~taphysics set fonh abo\'~, ~xplain lhe lyrisl 10 ourselves in Ihis mllnner.

In the tim place, as a Dionysi<ln ani",. he has iuenlified him­self with the primal unity, its pain <lnd conlraditlI,m. Assuming thai music has beo:n correctlv termed a r~peljlion aud a feeusl of lhe world, we may say thai he produee~ the copy of Ihis primal unity a, music. Now, however, nnd~r the Apollinian dream in.'piration, thi5 music rcVcctJs itself [0 him again as a Iymbo!ic dream illllJK~. The inchoate, intangible refJeclio~ of lhe primordial pain in music, wilh its redemplion In mere uppearanee, now produees a second mirror­ing as a specific symbol or example. The ar\i~[ has already surren­dered his subjectivit)' in the Dionysian prr;JCcss. The image lhat now shows him his idenlity with lhe heart of lhe world i, a dream sc~ne

that embodies the primordial contradiction and primordi<ll pain, tog~ther wilh the primordial Pleasure, of mere appearancc. The "I" of the lVrisl therefore sounds l'f(lm the deplh of his being: its "sub­jeetivity:' in the sense of modern ae,l~elicians is a fiction. Whw Arch·l1oehus, the firsl Greek lyri5t, proclaims [0 the daughlers of Lycllmbes bolh his mad love and his CtJnt~mpt. it is not his passion alone lhal dan<;es pefore us in orgi<l.<;tic frenzy; but we set: Diony~us

and lhe Maenads. we <;ee the drunken rc~cler Arehilochus sunk down in slumber-as Euripides depicls it in the B~cdla(·.' the sleep on the high mountain pa~ture, in lhe noonday sun. And now

I LiDe:; 677fJ.

THE BIRTH OF TRAOEilY" Apollo apprnache~ and touches him with the laurel. Then the Dionysian-mmical enchantment of [he ~leeper seems to emit image sparks, lyrical poems, which in their highest development are called tragedies and dramiltic dilhyrambs.

. The plastic arti,t, lik; the epic poel who is; rdated to him. i~ absorbed in the pure contemplation of images. The Dionysian mu­sician is. wilhoul any image", himself pure primordial pain and ils primordial re-echoing. The lyric genius is CClllScious of a world of images and symbols-growillg oUl of hi~ ~talc of mvslical self· allncgalion and oneness. This world has a coloring, a c;millity. and a velocity quile dilferem from those of the world of the plastic ,Hlist nud lhe epic poet. For tbe latler lives in tbese images, and nnly in them. with jo)'ou~ satisfilction, He never grows tired of con­templating lovingly cven thcir minutest tmits. Even the image of the angry Achilles is onl)' an image to him who~e ilngry expression he enjoy., with the dreamds pleasure in illusion, Thus. bv this mirror of illusion. he is protected ngninst becoming one nne! fl;sed with his figures. In dircct contrast to this, the imnges of the lyri.\'1 arc noth­ing but his \l'r)' self 'IDd. as it were, only different projections of himself. so he. as lhe mOVing center of this world, may say "I": of course. this sell" n()t the sam~ as that of the waking. empirically real. ma.n. hUI the only Irlll,\ existent ,1nd eternal self resting at the baSIS of thmgs. Ihrongh whose image, thc Inic ~eniu, sees thi' very basis. ' • .

Now let \IS s\lppose Ihal amllng these images he al~o hehl'lclS him·'e/f as nongcniu,. ie, his ,ubj",,!. lhe whf'k thr"ng of subJee, tive passions llDd npitillions 01 tlie will Jirected !0 a detini!e ,)hjcc' which appears refd 10 him 11 might seem a,; if Ihe lyric c('ni\l~ lind the allied mm'geniu<, '.'.-tTl' one. :LS if Ihe j'()rmer had of ii, IJwn ac­cord spoken thill Iitlle word "J" BUI Ihis mere appearance will no longer be abk 10 kad us a<trJY, as it certainly' led J.,tray Ihl'sc wh() designated the Iyrist a, the subjective pOCl F'lr. ~s a In;tter f'f faci Archilochus, the pa'.lion:.trly iotbmcJ. lo\'in~, and h.ltin~ mnn. is but a vision of Ihe- gcoiu>. who by this limc- i<; no lon£.;r men'ly Archilo.chus.. /lul a wL>rld-genin, e'prcssiog hi, prim,;rdial r~i~ ~ymbollcally III the 'vmn,,1 of Ihe mCIIl ATlhilorhu<-while the 'ub. jectively willing ,lIlii dc<irlll", nun. Arehilochu'. crln nevL'l at any lime be a poet It" by no mC<lIl, ue-cc'-«,ry. howel'er. thai Ihe Iyri'it should see n0thing but Ihe pheoL,menon of the mJn ArchiiochlJ~

S£CTlOM ~ " before him as a reflection of eternal being; and tragedy shows how far the visionary world of the Iyrist may be removed from lhis phe­nomenon which, to be sure, is closest at hand.'

Schopen}uJUer, who did not conceal from himself the difficulty the lyrist presents in the philosophical contemplation of an, thought he had found a way out on which, however, I cannot follow him. Actually, it was in his profound metaphYSiCS of mu~ic Ihal he alone held in his hands the means for a solution. 1 believe 1 have removed the difficulty here in his spirit lind to hi~ honor. Vel he describes the peculiar nature of song a. follows (Well als Will.. lind Vors/ellling, I, p. 295):

"It is the subject of the will, i,e., his own volition, which fiJls the consciousnes~ of the singer, often as a relea,ed and satisfied de,jre (joy), but still oftener as an inhibited desire (grief), lllwayl a. an affect, a pa~sion, a moved stale of mind. Be~ides this, however, and along with it, by the sight of sUTTounding nature, the singer be­comes conscious of himself a~ the subject of pure will-Ie~s know­ing, whose unbroken b1is~ful peace now appea~, in contrast to lh~

stress of desire, which is always restricted and always needy. The feeling of this conuast, this alternation, is really wha! th~ iO~g 3S a whole expresses and what principnlly cOnstiLUtes the lyrical state, In it pure knowing comes to us as it were to d~li~~r us from willing and it!; strain; we Collow, bUl only for moments; willing, the re­membraDce or our c>wn personal ends, tears us anew from peaceful contemplalion; yel t'\;er again the next beautiful environment in which pure will-less knowiedge presents itself 10 us lures us away rrom willing, Therefore, in the song and the lyrical mood, willing (tb~ persc>nal inlerest of the ~nds) and pure perception o( the envi­ronm~nt are wonderfully mingled; connections between them are 'ought lind imagined: the sUbj~ctive mood, the affection of the will, imparts its own hue to the perceived environment, and vice ve~a,

Genuine song is the expression of the whole of this mingled and divided state of mind."

Who could fail to recognize in this descriptioD that lyric poetry is here characterized as an incompletely attained art that arrives at i16 goal infrequently and only, as it were, by l~aps? Indud, it is de­

.1be PClet'~ e@o i. dO~.l 1\ hand, bUl the tragic poet Cln uoe CaPIDdra or Ha.ml~ u a muk no teu (han hi! own empirical o;c:lf.

~ECTION fi" " &e:ribed as B semi-an ..... hose essence is said (0 consist in this. that willing ilnd pUfe c0ntemplation, Le., the unaesthetic and the aes­thetic condition, are wonderfully mingled with each other. We con­tend, on the contrary, that the whole opposition between the sub· jective and objective, which Schopcnhauer ~till uses a. a mea~UTe

of value in cla%ifying lhe art~. is altogether irrelevant in aesthetks. since the subject, the willing individual thal furthers his own eg()i~­tic ends, can he CMll:eived of only as the antagonist, not a, the origin of art. Insofar as tlie subjed is the anis!. hOIl.ever, he hns already been relensed from hj~ jndi,idual will. and has become. as it were. the medium through wlikh the one truly existent subject celebrates his release in appearance. f(H 10 our humiliation and e)(allation, one thing above all mu~t he l"ie;lr 10 us. The entire com­edy of art is nehher~performed for Illlr bcttcrment or education nor are we the true authors of lhi~ an world. On lhe contrary. we milY assume that we are merely images and artistic projection> for the true author, and thilt we have our high~st dignity in our significance as works of art-for it i~ only as an aesillcric phenomenan that e;o;istcnce and lhe world are eternally jU.>Ii/ied"-whi1c of conrse onr consciousness of our own significance hardly differs from that which lhe soidiCT5 paimed on canvas have of the battle represented on it. Thus all 0ur knowledge o[ art is hasically quite illusory, he­Clluse as knowing heings w~ are not one and idcmical with Ihal being which, as {he sole author and spectator of this comedy of art, prepares a perpetual cntertainment for itself. Only in,ofar as the genius in the act of ani"tie erealion conlesees with [his primordial artist of the world, d(ll'~ he know anylhing of lhe etemJI es,;ence of art; for in lhis stale he is, in a marvelous manner, like the weird image of the fairy tale which can turn its eyes al will and behold itself; he is at once suhjeel and object. at once poet, actor, and

speclator.

In eonnection with Archilochus. ,;cholarl:> re~earch has discov­ered that he introuuced thc lolA <(llll; into lilCTJlurc nnd on account

~Thj. p~f('n(h,·(i'.11 J~m.rk, repealed in "'ction 24, i, one of tb. m,,'t fMm(>u~

dielR in Thr BiN~ ,',i Tr(l):~d."

of this de~erved. according to the general estimate of the Greeks. his unique position beside Homer. BU1 what is the folk song in contrast lO the Wholly Apollinian epQs~ Wh~1 else but the perper­uum ve,rligium of a union of the Apollinian and the Diony,ian? Its enormous diffusion among all peoples. fUrther re-en[oreed hy ever­new binh~, is testimony to the power of lhis arli~tic dual impulse of nature, which l"aves its vestige~ in ~he folk SOllg Just as Ihe orgia~tie

movements of 'I people immor1aliu themselve~ in its music. In­deed, it might also be hi'itoric~lly demonstrable lhat every peritxl rieh in folk songs has been p'o~t violemly stirred by Dionysian cur­rents. which .....e must always consider the substratum and prerequi. site of the folk ~ong.

Firsl of all, however, we must conceive the folk song as lhe musical mirror of the world, as the original melody, now seek in/! for itself a paralic! dream phenomenon and expressing it in poetry Melod~' is Ihl'u!<Jre primary and universal, and so may admit of several objcclifications in several te)(ls. Likewise, in lhe n&lve e'iti­mation of the people, it is regarded as by far the more importalH and essenlial elemem. Mdooy generates the poem out of itself. ever again: that is .....hat rhe stropnic form pj rhe toO: song signilie5; a phenomenon which I had always beheld with astonishment, umil at last I found this explanalion. Anyone who in accordance with this lheory examines a collection of folk songs, such as Des Knaben Wunderhorn,l will find innnmcrabJe in,lances of the way lhe continuously generaling melody ~calter5 image sparks all aronnd, which in their ~'ariegatioll, thcir abmpt change, thdr mad precipitation, manife~t a power quite nnknown to lhe epic and its steady flow. From the stanJfl\Jint of the cpos, this unequal and ir­regnlar image world of lyrical poetry is simply to be condemned: and j( certainly has been thus condemned hy the solemn epic rhap­&odists of the Apllllinian festivals in the age of Terpander,"

Aaordingly, we observe that in the poetry of the folk silng. language i~ strained to its utmost that it may imitare mu,l!c; and with Archjlochu5 lxgins a new world of poetry, ba,ic;,Jly op-

I An RniholcS)' cf mtditval GernlHn {"II< !longs (l806-0RJ, edil'd ~i Achim vCn Arn;rn (1781_J831) and his hrolher·;n-law, Clemcns BrCfllJnO (jn~_

1842). The (ille means "The Boy's M~gtc Horn."

~ Middle of th~ seventh century II.C. T~rr.nder. " l"'~l. '"a, horn in L~sbol and lived in Spana.

pc>l'ed to the Homnic. And in saying this ..... ~ ha\l~ indicated th~

only pos~it-1e relation b~tw~~n po~try and mllsic, betwe~n word ~nd

lone; th~ wr>rd. lh~ image, th~ eouc~p! hae s~d::s an expreSSJOn analogoll~ to mllsk and now feels in itself th~ pow~r of music. In this sen,e w<' mav di"crinlinnle bet .....een 11'0'0 main Clirrenis in the hi,toT~' of the lnnguagt of the Greek pellp1e, according to wh~ther their language imilnl,-d the .....orld of im~ge and phenom~non or the ",wid of music One nttt.! only refkCI more deeply on lht lingllistic 1illertnce with rC~~lrci 10 color, wntaetical slrncmre, and vocabu­larv in Homer anJ Plnt.!~r, in order to understand the significance of ;hi~ wntra'!; indeed, it becomes palpahly clear that in the period between Homer and Pindar the orgias/ic {lute IOncJ of Olympus mU't have been sounded, which, even in Aristotle's time, when music was infinitely more developed, transported people to

drunkCIl ccstasy. and which, in their primitive state of develop­ment, undoubt~dly incitcd to imitation all the poetic mcans of ex­pression of conwmporaneous man.

I herc call fllrenrion to a familiar pbenomenon of our own times, flcainst whIch our ae~tbctie raiscs many objections. Again and agai~ we ha,c occasion to observe Ibat a OecthoYcu symphony compels its individtthl auditors to \lse figurative ~peech in describ­ing it, no matter bow fantastically variegatcd and even conlradic­tory may be tbe composition und make-up of the dillercnt worlds of images produced by a piccc of music. To exerci,e its poor wit on such compositions, and tll OVerlO(lk a phcnomcnon which is eer­tainly WDTth explaining, arc quite in kecping with tbis aesthetic, Indced, cven when the tone-poet cxpresses his composition in im'lges, wben for instancc hc designates a cenain symphony as the "p,~storal" symphony, Gr a passagc iu it as the "scene by the brook," or another as the "merry gmhering of rustics," these two ar~ only symbolical rcprcscntatiom; boru of music-and nO! the imitatcd objects of music-represcntations which can teach us nOlhin~ whatsocvcr concel'lling the Dionysian con lent of music, and which indeed helve nll di,tinctlve ~'al\le of their own beside olhcr ima~e<;. V.'e havc now 10 tramfer this process of a discharge of music in ima~c~ (0 some fresh. ':r"'Ulhfltl. liuglJi,tically crealive people. in order 10 gd '(lInC notion of the \\';1)' in wl1ich.thc strophic folk soug origiuales. ami thl': "'bdl' lin.211i';tic cap,lClly I~ excited h.,. tbls new principle of lhe imilation of nll.l.,ic.

If, therelore, we may rcgard lyric poetry as the imilalive ful· guration of music in images and concept~, we ,hould now a,k: "As what does music appear in the mirror of image, auJ !;oncepts?" It appearI as will, taking the term in Schopenhaucr's sense, i.c., as the opposite of the aesthetic, purely coutemplative. and pas'.ive frame of mind. Hcre, however, we must make as 'heup a dtstmctlon as posslble between the conccpts of essence and phi:nomenon; for music, uccordiug to its es,enee, cmmol p(l"ihly be will. To be will it would nave to) be Wholly l1,mishcd from the r~alm of an-for the >\Iill is lhe unaesthecic-in-itself; but it aprears as will. For in ordcr to express il~ appearancc in images. lh~ Iyri~t n~eds all the agita­tion, of pa.<~i(ln. [rom the IIIhi~pa of mac Incllnellion to the roar of ma<Jness. [mpelled to 'peak of music in Apollinian ~ym~~l~, he concei\'~s of <ill uature, and himsdr in it, as willing, as deslTlng, as eternal longing:. [luI imofar a~ h~ inlapr~ts music by mean, of images, hc himself rests in the calm SC:I of Ap'lilinian contcmpln· tion, Ihough evnylhir.? nrounJ him th:lI he h~hllids tbrough tht" mcdium (1f mllsic is ill ur"ent and acti,~ moli'Jn. [nJecd, wbcn he t-eholds hml,elf throurh thi< 'arll.C IIlc,lium, hi, o.....n image appears Ii:' him ns ,m ull~alisfi;d feeling· hi, ,1111n willin~~, I,m~ing, moaning, rejoicing. are II' him symblll<; by which he intapr~[~ mu~iC', Thi~ i, Ihe phenomeuon of the Iymt· as Apol1ini~n ~C,IIIIl" h~ intcrpret~

musi~ Ihrongh thc imngc of Ihe will. while he hlmsdf. c(lmpletely released Irom Ihe greet.! of the will, i~ the pnrc, unciimm~d eye of the Sllil.

Our >\Inole di,eU',ion insi<;ts lhntlyric poclry is depeudent C'n

the ,piril of mu"ie jusl as music itsclf in its ab~olllle sovereignty dC'es nOI I1fl'd the image and Ihe concept, but mcrely el1dllreI them as acnompaniments, The poems of Ihe lyrist can express nothiug that did not alreadv lie hiddcu in that vast universality aud abso­lutencss in the music that compelled him to figuralive speech. Lan­guage can never adcquately reuder the cosmic symbolism ol music, hecause music staud, iu 'ymbolic relation to the primordial contra­diction and primordial pain in the hean of the primal unity, and therefore symbolizes a sphere which i, beyDnd and prior [(l all phe­nomena. Ralhcr. all phcnomena, compared with it, are merely symbols: hence langlJal;e, a~ the organ and symbol of phcnomena, ean never by any meaus disclose the innermo,t heart of music; lau­guage, in its allentptto imitale it, can eml)' be in supnllcial nontacl

TI{E 8UTIl Of TRM)ED'(

with mnsie; while allihe eloqncnce of lyric poetry cannol bring the deepest significance of the latler one slep nearer to ns.

7

We must now avail ourselves of all the principles of an: C0ll­

sidaed so far, in ort.la to find our way through, lhc l~bj'finlh. ,JS

..... c must call it of till' origin of G,.rek 1"'1;1'1(1,'. I do n,,! lhink J am unrea~On:J.ble in saying lhat the pmhlcm of this origin ha, as j'el (lot eveu becu saiously posed, to say J~Olhing of solved. however ofteu thc rugged laHcrs of ancielll tradition have bcen sewu 10­

gether ill various comhin<ltions and lOrn apart again. Thi' traditiOn tells us guite unequivocally Ihal tragedy aro.fe from Ihe tragic rh'.JrILf, and WJ;; originally only chorus and nothing hut choru" HelKe we consider it our dUly to look into the hean: of lhis tragic ehorns a~ the real proto-drama, withol1t rc~ting sarisfied with such ilrty cliche~ a~ that the chorus is lhe "ideal ~p"clator" or that it represents the rco].lle in COlllra;<t to the ari_ltlcr;llie region of the scene, This lalln e~ptallalion Ims a sllulime ~olllld to mallY a poli­tician-as j[ the immJi(ilble morat law h"J been embodied by lhe democratic Alhcnians in the porutar chams, which alway, won ant

o\ler the pussionale ex,'esses and ,~tra~agJnces (If kings. This rhe· ory may he ever Sll forcibly sug~estcd by one tlf ATi~lOlIe\ oh~erya­

(iOllS; slilL it has no iullu<'lle,' un Ih~ original formalion of tragedy, inasmuch as the wh ..le OrpOSilion 01 prill,e anJ people-illdeed the whole politico-social sphere-was excluded fr<lm the pllrely re­ligious origins of lra~ct.ly. BUI eYen reg;,rding '-hc dassical form of the ehoru~ ill Al"ch;.-Ins and Sophocles. Ilo-hil:h i~ known to us, we shollid deem it bl,"phemy to speak here of intimations of "consti­tutional popular rcpresenlation." From (hi, hlasphemy. however. olhers have nO! ,hrunk. Ancielll constitutions knew of lH' c0n<titu­{iollal rerre~enlntion of the people ill pruxi. and il is 10 be hoped thal tlley diJ not even "have in lima Lions" of 11 in tra~edy.

r-.1llCh more famous than this political interpretation or Ihe chorus is Ihe idea of A. W. SchlegeL' who advi~es us 10 regard lhl'

, One "t (he lei;ding ~pirjls of lhe "arly Germ~n romanlic mOI'emen!. ",. p,"jdtly r~nN'metl for his Jran,lalion, of about hall of Shakesp"ar~" pi",',; "c>r>l11~7,did 1845. .

choru~ somehow a~ the es~ellcc and extract of Ihe crowd of specta­torS--HS the "ideal spectator." This view, when Cl'mpared with lhe hi~tori"altradition that originally tragedy was only l'Illlrus. rneJls itself for what it is-a crude, unscientific, yct brilliant cbin] thar (IWe~ it~ brilliancy only 10 its concentrated form of exprc"ion. (n

the typically Gennanic bias in favor of anything called "ide,":' ami to onr momentary astonishment. For we are ccrtainly a,tpni;;hed the momem we compare our familiar theatrical public with lhi, chorus, and ask onrscl"es whclher it could ey~r be po~,ible It' ide!,]' izc from such a public somelhiug analogous to the Greek Ira!!;C chorus. Wc tacitly deny this, and now wouder as much a( Ihe bold­ncss of Schlcgel's claim as at lhe totally dilferem ualUre of Ihe Greek public. For we had always believed thaI the right spectator. whoeler he might be. must always remaiu conscious that he was ~'icwing a work of art iHld not an empirical rc,dity, But the Iragic chorllS of lhe Greeks i~ forced to recognize real beings in lhe fi!!nre~

on the stage, The chorus (If (he Oceanid"" really believes that 11

see~ before j( the Tiwn I'rQrllelheu" JIlU it C(lIISidcrs itself as real as Ihe god of lhc scene BUI eoulu tile highest and puresl lype of spectator regard Promclhc'J, il~ L'ouily f'rcscnt aud real, a~ the Ocean ides do? J~ il charal"lni,tic elf lh" iJ.. :i1 speclator to run onlo the stage and free lhe god from his Wflnents'! We had always be­lieved iu au aeslhttie puNic ant.l eon,id<,rcd lhc individllal speclalo, the belter qualified lhe mllre he wa~ capable of viewing a work ot an as art, thai i,. lIcslheticnlly_ But HOW Schlegel tells u~ Ihal lhe perfect, idcal speclalor does not aI all ill10w Ihe ..... tlrld of the druma to act on him aC>lhelically, but corporally and empirically. Oh, these Greeks l we sigh; they npsel all our aesth<'tks! BUI once ac­cu~tomed to this. we repeatcd Schlegel's ~aying whenever the choru, c<lme up for discussion,

Ntl ..... the tradition, which is quite explicit, speak. again,;\ Schlegel. The ehoros as such, wilhout lhe stage-Ihe primilive form uf tragedy-aud Ihe charm 0[' ideal spectators do nnt ("0 10·

gClha. \Jihat kind of arti,tie genre could pm,ihly be cxtrackd from the c<lrlcepl of lhe speclator, and lind its lrue form in the "srcctJlllT as such"~ The SpectaTOr wilhout lhe spectacle i, au absurd r101ioJ) We fear that the bIrth of tragedy i~ to be explained neither by ;m\

high <,SkWl for the moral intelligence of the masse, uor h)' Ihc concept of lhe SDcetator without a snectacJe; and we com-ider the

58 TA f. BIR Tk OF TIlAGIO!)~

problelP too deep to be even touched by such superficial considera­tion!'.

An infinitely more valuable insight into the significance of the chorus was display.:d by Schiller in the celebrated Preface to his Bride of Messina. where he regards the chorus as a living wall thatl tragedy const:ucts around itself in. order to close itself off from the world of reality aoc! to preserve Its ideal domain and its poetical freedom.

With Ihis, his chief weapon, Schiller combats the ordinary conception of the natural, the illusion usually demanded in dra­matic poetry. Although the stage day is merely artificial, the archi­tecture only symbolical, and tbe metrical language ideal in charac­ter, nevertheless an erroneou~ view still prevails in the main, as he points out: it is not sufficient that one merely tolerates as poetic license what is actually the essence of all poetry. The introduction of the chorus, says Schiller, is the decisive step by which war is declared openly and honorably against all naturalism in art.

It would seem that 10 denigrate this view of the mailer our would-be superior age has coined the di~dainful catchword "pseudo­idealism." I fear, however, that we, on the other hand, Wilh our present adoration of the natural and the real, have reached the oppo­site pole of all idealism, namely. the region of wax-work cabinets. There is an art in these, too, as there is in certain novels much in vogue at present; but we really should not be plagued with the claim that sueh art bas overcome the "pseudo-idealism" of Goethe and Schiller.

It is indeed an "ideal" domain, as Schiller correctly perceived, in which the Greek satyr chorus, the chorus of primitive tragedy, was wont to dwell. It is a domain raised high above the actual palhs of mortals. For this chorus the Greek built up the scaffolding of a tlctitiuLis natural stat~ and on it placed fictitious natural beings. On tRlS foundation tragedy devcl pcd and so, of course, it could dispense from the beginning with a painstaking portrayal of reality. Yet it is no arbitrary world placed I)j whim between heaven and earth; rather it is a world with the same reality and credibility that Olympus with its inhabitants po essed for the believing Hellene. The satyr, as the Dionysian cborist, live!> in a religiously acknowl­edged reality under the sanction of myth and cult. That traged) should begin with him, that he should be the voice of the Dionysia"

SECTION 1 9

wisdom of tragedy, is just as strange a phenomenon for us as the general derivation of traged ' from the chorus.

Perhaps we shall have a point of departurt- for our inquiry if I put forward the propOsition that the satyr, the fictitious natur I being. bears the same relation to the man of culture that Dion ,Ian music bears 10 civilization. Concerning the latter, Richard Wagner says that it is nullified 2 by music just as lamplight is nullified by the light of day. Similarly, I believe, the Greek man of culture felt him­self nullified in the presence of the atyrie choru.: and this i lh most immediate effect of the Dionysian tragedy, that the state and society and, quite generally. the gulfs between man and man gi e way to an overwhelming feeling of unity leading back to the very hean of nature. The metaphysical comfort-with which, I am sug­gesting even now, every true tragedy leaves us-that life is at th bottom of things, de~pite all th change of appearances, inde­structibly powerful and pleasurable-this comfort appears in in­carnate clarity in the chorus of satyrs, a cborus of natural being~

who live ineradicably, as it were, behind all civilization and remain eternally the same, despite the change~ of generations and of th history of nations.

With this chorus the profound Hellene, uniquely susceptible to the tenderest and deepest suffering, comforts himself. havin looked boldly righl into the terrible destructiveness of o-callcd world history as well as the cruelty of nature, and being in danger of longing for a Buddhistic negation of the will. - Art saves him, and through art-life.

For the rapture of the Dionysian state with its annihilation of the ordinary bounds and limits of existence contains, while it lasts, a lethargic element in which all personal experiences of the past become immersed. ThL~ chasm of oblivion se arates the worlds of everyday reality and of Dionysian reality. But as n as this ev­eryday reality re-enters consciousness, it is experienced as such.

2 Aufgehobm: one of Hegel's favorile words, which can 81~ me n lifted up or preserved. 3 H,ere Nietz.\che'. emancipation from hopenhauer ornes evident, and Ihelr dlffer~Dc~ from each other concerns the central ubject of the whole

k: the IgDllicance. of tragedy. Nietzsche writ aboul tragedy a~ lh greal Ilfe-attIrmlng alternative to Schopenhauer' n galion of the wJII. One c n be u bollest and trce of optimistic illusion a Scho nhauer WIlS end $liII eel b Ie life as fUDd~mcDlally IlOwerful and llleasurabi u the GRleU did.

60

with nausea; an ascetic, will-negating mood is the fruit of these itates.

In this sense lhe Dionysian man resembles Hamlet: tooth have once looked truly into the essence of things, they have gained knowledge, and nausea inhibits action; for their action could not change an}'lhing in the eternal nature of things; they feel it to be ridiculous or humiliMing lhat they should be asked 10 sel right a world that is OLlI of joint. Knowledge kills aelion; action rey'u\re~

the veil~ of illusion: lhJt is the doctrine of Hamlet, nol thai chcnp wisdom of Jack the Dreamer who reflects lao much and, as i\ were, from an e~eess of possibilities does not get around to action. Not reflection, no-true knowledge, an insight into the horrible truth, outweighs any motive for action, both in Hamlel <lnd in lhe Diony­sian man.

Now no eomfort avails any more; longing tr;anseenJs a world after death, even the gods; existenee i~ negated along wilh ils glit­tering reflection in lhe gods or in an immortal beyond. C)nscious of the lruth he has once seen, man now see' everywhere only lhe hor­ror or absurdity of existence; now he understands whal is symbolic in Ophelia's fate; now he understands the wisJom of the sylvan god, Silenus: he ili nau~eated.

Here. when the danger to his will is greatest, art approaches as a saving sorcnes~, expert at healing. She alone knows how to turn these nauseou~ thought~ about the horror or ab~urdily or existence into notions with which one can live: these are the suhlime as the anistic taming of the horrible, and the comic as the artistie di!­charge of lhe nausea of absurdity. The satyr chorus of lhe dithy­ramb is lhe saving deed of Greek. art; faced with the imermediary world of these Dionysian companions. the feelinp described here exhauMed themselves.t

~ fhving finally bro~en loose from Sc~optn~Jun. Nicrzsche for Ihe lim lime ,hows l~e ~rilliancy of his own geniu,. II ;, d,'uhLlul whelher anyone before him had jllufl\in~led Hamler SO e~ten,;,,"ly in §O few words: Ihe P"'lage invile, comparison wirh Freud's greJl fOOlnotc on H,.""'''I in the fj"l edition of Die TraullldeutuMg (inrerpr~IJI;On or dream,). I~OO. Even mOre ob";ou,ly, the I~SI lhree paragraph' ,nvile COmpM;,on Wilh ui'lent;alilil IHer~ture, notably, bur by no mean" only, Same', La Naush (19.'18),

SECTION 8

, The satyr, like the idyllic shepherd of mllre recent times, is

Ihe offspring of a longing for the primitive and lhe natural; bUI how firmly and fearlessly the Greek embraceJ the man of the wooJ~,

and how timorously and mawki~hly modern man dallied with lhe f1altering image of a sentimental, f1me-playing, tender shepherd! Nature, as yel unchanged by knowleJge, with the bollS of culture fitill unbroken-thal is whal lhe Greek saw in his satyr who never­theles~ was not a mere ape. On the contrary, the satyT "'as the archetype of man, the embodimeul of his highesl and mo<;t intense emolion>. the eotinic reveler enraptureJ by the pro~imity of hi~

god, tho: sj'mp~lhetic c'ompanion in whom lhe suflering of the !,od i~

repeated, pne who proclaims wL,dom from the very hearl of nature, a symbol of Ihe sexual omnipotence of nature whieh the Greeh used 10 contemplate with reVerenl wonJer.

The satyr was something sublime and divine: thllS he had to appear to thl;: painfully broken vision of Dilln}'ian man. The con­trived shepherd in his dres~-up~ woulJ have orrenJ~J him: on lhe unconcealed and vigorou~ly magailicenl characlas of nature, hi. eye reoiled wilh sublime satisfaelion: here the true human being was disclosed, the bearded salyr jubilaling to his god. Confronted wilh I!im, the man of culture shriveled intll a mendacious caricature.

Schiller is right about these origins of tragic an, loa: the chorus is a living wall againsl the assaulls of realily beeause it-the satyr chorns-represems e~i,;tence more trulhfully, really, and completo:\y lhan the man of culture Joes who ordinarily cOllsiders himself as the only realily. The sphere of poelry does not lio: out· side the world as a fan!:J.slic impossibility spawued by a roel"s brain: it do:siro:. to Dc just the opposite, Ihe unvarnished exprc;sjpn of lhe lrmh. and must preci'iely [or lhal reason discard Ihe meuda­cious finery of that alkged lealily of the man of culture.

The contrast between lhis Teal truth of nature and lhe lie 01 eulture Ihat poses as if il were lhe only realilY is similar to that be­tween the eternal core of things, lho: thing-in-itsd!, and the whole world of appearances:' just as tragedy, wilh its mduphy,ical com·

" THE 8IRTH OF TRAGE~~ HEenON 8 "

fort, points to the eternal life of this core of existence which ahldes through the perpetual destructi,)o of appearances, (he symbolism 01 the satyr chorus proclaims this primordial relationship belwee,n the thjng-in-il~elf and appearan~e.~ The idyllic shepherd of modern man is merely a counln[cit lJ[ [he sum of cultural illusions lhal are allegedly nat~re: the Diony~ian Greek wants lruth and nalure in their most forceful form-and sees himself changed, liS by magic. inlo a saiVi.

The' revelin~ [hIM!!:. Lhe votaries of Dionvsus juhilale under the spell [1{ such ~ooJs ;nJ insig~ls whose pow~r trauslorms them before their own eyes till they imagiue that they are beholding lhemsel~'es ~s rc,tNcd gcr.iu,es of nature. as satyrs, The later con­stitution of lhe choru_ in tr~g.cdy is the artistic imitatiou of this natural pheuomenon, lhough, lO be sure, at Ihis poiut the ~epara­tion of Diouysian spectators and magkally enchanl~J Di(ln~'~ians

became necessary, Only we must alwap keep in miud lhat the puh­lie at an Attic tragedy found itself in the chof'~' of the orch".\/ra,' and (here was at bottom 1.10 opposition betwreu puhlic and chorus: everything is merely a great ~ublime choru~ of dancing and ~inging

satyrs or of those who permit themselves to be represcnlct.I by such satyrs.

Now we are ready !O understand Schlegd\ formula lion in a deeper sense. The choru~ i~ the "ideal spectator'" in~ofar a~ il is the only beholt.ler, the beholder of the ~i~ionary world ot th~

sc~ne.~ A public of spectators as we know it wa~ uuknown 10 the

2 Hore Niet7.'che rr,turm [0 Schopenh~uer', per<peclive, ~ ·'Tlle Greek Ihr~lr. app'u' lQ have heeo ",igin~lly designed for lhe per­form~nce uf <lilhyramhk <:h~ru ..; in h"oour <If Dionysus. Th. cenlre of It Was the orcht,rr~ I'<'~n,ing'pl~,e'l. a "ircular 'pace, in lhe middle of Which "tuod rhe rlt/lmrl,' Or .llar "f ihe S"d. I!.,'und m,1re than h"lf of the nrc},eSlra. forming a kind of h"",~·,h,... wa~ Ih~ 1},1',jl""~ ('!eein~-p~~c.') proper, circu_ lar rier. of .,eal', .o;cnerally ,ut "Ut <Jf the ."tle of ~ h'lI BehLnd the orche$tr~ ~nd fo,in~ th~ ,,",l;en" W.1' (he .<U"d [call.d '·"ene" in the above translation] ori~in~lI'r' u ",('"don 'Iru,lure, ,1 ('l.;.lde with Ihree doors, Ihrough which, whe'n rh~ lIr,;m, hil<1 de\'tloped fr<lm the dithvramhic choru., lhe actor, made lheil cnl riln CC' ,. (Th,- O~ 1"',1 C,'", ftl" ion 10 Cla,',I'i,~1 Lilerature, ed. Sir Paullhrve~'. re,';<o(1 ed,tion, '~41-" pp. 4:2(.1, • Der "id.ali.,·,},e 7,,,,,1.,111"."

~ Der ein~i,w Schu., m. ,leT S,""aller dn l'ision.''''d! der kene, The word Sr"a~er c"uld ~l,,, me"n 'hmIJer, Ihe shudder of holv aw", amt while Ihi., i. c.rtainly not the p,im",y nleKlling inlend.J here, il ",meho" enler; inlo Ihe coloring Ot rhe ••nlene<:.

Greeks: in their theaters the terraced structure of concentric arcs made it possibl~ for everybody 10 actually ol'eriook'i the whole world of culture around him and to imagine, in ahsorbed con tern· plation. that he hilmelf was a chorisl, . ..

In the light ot this insight we may call the chorus in Its primI­tive form, in proia-tragedy, the mirror image in which the Djony­~ian man contempbtes himself. This phenomenon i~ besl m~de

clear hy im~ginif\~ an actor who. heing trUly talented, sees the role he is suppo~ed tD pla], quile palpably before his eye.; The satyr chorus is. llrst of all, a vi~ion of Ihe Diony~ian mas~ of spectalors, just a~ Ihe world of Ihe sl~(:c. in turn. i~ a vision of this satyr chorus: the force of this vision is Slwnll ell(lullh to makc the eye insensilive and blinJ [0 the imprc"joll ~f ·'rcality," to the men of cullure who occupy the rows of ~eal.' all Mound. The form of the Greek theater recall~ a lonely \'~]1c}' in the mouf\t~ins. the architec­ture of (he scenc appcars like a luminous clnut.l form~lion that the Bacchants swarmiul; over the mounl~ins behold {mm ~ height­like the splenJid fra~ne in which the iUl~ge- of Dionysus is rnealed to them.

In the face of our learncd view~ about elementary anistic proc­esses, this artistic proto-phenomeulJu which we bring up here to help explain (he tragic chorU'; i, almosl offensive, allhough nothing could be more certain Ihan the fact [hat a poel is a poel only inso­far a~ he sees him'elf surrounded by figures who live and acl bdore him and into whose inmllst u:.olure he can see. Qv,'ing to a peculiar modem weakness, we Jre inclincd 10 imagine the aeslhetic proto­phenOml."IlOn in a manner much 100 complicated aud abstTacl.

For a genu',ue poel, mel:.ophor is nol a rhelorieal figure but a vieariou~ imal'.e Ihat he actually beholds in place of a concept. A charactrr is for him nl)[ ~ wholt" hc has composed out of particular traits. picked up hcre and there, bUI an obtrusively alive person be­fore his very eye~. distiuguishet.l [ro1m Ihe olherwise ideutical vision of a painler only by the fact Ihat it continually goes on living anJ acting. How i~ it thaI Homer's Jescriptions arc <0 mllch nwre VIVid

3 Obersehen, like m'oclook. can meall I-"Ih 'UI'"e)' ~n~ ,~nl'''C Fr,,,,;< Golf· ~ng, in hi.\ rr"llslal;OJl, OplS for ··gulle lilcralty """C\:' .... hi,·h ,.,:<1.<, ."<In­...o,e of Ihe pa"age, Th. "onleXl uneqLLivocally n'y'''''' "H"'lLln "I [he whole world of culture: nolhing ;, b<[ ......n Ih. h.h"lda anu the ChC>IU< Golffing'~ r,ansj~lion i, alwgnher more "igorou, IhJn It i' 'cl,"hl'

THE BIRTH OF TRAGEDY

than those of any other poet? Because he visualizes so much more vividly. We talk so abstractly about poctry because all of us are usually bad poets. At bottom. the aesthetic phenomen n is simple: let anyone have the ability to behold continually a vivid play and to live constantly surrounded by hosts of spirits, and he will be a poet; let anyone feel the urge to transform himself and to speak out of other bodies and souls. and he will be a dramatist.

The Dionysian excitement is capable of communicating this artistic gift to a multitude, so they can see themselves surrounded by such a host of spirits while knOWing themselves to be es ntially one with them. This process of the tragic choru is the dramatic proIa-phenomenon: to see oneself transformed befor one's own eyes and to begin to act as if one had actually entered into another body. another character. This process stands at the beginning of the origin of drama. Here we have something different from the rhapsodist who does not become fused with his images but. like a painter. sees them outside himself as objects of contemplation. Here we have a surrender of individuality and a way of entering into another character. And this phenomenon is encountered epi­demically: a whole throng experiences the magic of this transfor­mation.

The dithyramb is tbus essentially different from all other choral odes. The virgins who proceed solemnly to the temple of Apollo, laurel branches in their hands, singing a processional hymn. remain what they are and retain their civic names; the dith­yrambic chorus is a chorus of transformed characters whose civic past and social status have been totally forgotten: they have be­come timeless servants of their god who live outside the spheres of society. All the other choral lyric poetry of the Hellenes is merely a tremendous intensification of the Apollinian solo singer, while in the dithyramb we confront a community of unconscious actors who consider themselves and one another transformed.

Such magic transformation is the presupposition of all dra­matic art. In this magic transformation the Dionysian reveler sees himself as a satyr, and as a ,ratyr, in film, he sees the god, vihich means that in his metamorphosis he beholds another vision olltside himself, as the Apollinian complement of his own state. With thi~

new vision the drama is complete. In the Iidlt of Ihis insigbt we must und rSland Greek trag dy

SECTION 8

s the Dionysian chorus which ever anew discharg it~elf in an Apollinian world of images. Thus the choral parts with which trag­edy is interlaced are, as it were, the womb that gave birth to the whole of the so-called dialogue, that is. the entire world of the stage, the real drama. In several successive discharges thi primal ground of tragedy radiates this vision of the drama which is by II means a dream apparition and to that extent epic in naturej but on the other hand. being the objectificaHon of a Dionysian state, it rep­resents not Apollinian redemption through mere appearanc but. on the contrary. the shattering of the individual and hi~ fu, ion with primal being. Thus the drama is th Diony. ian embodiment of Dio­nysian insights and effeet and thereby eparateJ, as by 8 tr men­dous chasm. from the epic.

The chorus of the Greek tragedy. the symbol of the whole excited Dionysian tbrong, is thus fully explained by our conception. Accu tomed as we are to the function of our modem tage choru., especially in operas, we could not comprehend why the. tragic chorus of th Greeks should be older, more ori inal and important than the "action" proper. as th voice of tradition claimed unmi ­takably. And with this traditional primacy and originality we could not reconcile the fact lhat the chorus consisted only of humble beings who served-indeed, initially only of goatlik satyrs. Fi­nally, there remained the riddle of the orchestra in front of the scene. But now we realize that the cene. compl te with the aClion. was basically and originally thought of merely as vision; th chorus is the only "reality" and generates the vision. sp aking of it with the entire symbolism of dane. ton. and words. In its vision this chorus beholds its lord and master Dionysus lind is therefore eternally the serving chorus: it sees how the god suffers and glori­fies himself and therefore does not itself act. But while its attitude toward tbe god is wholly one of service, it is ncvertheles the high­es , namely the Dionysian, expression of nature and therefore pro­nounces in its rapture. as nature does, oracles and wise sayings: sharing his sufJering it also sbares something of his wisdom and proclaims the tmt from the heart of the world. That il> the ori·in of the fanta.stic and seemingly so offensive figure of the wise and rapturous satyr who is at the same time "the imple man" as op­posed to the god-the image of nature and its strongest urge , even their symbol. and at the same time the proclaimer of her wisdom

THl BIRTH OF TIlAOEDY S[CTIOI'i 9" and art-musician, poet, dancer, and seer of spirits in one person.

Dionysus, Ihe real ~tage hero and center of the vision, wn, according both [0 this in~ight aud to the tradition, nol actually present al first, in the very oldest period of tragedy; he W2IS merely imagined as present, which means that originally tragedy was only "chorus" and not yet "drama:' Later lht' allempt was made to ~~ow, the god as ~eal and to represent the visionary figure together With lIs rrallsfiguflng frame as something visible (or every eye-and thus "drama" in the narrower sense began. Now the dithyrambic chorus was assigned the task or e~ci!ine. the mood of the listeners to such a Dionysian degree thaI. when the tragic hero appeared on the stage, they did not see the awkwardly masked human being but rather II vi.sionary figure. born as it were from their own rapru;e.

Con~ldt"T Admetus a~ he is brooding over the memory of his recently departed wife Alcestis, consuming himself in her ~piritual

conlemp];l\lOu. When suddenly a similarly formed, similarly wan:;. lng woman's figure is led <oward him. heavily veiled; let us imall;ine his suddcn trembling unrest, his tempestuous comparison~, his- in­stinctive conviction_and we have an analogy with what the sp.:c­tator felt in his Dionysian e"citement when he saw the approeo:h on the stage of the god with whose sufferings he had already identified hlmself. Involuntarily, he transferrcd the whole magic image of the god that was trembling herore his soul to that masked figure and. as it wcre. dissolved its rcality into the unreality of spirits.

This is the Apollinian state of dreams in which the world of the day becomes veiled, and a new world, clearer, more under­~wndable, morc moving than the e\'eryday world and yet more ~hado""Y, prescnts itself to our eyes in continua! rebirths, Accord­mgly, we recognize in tragedy a sweeping opposition of stYles: the languagc, culor, mobility. and dynamics of speech fall apart info t,he Diony~ian lyrin of the chorus and, on the other hand, the Apel. !lntan dream world. and become two utterly different spheres of ellpression. The Ap(llliuian appearances in which Dionysus Objecti­fies himself are no longn "an etcmal sea, changefUl strife, 21 glow­ing life." 1 like thc music of the chorus, no longer those forces, merely felt and not condensed iuto images, in which the enraptured servant of Dionysus senses the nearncss of the god: now the clarity

'QuQted fmm Cioelhe', Fum' tine. 50~507.

and firmness of epic form addresses him from the scene; now Dio­nysus no longer speaks thmuEh force, hut as an epic hero, almo" in the language of Homer.

9

Everything that comes to tllC ~urfacc ill the Apollinian part of Greek tragedy. in lhe dialogue, looh simple. lfan'rarcnt. lIud bellutiful. In this .~cn,e, the Jialogue i, an im~~e (If dw Hellcne whose nature is revealed in lhe d:lIlee hl'c"ll~e ~in th<.: dance lhe greale,t ~lrength remain> only pOlential but betr'ly' irlclf in the ~uppkncs,; and wcaltll of mOVClllCIll. Thu, thc [;mguage of Sopho­c1e~' heroe~ amatC" u, hy it, Apollmian precision aud lucidily, so we immediately have thc fceling t!Jat we arc looking into the inner­most ground of t!Jeir being. wllh ,;"me d>ll)nishml'lll thm the way t"

this ground should be so ,;h[1n BUl suppose we Ji,rt:gard lhe char­acter of the hero a~ il Lllln,., hi the ,;mface, vi,iblv-aftcr all, it i, in the last analysis nDlhil1F hut a hright image pn;j<:cted on a dark wall. Which mean~ ~PP~Jrc\llcc' thwllgh and rhrD\lFh; ~uppo,e we penetrate into thc myth (hat pr,,-icd~ it,elf in these lucid refiee­tions: lhen we sUdJenly \'xperiell\~e a phcnomcnon that is ju,;t lhe oppo,ite (If a hllliliar optical phmomell"n. ""hen after .il forcefut attempt 10 gale on the Still we turn aw;,y hlindeJ. we ,ee dark­colored spots before our cyes. as a cure, II, it '""ere. Con\'er,ely. the bright image projections of lhe SophOClean hem-in ~hon, lhe APolliUiau a<pect of thc ma~k-H\' uec'·"~ry effects of II glance into lhe in>lde and terrors of naturc; as II WtfC, [umlnou, ~pots toIcure eyes J~ma¥ed hy grue~ome night, Dilly in thi, scn<..: may we believe lhat we propcrly comprchcnd the ~erious anu important conccpt of "Gretk ['h~erflll"ns' The llIiSUlldcl'qanding of thi~

concept a~ chcer[ul'lc" ill a S\~lc of unendangcred com fOr! is, of coursc, ellcounlcrcd Clnywhcrc touay.

Sophocle~ underqood tll(o IIJO<t ;;orrOl\'ful I1gllre of the Greek stage, the unfortunate lkJil'u" 'l' lhc noble hnl1l~n bcing whn, in spite of hb wi,dolll, i, J~,t,,'ecl tll crror ~nJ mi,ery hut who e~'ell­tually. through hi, !rcmenuo\ls slillcrini:!_ ;,prcad~ ~ m;lgic~1 p,lv;er of ble~sing that rCHlIlillS effective C\'CIJ ht)<lnJ hI' decease, Thc

69 .. THE HlllTh OF TIUGEDY SICTrDN .,

noble human being doe\ no! sin, the profound poet wants to tell us: though every law, every natuml order, even the moral world may

peri~h ,hwngh his Jction;;, hi" actions also produce a higher magi­cal circle of dI~"t,; which found a !lew world on the ruin> of lhe old one lhal has hecri i"athrown. Thai is what the poe I wanls to say to

ns ill'i<l[;;r as he is ,Il Ihe smIle lime a religious thinker. As a poet he first shows us a nlMvelOUS]y tied knOl of a Irial, -lowly unraveled

by the judge. bit by bit. for his own undoing. The genuinely Hel­lenic delight at (hi, ujalcctical solution i, so great lhal it introduces a (rail of surnior chccrf\lln<:% into (he whole work, everywhere

softening the ShHp p(,ints of the gruesome presuppo~ilil1m of this process.

In Oedi{JUs al CO/OIIU,I we eneountcr the ~'lme cheerfulness, hnt elevated into an infinil~ trnmA.guration. The old man, stmck

by an excess of misery, aband()n~d splely to sliffer whatever hefalls him, is confronted by the srlprateru,;trial cheerfulncss that de­scends from the divine ,ph~re <lnJ ,ut~c,l~ to n~ th~l lhe hero <It­

tains his highest activity, C'ICIH.lillg Jar beyond hi" Jif~. thn,u~h his purely passive pO~lnrt, whilc hi, cL)neei"U> dl'el.], ,md desires, earlier

in his life, merely led him in I" p'ls';l'ity. Thu~ the intricatl' kl:'aJ knot of the Oedipus fable that no rr,nna] ~j'C could nnrawl is

~radually discntangled-and thc ml)SI prn[olmd hnman jl'Y over­comes us at this divine countcrp:lr! of lhe tliakl:lic

If this explanntion doe, jn~licc 11) lhe poet one may yel ask

whether it exhansts lhe contents of fhe mYlh-and then il becoll1e~

evident thaI the poet's whole conception is nothillg bnt precisdy

that bright image which healing nature pro)eCIS hefmc u~ aflcr a glance into the ahyss. Ocdipus, the mnrdercr of his father, lhe hu:;;. band of hi~ mothcr, lhe ~olver ot Ihc riuJIe of the Sphin"l Whllt" does the mysterious lriod of thc,c f;,tefnl deeJ, tell n,?

There is a tremendously OLd rorular belief, e,peciall} in Per­

sia, that a wise mr'gn" Ciln be born <lJ1ly from ince~l With th~ riddle­solving and mothcr-marrY::lg OeJiru,; in mind, we mUSl immedi­ately interpret lhis t,1 mCJn that where pr<lrhctic and mJgicill

powers have hrok~n the 'jl~H <If rr~,;ent and rurure, the rigid law 01 individuation, and the real magic of nature some enor­mously unnatural evenl-sueh as ince.'l-muot have occurred ear­

lier, a~ a eausc, How else could one compel nature to ~urrender he.

secret~ if not hy triumphanlly resisting her, lhnt i~, by means of

something unnatural? It i, this in~ighrlhall find e~pre~~etl in lh~t

horrible triad of Oedipus' deslinie~: rhe ~~me mrtn who wlvcs the

riddle of nature-that Sphin~ of two spccic;/-i\I~" mu\! hrr~k

rhe mas! sacred natura! (Jrtl"r, hy murderin!, hi, blher and mMry­

ing hi~ molher. Indeed, the myth seem, to "'ish 10 ",hi_pcr to n; that wi~dom, and particularly Dion;.-si:m wi,dom, i, In ulJlliHUrJI

abomination; that he who by mer,n, of hi, knowktl~c plunges na­ture into the abyss of dcstruction mll~l aho sutler Ihe ui~,olution of

nature in his own person. "The edgt of wi~doJn turn~ against thr wise: wisdom i~ a crime again~t nalnre": _Iuch horrihte ~entenec~

are proclaim~d to u~ by th~ myth; btll the Hellenic poct "'uehe~ the SUblime antl terrihle Memnon\ Column <If myth like J 'unbcam. ;;(1

thaI it suddenly bcgin~ 10 sounJ-in S,lrh,'cIcJn mel()Jk... ~

Let me now contra_It the l:'tory llf acrivity, \lihieh ililiminate~

Aeschylus' Pf()melh"IL~, wilh the glury elf r;I'\sivilY, WhJt lhe

thinker AeschyJLi~ hJU to say to n, here, but \liliat a~ a puet he only allows us 10 scnse in his symhoJie iml,gc, the y<lUlhful Cr<leth~ WJ~

abk to reveal to n~ in the aUdacious words of his Pr,llllelhells:

Here I sil, forming men in my own image, a race 10 be like me, 10 suffer, 10 weep, 10 delighl and 10 reioiee, and to defy yOIl,

as I do. 4

Man, ri~ing to Titanic Slarure, gains culture by his own efforls anJ forces the -gods to enter into an alliance with him becanse in his

~ Lion and human. AClUally, the SphlD~ also has wing' in ancient Greek rep­resenlation.l.

Nietz,che'\ cnmmenl" un incest arC inilucn~ed til' Wagner and shuuld be compared wilh Thr ('au of Wa~"er, section 4, ltlird paragmph. 8 Memnon'. Column ""as an anciel\l name given to One of lhe 1WO colo.'!RI ~lal1le.\ or lhe pharaoh Amenophi' HI, ne~r lhe Egyplian TiI<'hc, belweel\ the Nile and the valley of lhe ~ing!. a~rOS\ the rivn from Karnak. When lhe fi"t rays of lhe >\tn >trllck the wealhered IlalLle in lhe mmning, 'I i, ,,,i<l 10 have produced a mu,ical sound-a phenomenon Ih," 'topped whcn "n e"rlh, quake damaged lh. sl"](1e slill further. The ",lalUe or J.lemnon" also "ppears in Ibsen's Pur Gy/ll (18~7), in ACI IV. 4Goclhe's poem---<:>riginat teX! and verse lranslalion on facing page_I" m' elUded in T""e/ll, GUlnlin Poets, Iran>. W. Kaufmann.

70 Tn~ 1I1llTIJ OF TR~GEDY

very OWl) wisdom he holds their existence and their limitalions in his hands. BUI what i~ most wOlld~rfuJ in this Proll1CthC,llS poem, which in its b~sic idea is the verilufJlc hymn of impiety. is tho: pro­foundly Aeschylcan demand for jus/ire. The immeasurable ~n!fer

ing of the bold "indi\·jdual" on the one hand and the divine predic­ament and imimation of a twilight of the gods on the other, the way the power of lhese ' .... 0 wcrlds of sunering ('(Impel, a reconcilia­tion, a metaphysical unlon_,,1! this recajj~ in lhe Itrongesl pos,ihle manner the center and rn:.till axiom of the Ac.\chylean view of the world which envisages Moira enthroned above gOds and men a, eternallu,t;ce.

In view of the astonishing auJ<lcity with which Aeschylus places the Olympian worlJ 011 tile ;cales of hi~ justice, we miJ,t call 10 minJ that the profound Greek pc1c<<;essed an imm0l'ably firm foundation for melarh)'~i(al thought in hi_ mystcric:i, and all his skeptical moods could he vented against tile Olympians. The Greek artist in panicular IUd an obscure feeling 01 mutual dependence when il cam!." 10 the goJ.,; and precisely in lhe PrQmelheus of Aes­chyJu;; Ihis feeling i, symholiud. In Ilimself the Titanic Ilrtist found the defianl faith lha! he haJ th" Jbllity to create men and at least destroy Olympian goJs, by mean., of his superior wisdom which, 10

be sure, he had to atone for wilh elernal sut:fering. The splendid "ability" of the greal genius for whi"h even elern~i ~uffcring is a slight price, thc stern priJe of the (mis/-Ihal i;; lhe content and soul of Aeschylus' poem, while Sophocles in his Oedipus sQunds as a prelude llle flOl} mlJn'~ song of triumph.

But Aeschylus' interpretation of lhc myth does nO! exhaust the astounding depth of ils Icrror. Rather llle artiSI's delight in whal be<.:omes, the cheerfulne5~ of ani~!ic creation thai defies all misfoflune, i~ merely a brighl image of eloud~ and sky mirrored in a black luke of sadne<s. The Promethen~ ~tory is an ori~~inaJ pos­session of the entire Aryan community of peoples und evidence~

their gift for the pr(,(onndly tragic, Ind~td, It does not seem im­probable lh~! thi, myth Ilas the same ch,)racteristic significance for the Arpn churacter which the myth of th~ [<III Ilus for the Sem.itic char<lclcL and that thc,~ two mi[[l~ are related to each other like brother anJ ~i~ler:' The prcsuppmilion of lhe Pmmelhcus myth is

~ Afler Ili, emallcipalionfrelm.ll..3gner. NielZ->che C3m" te consider Ihe

)(CTlO,", 9 " to be found In the e~travaga!ll value which a naiVe humanity at­tached 10 (ire a~ !he trlle palladium of every ascending culture, Bm thai man shonld freely dispose of fire without receiving it as a pre~­ent from heaven, either a~ a lightning b'llt or J~ the warming ray~

of the sun, slruck lhe~e refleclive primilive men a~ sacrilc!!e, as a robbery at divine nature, Thm lhe very first philo~()phiCal problem immediately produces a p~inful and irresolvahle conlradiclion be­tween man and god and m<lve~ it before the gale of evety cuhure. like a huge boulder. The best and highe~t pos~e.'~ion munkind can acquire is obtMined by sacrilege and mU~1 be paid for Wilh con.!."­quences lllat invLllve the whok flood of SUfferings and sorrows with which Ihe otfended divinities have!() a1llici th~ nobly aspiring ra~t

of men. This is a hanll idea which, by the digniry it confers on &acrilege, conuam .traugely Wilh the Semilic mY'lh of the faJ[ in which curiosity, mendacious deception, susceptihility 1<1 seduction, lust-in short, a serie.' of pre~mlllently feminine affects wa. con­sidered the C'rigin of e,il. What distingui~he. !he Aryan notion is Ihe sublime vie~w of active .I'in as the chalacteriqicully Promethean virtue, With that, llle elhical bu~i~ for pe'5imistic traged)' hM. been found: lhe juslifi<.:ation of human e~i1, meaning hOlh hum~n guiil lind {he human ~ulIering il entaii.l.

The misfQr!une in tile nature of thing., whicll tile conlempla­tive Aryan is nO{ inclined to interpret away-the contradiction al the hear! of the world reveals itself to him as a cJa'ih of different world~. e.g. of a divine and human one, in which eacll, taken as an individ~al, has right on its .~ide. Ilut neverthele5~ Ila~ to suffer for its individuiltion, !xing merely a single one beside another. In llle hef()i~ effort of the individual to a!lain universaliry, in the alicmpt to transcend the curse of individU~lion and to become the />l1e IVorJd­being, he suffers in hj~ own person the primordial conlradi:tion that is coneealed in thin~'i. which meam thai he commllS sacnlege and suffers.

Thus the Aryans understand .acrilege as something mascu· line," while lhe Semites unJerstand sin as feminine,l JUSt as the

t"rm~ "Anan" and "Semitic" mo,e prohl"malic, See, e,g" hi, n<;>le: "Conla Ar)'an Jnd S"mi,ic, Where race' ue mi~.d, Iher" is Ihe ,,,u,,,,, of ~,eMI cultures" (Wuke, MusQrwn ec!ll){ln..."I. XV I, pp. 37JI.), 6Der Frevel. T Dif SU/lde.

tBI, 1I1R1'f1 Of 1'''AGEO'

original ~acrilcge is committed hy a man, Ihe Griginal sin by a woman. Alw, lhe witches' chorus says:

/f lhm i,1 '\0, '""I' do flN mind it: With" thp"sand J/(>rJ.\ lilt' ,""omen find it. But/horJr.h Ihr)' rush, IH tlo not ('(Jre: With one bi8 iump the men ge//here.~

Whoever under~tands this innermost kernel of the Prometheus story-namely, the necessity 0' sacrikgc impowd upon the titani­cally ~triving individual-must a150 immedialely feel how un-Apol­hni:!n this pe,,,imiSlic nmion is. For Apr>1I1' wnnts to grant repose 10 individual being~ preci~cly by drawing bO\lnduie~ between them and by again and again calling these til mind as lhe ml\l;1 sacred laws o( the world, wilh his dcmands for .,elf-knowledge and m~a,­ure.

Lcst lhis ApolJinian tendency congeal the form to Egyptian rigidity and coldness. lest lhe effort to prescribe to thc individual wave its palh and re«\m might ~nn(llthc mol ion of the whole lake, the high tide of Ihl' Dil'ny'iiJn de~tr(lyed from time 10 lime all tho,e little circles in whil'h lhe one-,ide,lIy Apollinian "will" had 'OUghl to confine lhe Hc1lmic spirit. The .'I1Jdenly ~welling Dionysian tide then takc, the ,<,parale lillie w~vc-mollnlains of individuab on ii'

back, even as Prl'mctheu,' brother, the Tilan Alias, does with the earth. This Titanic impulse to become, as it were, the Alias for all individuals, carrying them on a broad back, hi~her and higher, far­ther and farlher, is what the Promcthcan and lhe Dionysian have in common,

In this respect, the Prometheus of Acschyllis i~ a Dionysian mask, while in the aforcmentioned profounJ dem:lIld for juslice A<,"~ch)'lus rClc~r." to the thoughtful his palcrnal descent from Apollo, lhe gDd of individuation and of jnst boundaries. So the dnal O:lturc of Aeschylns' Prometh~m, his n<ltLll'e which is at the same time Diony,ian and Apulliniall, mighl be expressed thus in:l con­ccpmal formula: "AJlthal exists is 111,;1 and unjust and equally jU5li­fied in both."

ThaI is yourworld T A worlJ illlked!-'

~ G""lhe', FIlIJ.lI, li'lcs :l982-~.\.

9 Goolhe'ii Faus/.linc 409.

7J

10

The tradition is Urldispuled that Greek tragedy ill it~ earliest form had for il5 sale theme the sufferings of Dionysus and that for a long time the only stage hero was Dionysus himself. But it may be claimed with equal confidenee that until Euripides. Diony~us

never ceased to be the tragic hero; that all the celebrated figures of the Greek stage-Prometheus, Oedipus, etc.-are mere mash of this original hero, Dionysus. That behind all these masks there is a deity, that is one es~ential reason for the typical "ideality" of these famous figures which ha.~ eaused so much astonishment. Some­body, I do not know who, has claimed that all individuals, taken as individuals, are comic and henee unlngic--from which it would follow that the Greeks simply could not suffer individuals on the tragic stage. In fact, this is what they sum to have fel!; and the Platonic distinction and evaluation of the "idea" and the "idol," !.he mere image, ill very deeply rooled in the Hellenie charaeter.

Using Plato's terms we should have to speak of the tragic fig­ures of !.he Hellenic stage somewhat as follows: the one truly real Dionysus appears in a variety of forms, in the mask of a fighting hero, and emangled, a3 it were, in the net of the individual ll.'iJl. The god who appears lalks and ael5 so as to resemble an erring, striving, suffering individual. That he appear! at all with such epic precision and e1anty is the work of the dream-interpreler, Apollo, who through this symbolic appearance interprets to rhe ehorus its Diony~ian state, In truth, however, the hero is the suffering Diony­sus of the Mysteries. the god experiencing in him~elf the agonies of individuation, of whom wonderful myths tell that as a boy he was torn to pieces by !.he Titans and now il worshiped in thi! state as Zagreus. Thus it is intimated that this di5memberment, the properly Dionysian mOering, is like a transfonnation imo air, water, ea"h, and fire, that we are therefore to regard !.he state 0' individuation as the origin and primal eause of all suffering, a~ something objee­l:ionable in itself. From the smile of this Dionysus sprang the Olym­pian gods, fmm his tean sprang man. In Ihis existenee as a dis­membered god, Dionysus po~sessn the dual nature of a cruel, bar­barized demon and 6 mild, gentle ruler. But the hope of the

THE ~IRTH Of TRAGEDY" epopts' looked toward a rebirth of DiollYSllS, which we mmt \lOW dimly conceive as the cud of individuIIliou. It was for this coming third Dionysus that the epop!s' raaring hymns of joy re>aundeu, And it is this hope alone thai ca,ts a gleam of .ioy upon the features of II world tom asunder and shattered inlo individuals; this is sym­

,1 bolized in the myLh of Derneler, suu\;;: in eternal sorrow, who ,t'_!r joices again for the first time when told that she may once more "\ give birth to Di(l1l~511;; TIlis view of thing,: already provides us with \ all the elements of a profound and pessimistic view of the world,

together with the mystery doctrine of tragedy: the fundamental knowledge of the oneness or eWr)lhing eXiSteul, the conception of individuation as the primal cau~e of evil, and of art as the jo;..ou~ hope that the spell of individualion may be broken in ~ugur)' of a restored oneness.

We ha"e already suggested thai the Homeric epos i~ the poem of Olympian culture, in which this culture hiS sung its own song of victory over the terrors of the war of Ihe Titanl. Under the predom­inating intluence of tragic poetry, these Homeric myths are now born anew; and thi, metempsychosis re"eals that in the meantime the Olympian culture also has been conquered by a still more pro­found view of the world. The defiant Tilan Promelheu~ has an­nounced to his Olympian !(lrmentor thal some day thl." greatesl danger will meuace his rule, unless Zeus should enter into an alli­ance with him in time. III Ae~chylus we recognize how the terri­tied Zeus, fearful of his end. allies himself with the Titau. Thus the former age <If the Titans is once more recQ"t'red from Tartaru<; and brought to the li~h!.

The philo~oph)' of wild and naked nature beholds with the frank, undissembling gaze of trulh the myths of the Homeric world as they dance past: thcy tum pale. they tremble under the picrciulJ glance of this !!odde~~J_lill the powerful fist of thl." Dion".lian art­

ist forces them inlo the service of the new deity Di,)n~'sian trUli takes over the entire Jomain of mvth as lhe symbolism of its knowledgl." which it makes known parlly iu the public (ult of trag­redy and partly in the ~ecret ceiebrallon' of dramatic mysterie~. bu

I IIlway~ in lhe old mythical garb.

I 'Those initialed into (he mysterie" ~ Truth.

SECTION I fl

What power was it th~t freed Prometheus from his vUllur~

and transformed the myth into a vehide of Dionysi~n Wisdom? II IS

the Heracleian power of mu,ic. having reached its highes: manifes­tation ill tr.1gedy. it can invest myths With a new and mdst prClfound signific;once. This we have already characterized ~\ the mo,t power­ful function of music. For it is the Lm or e~'ery myth to cre~p by degnes into the narrow limils 01 somc allc~ed hi;;lorical reality, and to be lrealcd by some later generation as a ultlque fact wllh historical claims: and the Greeks were alrcJdy bidy on the W1)' toward restamping Ihe whu]r of their mythical ju~'eni1c dream ,Jg;\­dous!y and arbilrarily into a hi;;lorico-pragmatkal jlJ\'e'l/'ie lii.I'lOry. For this is the way in which religions are wont til die nm. under the stern, intelligent eyes of an orthodox dogmatism. the mythical premises of a religiou are sy,temalized as a sum tllt"l.o[hislo~ieal

events; one begins apprehensi"ely t(1 defend the credj~dllY .0J the myths, while at the same time one opposes auy conllnU.1l1on of their natural vitality and growlh. Ihe feeling for mYlh perishel. and its place is taken by the claim or r.::ligi(ln to hi<;LOrical foundatioll5. This dying myth was now sdud by lhe new-born genius of DIOny_ sian music; and in Ihese hands it nouri;;htd once more w/lh c"l(lr~

su(h as it had never yct di;;p!ayed. wilh a fr~tranc!." that awakened a longing anticipation of a ml."taphysical wmld After Ihis flnal effulgence it collapses. it~ leave~ wither, and ,(lOn the moekmg ~u.

dans Qf antiquily catch at the discolored J.nd laded flowers camed away by the [our wind~. Throu~h tr.lgedy the myth attains its mO§t profol.lnd (ontent, its most e~rre".\i,'e form; it rises once rna:!." like a wounded hero, and its whole e...ccs, of strl."ngth, together With the philosophic calm o[ the d:,jng, burn~ in ils eyes with a la'it powerful gleam.

Wh~l did ,'01.1 want. sanileg:ious Euripides, wh<::n you ,;ought to compel this dying myth to ,erlie you [1n~e mure? It died under your viol!."nt hand 'i-and lhl."n you needed a (C1pied, m~'iked my~h

that. liKe the ape of Herade~, merely knew how to deck aself out In

the ancient pomp. And just as the mylh died lln you. thl." genius of mu~ic died on you, too. Though ..... ith greed) hands you plundered all lhe gardens of music, )'(lU 'itill managed only c"pied. ma,Ked music. And because you had ahandoned Dionysu,. Apollo ahan­doned vou: rouse ail the passions from their re'iting places and conjure· them inca your circle, sharpen and whe! a ~ophisljcal dia­

16 THE BIRTH OP TRAOEDY CTION 11 71

lectic for the speeches of your heroes-your heroes, too, have only copied, masked passions and speak only copied, masked speeches.

11

Greek tragedy met an end different from that of her older sister­arts: she died by suicide, in consequence of an irreconcilable con­flict; she died tragically, while aU the others passed away calmly and beautifully at a ripe old age. If it be consonant with a happy natural state to take leave of life easily, leaving behind a fair pos­terity, the closing period of these older arts exhibits such a happy natural state: slowly they sink from sight, and before their dying eyes stand their fairer progeny, who lift up their heads impatiently, with a bold gesture. But when Greek tragedy died. there rose every­where the deep sense of an immense void. Just as Greek sailors in the time of Tiberius once heard on a lonesome island the soul­shaking cry. "Great Pan is dead," so the Hellenic world was now pierced by the grievous lament: "Tragedy i dead! Poetry itself has perished with her! Away with you, pale, meager epigones! Away to Hades. that you may for once eat your fill of the crumbs of our former masters!"

When a new artistic genre blossomed forth after all. and rev­ered tragedy as its predecessor and mistress, it was noted with hor­ror that she did indeed bear the features of her mother-but those she had exhibited in her long death-struggle. It was Euripides who fought this death struggle of tragedy; the later artistic genre is known as New Attic Comedy. 1 In it the degenerate form of tragedy lived on as a monument of its exceedingly painful and violent death.

This connection helps to explain the passionate attachment

1 The chief representative of the so-called Old Comedy was Aristophanes (about 448-380 B.C.). "The New Comedy began to prevail about 336; its characteristic features are the representation of contemporary life by means of im~gjnary person drawn from it. the development of plot and character, the ~ubstitution of humour for wil, and the introduction of romantic love as a theme. It re,~mhles the lrllgedy of Euripides (the 'Ion' for example) more than the comedy of Ari.lophane~. Of the chom.s no more remain. than a band of musicians and dane.ers who~ performances punctuate intervals in the play. The New Comedy is in fact an obvious pngeoitor of the modern drama. BUI the moral standard is surprisingly low. ." (The Oxford Com­paniQn /0 Classical Lilnaturi!, ed. cit., p. 116).

that the poets of the ew Comedy felt for Euripides; so that we are no longer surprised at the wish of Philemon, who would have I t him be hanged at once, merely that he might visit Euripides in the lower world-if only he could be certain that the deceased still had possession of his reason. But if we desire, as briefly as pos ible, and without claiming to say anything exhaustive, to characterize what Euripides has in common with Menander and Philemon, and what appealed to tbem so strongly as worthy of imitation, it is ulli­eient to say that Euripides brought the spectator onto the stage. He who has perceived the material out of which the Prometh an tragic writers prior to Euripides formed their heroes, and how remote fr!'m their purpose it was to bring the faithful mask of a1ity onto the stage, will also be aware of the ulterly opposite tendency of Euripides. Through him the everyday man forced hi way from the spectators' seats onto the stage; the mirror in which formerly only grand and bold trails were represented now showed the painful fidelity that conscientiously reproduces ven th botched outlin ofnatun:.

Od &seus, the !ypicall{el!en of the older art, now sank, in th hands of the new poel~, to the figure of the Graeculus. who, as th good-naturedly cunning house-slave, henceforth occupies the center of dramatic interest. What Euripides claims credit for in Aristoph­anes' Frogs,2 namely, that his nostrums have liberated tragic art from its pompous corpUlency, is apparent above all in his tragic heroe . The spectator now actually saw and beard his double on the Eurip­idean stage, and rejoiced that he could talk 0 well. But this joy was not all: one could even learn from Euripides how to speak oneself. He prides himself upon this in his contest with Aeschylus: from him the people have learned how to observe, debate, and draw con­elusions according to the rul of art and with the cIev rest sophist­ries. Through this revolution in ordinary language, he made the New Comedy possible. For henceforth it was no longer a seer t how-and with what maxims-everyday life could be represented on the stage. Civic mediocrity, on which Euripides built all his polit­ical ho , was now given a voice, while heretofore the demigod in tragedy and the drunken satyr, or demiman, in comedy, had deter-

J Linea 937ff. Aristophanea aI30 lampoons Euripid in The Ach4nliaJu 'lid in Tlrumophoriaz.ollStlt.

I

" mined the character of the language. And so the Ari~tophanean EUripides prides him~el[ 011 having portrayed lhe commoll, famil­iar, everyday life and aClivilies of the people, about whi"h all are qualified to pass judgment. If the entire populace now philo,a­phizcd, managed land and g(]Qds, and conducted JaWSUil~ with unheard-of circumspe.::tion, he deserved the crcdil, for Ihis was the result of lhe wj~dom he had inculcated in Ihe people,

It was 10 a populace thus prep~rtd and enlightened that the New Comedy could address itself: it WdS Euripides who had laught, as it were, the chorus; only now the chorus of spcclalOfs had to be trained. As soon as this chum! was If<lined to siog in the Euripidean key, Ihere arose lhal drama which resembles a game of chess-the r-,'ew Com~d}', Wilh its perpelual triumphs of cunning and craftiness. BUI Euripides-the chorus masler-wns praiwd continually; indeed, pe()ple would have killed them_elves in order to learn still more from him. if lhey had nO! known lhat the lragic poelS were quite as dead as lragedy. BUI with that, Ihe Hellene had given up hi, belief in immortality; nOI only hi~ belief in an ideal pas!, but allo his belief in au ideal fUlilre Tile words of the wcll­known epitaph, "frivolous and eccentric when an old mau,"" also suit aging Hellenism. The passiug moment wit, levity, and caprice arl: its highest deilies; the fifth cslaH~, that of the slave~, uow comes to power, at least in sentiment: amI if we may Sti!1 speak at all of "Greek cheerfnlness," it i~ lhe cheerfulness of the slave who has nothing of consequence to be responsible for, nmhing great to strive for, and who does nOI value anythiug in lhe past or future higher than the present.

It was this semblance of "Greek cheerfulness" which so arOused the profouud and formidable natures of the flrst four eeuturies of Christianity: this womanish flight from serioll~ness and terror, lhis craven scni5faction with easy enjoyment, seemed 10 them not only contemplible, but a specilically anti-Chrisli<ln ~entiment. And it is. due 10 their inl1ucnce that the cor.~eption of Greek antiqnity which endured through the ccnturies clung wilh almo~l unconquerable persistency to thai pink hue of ehcerfulnes..;-.-as if there h~d never been a sixlh cenlury Wilh iI, birlh of tragedy, its mysteries, its Py_

I QuolUtion from a si,,·l1ne poem of rhe young Goethe, enlilled "G,~h'chr;fl" (epilapb).

IECTtOl'l 11 " thagoras and Heraclitus, as if the .....orks of art of lhe great period simply did not exist, though lhese phenomena can hardly be ex­plained as having originated in any such senile and slaVish pleasure in existence and cheerfulness, and poim to a wholly diffcrem con­ceplion of the world as the ground of lheirexi;Lence.

The assenion made above, that Eurlpide> brought thc specta­tor 0010 the stage and thus qualified him to pass jUdgment on the drama, makes il appear as if lhe older tragic art had always suffered from bad relalion, Wilh lhe speCtatOr; and one mighl be templed 10 extol as an advance o\'er Sophocles the radicallendency of Euripides to produce a 'Proper relalion between art ~n~ lhe pub­lic, BUI "public," after all, is a mere word. ln no sense IS II a homo· geneous and coustanl qllamity, 'JI.,'hy should the a.rlis! be bound 10

accommodate himself to a power whose ~lrenglh 11~':I solely lIJ num­bers? And if, by virlue of his endowmems and aspirations, he should feel him~dl ~uperior to everyone of these speclators, how could he feel greater respcct for lhe collective expression of all these subordinate capacities than for the relatiVely highest-e,n. dowed individual spetlJtor? In truth, if ever a Greek arllst throughout a long life lrealed his public with audacity and sell­sufficieucy, it was Em;pitkl When the massc;; threw Ihcmselves al his feet, he openly and with sublime defiance revened hi'; own tendency, the very tendency Wilh which he had WDn over the masses. If thi~ fenius had had the slightest r<,ver~nce for the pande­moninm of the public, he would have broken dowll long before the middle of his career, beucalh lhe he~vy blow~ of his failurcs.

These con,ideTations make it clear that onT formula-that Euripides brought the speclalor outo the ,uge in order to make him truly competcnt 10 pa~s judgment-was mer.ely provISional; we must peuetrate more de,,!,ly :(1 understand hiS tendenr)'. Cl;1n­versely, il is well known that Aeschylus aud Sop~ocles durmg the whole of their lives, and illdced long after, were m compl~le pos­session of the people·s fa~or, so there can be no question of a false relalion between art and the public in the ca~e of lhese predeces· sors of Euripides, What was it lhen th,)t forcibl)' drove lh.i' arlist, so richly endowed, so constantly impdled to praducuon, from the path warmed by the sun of the greatesl names in poetry and cov· ered by the clandless heaven of porul~r faWlt? What strange con­sideralion for the speetawr led him to oppose Ihe spectator? How

.0 THE BIRTH 0' TIAG£Df nCTIOI'i" 12 " could he, out of too great a respect for his public---despise his pub­lic?

Euripides-and this is the solution of the riddle just pro­pounded---undoubt~dly felt himself, as a pact, superior to the masses in general; but to two of his spectators he did not feel supe­rior. He brought the masses onlo the stage; but these two ~pecla­tors he revered as the only competent judges and maslers of his arl. Complyiug with their directions and admonitions, he transferred the cntin: world of sentiments, passions, and e;.;pcriences, hitherto present :It every festi~'al performance as the invisible chorus on the spectators' benches, into the souls of his stage-heroes, He )'ic1ded to their demJnds, too, when for these new characters he sought OUI a new language and a new tone. Only in their voiccs could he hcar any conclusive verdict on his work, and also the encouragement that pHlmised e~entual success when, as usual, hc found himself condemned by the publie judgment.

Of these twO sp.:et:ltors, one is-EUripides himsclf, Euripides a! thinker, not as poet. lr mi!',ht be said of him, as of Lessiug, that his extraordinary fuud of cri/ica!talenl. if it did not ere:ltc, at \cast constantly stimulaled his productive artistic impulse. With thi.o gift. with all the brightness and dexterity of his critical thinking, Emipi­dcs had sal in the thealer and striven to rccognize in the master­pieces of his grcat predeceswrs, as in paintin!',s that have become dark, feature after feature, ]jne after linc. And here he had experi­enced sOf11ething which should nOI surprise anyone initiatcd into the deeper seere!s of Aesehylcan tragedy. He observed something incommensurable in every feature and in every line, a certain de­ceptive distinctness and at the same limc an enigmatic depth, in­deed an infinitudc, in the background. Even the dearc~t figure always had a comet's tail attached to it which ~eemcd to sllggest the uncertain, that which could never be illuminated. A similar twilight shrouded the structure of the drama, e~recially the significance of the chorus. And how dubious thc solution of thc ethic<l1 pn.lblems Temained to him! How questionable the treatmenl of the myth~!

How unequal the distrihution of good and bad forlune! Even in Ihe language of the Old Tragcdy there was much he found ('lfen~i~e, or at lcast enigmatic; especially he found too much romp for simple affairs, too many tropcs and monstrous expr~ssiC'ns to sui I lhe plainness of the characters. So he sat in the theater, pondering un­

easily, and as a spectator he confessed Lo himself thai he did not understand his grcat predecessors. But if the undcT:itanding w~s for him the real root of all enjoyment and creation, he had to inquire and look around to see whether no oue else had the same orinion and also felt this incommensurability. But most peoplc, and ~mong

them the finest individuals, had only a suspicious smile for him. and none could explain to him why the great masters were still in the right despite his scruples and objeclions. And in this st~le of torment, he found thal other specta/or who did not comprehend tragedy and therefore did not esteem it. AlIicd wilh him. he could now venture from his solitude to be!',in the tremendous slru~gle

against the art of Aeschylus and Sophocles-not wilh polemical essays, but as a dramatic poet who opposed his conccption ollmg­edy to the traditional ooe.­

12

Before we namc this other speclalor, let us pause here a mo­ment to recall to our minds our previously dcscribed imrression (,r the discordant and incommensurable clements in the natUre of Acschylean tragedy. Let us recall our surprise at the chorus and lhe tragic hero of lhar tragedy, neithcr of which wc could rel:oneile with our own customs any more Lhan with tradition-till we reLlis­covered this dualily itself as the origin and essence of Grcek trag­edy, as the expression of IWO intelvlOven anisric impulses, the Apollinian and the Dionysian.

To separate this original and all-powerful Dionysian element from tragcdy, and to reconstruct tragedy purdy on the basis of an un-Dionysi;\O art, morality, and world view-this is the lcndency of Euripides as iL now revet\ls i\~el[ ttl us in clear illuminalion.

In lhe eveniug of his life, EuripiJes himself propounded to his contemporaries (he question of the value and siguific!lnce of this tendency, using a myth. Is the Dionysian entitled to exist at all? Should it not be forcibly upr(\Otcd from Hellcnic soil? Certainly, the poet tells us, if it were only possihlc: but lhe god Dionysu~ is too powerful: his mOSl inlelligent ad~'ersar)'-likc P.enlhellS in Ihe Bacdwe-is unWittingly CnehJnled by him, and in lhis enchant­ment mns to meet his fate. The judgment of the tWO old men, Cadmus anJ liresias, seems also to be the judgmcnt of thc old

poet: the reflection of the wisest individuals does not overthrow these old popular traditions, nor the perpetually self-propagating worship of Dionysus; rather it is proper to display a diplomatically cautious interest in the prcsence of sueh marvelous forces-al· though the possibility remaius that the god may take offense at such lukewarm participation. and eventually transform the diplo­mat-like Cadmus--into a dragon. This is what we are told by a poet who oppo,ed Dionysus with heroic valor throughom a long life-and who finally enued his career with a glorification of his adversary and with suicide, like II giddy man who, to e~cape the horrible vertigo he can no longer endure, ca,ts himself from II tower.

This tragedy was a protest against the practicability of his own tendency; but ala,. it had already been put iuto practice! The marvel had happened: when the poet recamed, his tendency had already triumphed. Dionysus had already been seared from the tragic stage, by a demouic power speaking through Euripides. Even Euripides was, in a sense, only II mask: the deity that spoke through him was neither Dionysus nor Apollo, but an altogether newborn demon, calkd Socrllle.<.

This is the new opposition: the Dionysian and the Socratic­lind the an of Greek tragedy was wrecked on this. Though Euripi­des may seek to comfort us by his recantation, he does not suc­ceed: the most magnificent temple lies in ruins. What does the lam· entation of the destroyer profit us, or his confession that it was the most bcautiful of all temples? And even if Euripides has been pun­ished by being changed into a dragon by the art critics of all ages­who could be contell! with so miserable a compensation?

Let us now approach this Socratic tendency with which Eurip­ides comhateu and vanquished Aeschylean tragedy.

We must now ask ourselves, what could be the aim of the Euripidean dcsign, which, in its most ideal fornI, would wish to base drama exclusively au the un-Dionysian? What form of drama still remaineu, if it was not to be born of the womb of music, in the mysterious twilight of the Dionysian? Only the dramiJtiud epos­but in this Apollinian domain of art the tragic effect is certainl} unattainable. The subject maller of the evems represemed is not decisive; inueed, I suggest that it would have been impossible for Goethe in his projected NU!J.sikiJa to have rendered tragically elIee­

live the suicide 0f thi~ idyllic heing. which was to have completed the fifth act. So extraordinary is the powcr of the epic-Apolliniall that before our eyes it tramform~ the nH1st lerrihlc things by the joy in mere app~arance and in redemption through mere ap­pearance. The poet of the dramiltized cpos cannot hlend com­pletely with his image., any more than the epic rhap~odist can. He is still that calm, ullln()\,ed C0lltemplali0n which sees the images before its wide-open eyes. The actor iu tllis dramatized cpos still remains fnuuaml'ntillly a rhaj'~odi;H the comecration of the inner dream lies all all his action,. ~o thill he i~ ncver wholly an actor.

How, then, i~ the Euripiu~an pIny rdated to this ideal of the Apollinian drama? JllSt a~ the youn!CCf rhilp~oui,l is related to the solemn rhapsodi~t of old tim,-'. In the Platonic Ion. the younger rhapsodist descrihes hi~ own niltllrc a~ follows: "When I am saying anything sad, my eye" fill with tear,,: and when I am saying some­thing awful and tcrrihle. lhcll my hair <,land;, 0n end wilh fright and my heart bcat" quickly." Here we no 10ngcr remark :mythillg of the epic ah~orptiou in mere appeill'ilnce. or of the dispassionate coolness of the tnlc actor. whl1 preci"cly in his higheq activity is wholly mere aprearan<.~ and .io)' in mere IIppearancc. Euripides is the <ldor who" hcart healS, who,e lwir 'iLlllds on cnu; as SonUliC thinker he ue~igm thc pIau, as pa;;S1UlJate ilClOr he cxecu(e~ it. Nei­ther in the ue~iglJin!, nor in the execulion i, he a pure arti,t. Thus the Euripidean dralllil i~ a thing hOlh cool and fiery, equally capa­ble of freezin!! anu burning, It i~ impo"iblc for it to allain Ihe Apollinian elkct of the epos, I'.'hile. on lhe other hanu, it has alien­ated itself as mm:h a, possible fwm Dionysian elemellls. Now, in order to he effective at all, it requirc'i new ~(imulam" which can no longer lie within the ~phcre of lhe ,'nil' tWo arl-illlpulw;, the Apol­linian anu the Diony,ian, The~e stimulants arc cool, paradoxical thoughts, replacing Apollmian crmtcmplalion-allu fiefy afJ('c/S, re­plaeln!! Dionysinn ecstasie~; and. it may bc auded, thOllghts amJ affects copieu wry reali,lically anu in no ~e!l5,' dipptd into the

ether of art. So wc see thal Euripidcs did n0l sueceeu in hasing lhe dramn

exclusively on the Apollinian, and hi~ un-I1hmy,ian tcnuency actu­ally wcnt astray anu hecame naturali~lic and inartistic. Now we should he ahle to come closer to thc character of aeI/neric Sorra­

lism. whose sUDrcme law reads rou!!hl)' as fol1ow~, "To be heauti·

poet: the reflection of the wisest individuals does not overthrow these old popular traditions, nor the perpetually self-propagating worship of Dionysus; rather it is proper to display a diplomatically cautious interest in the presence of such marvelou~ foree~-al_

fhongh the possibility remains that the god may take offense at such Inkewarm participation, and eventually transform the diplo­mat-like Cadmus--into a dragon, This is what we are told by a poet who oppo>ed Dionysus with heroic valor thronghout a long life-and who finally em1cd his career with a glorification of hi6 adversary and with suicide, like iii giddy man who, to escapr the horrible vertigo he can no longer endure, casts himself from iii

tower, This tragedy was a protest against the practicability of his

own tendency: bnt alas, it had already been put into practice! The marvel had happened: when the roet recanted, his tendency had already triumphed. Dionjsus had alnad) been sCared from the tragic stage, by a demonil;- rower spt'aking through Euripides, Even Euripides was, in a sense, only iii maslc the deity that spoke lhrough him was neither Dionysus nor Apollo, but an altogether newborn demon, called Soc-raW,'.

This h thr new oppOSition: the Dionysian and the Socratic­lind the an of Gret'k tragedy was wrecked on this, Though Euripi­des may seek to comfort us by his recantation, he does not suc­ceed: the most magnificent temple lies in ruins. What does the lam­entation of the destroyer profit us, or his confession that it was the most beautiful of all temples? And even if Euripides has been pun­ished by being changed into a dragon by the an critics of all ages­who could be content with so miserable a compensation?

Let tiS now approach this Socral;C tendency with which Eurip­ides rumbated and vanquished Aeschylean tragedy,

We must now ask ourselves, what could be the aim of the Euripidean dnign, which, in its most idt'nl fornI, would wish 10 base drama exclusively on the un-Dionysian? What form of drama still remained, if it was no! 10 be born of Ihe womb of music, in the my~terious twilight of the Dionysinn? Only Ihe dramiJliud epoJ­but in this Apol1inian domain of art the Iragic effect is eenainly unattainable, The subject maller of the events represented i~ not deci~ive; indeed, I ~uggesl thai it would hnve been impos~iblc for Goethe ill his projected NuusikiJQ to have rendered tragically dfee­

live the ~uicide of this idyllic being, which was to have completed the IIfth act. So extraordinary is the power of the epie-Apollinian thai beC(lre our eyes it lramforms the most terrible things by the joy in mere nppearanee and in redemption through mere ap­pearllnee. The poet of the dram,ltiled cpos, cannot ~lend com­pletely with his imuge, any mme than the eptc rhapsodiSt can, He i~ still that calm, ulltnm,ed contemplation wfllch sces tht' im(lgeS t>e!ore its wide-open eyes, The actor in tllis dtamatized epos still remains fnndamentally a rlwp~odi;H: lhc consecration of the inner dreanl lies on al! his actions, ~o thm he is ncver wholly an actor,

How, {hen, i~ the Euripidean play rdilled to this ideal of tht' Apollinian drama? Just as the y()un~er rhapsodist is relaled to the solemn rhapsodi'l of old tim",<, In the Platonic lon, the younger rhapsodist de,cribe< hi< Cl\l'n n:l!IIfC as follows: """'hen I am saying anything sad, my eyre; fill with h',lr': ;Jnd "'ben J :1m saying some­thing awful and terrihlL. Ihen my h;nf qand~ on end wilh fright and my hear! heat< qllidly" Here "T n" 1C\I1,Cn lenK\rk ,Inylhillg of the epic absorptiun in mere :,pI'C;oI;m,:r, C\r "r llw di,pa"ionate coolness of Ihe true aClOr, "h,' pr~Ll'ch in Ili' hi~he<l ~clivily is wholly mere apre,aranee ,mel i"\ in nln~ "pP~':Jr"n,c Euripide" i.~

the ador whose heart ~k~II', ",h,\_t !l;J;' '("11<.1, "n ,'nd,~, S()~ralic

thinker he dc~igns Ihe pl:,n, ~," p~"i"!I'll~ clcwr he c~e"uk~ it. Nei­ther in the designin!, nor in the t,~~.:tlli,'ll i, h~ J pure ~rtist. Thus the Euripidclln drall1~ i,; :1 Ihin!, h<1[[' ('""I 'lOd fi~ry, equally capa­ble of freezint! "nd burnil'g It i,; imp'b,ihk f(lr it to attaia the Apollinian effect of the tpC1S, \lhik, Oil Ihe (Ith~r hand, it has alien­ated itself ns much n' p'h"bk [r"n, Diony,iCin d~ll\ents_ Now, in order w he effcetivt al all, it require'; new stimulants, which can no longer lie within Ihe ~phne of rhe ('nly IWO art-ill1pul~e" Iht' A~ol­Jinian llnd Ihe Diony,ian, These stimu!<tnts arc cool, paradox1c~1

thpughts, rcplacing Apollmian cDnlemplatirm-llnd fiery afJiTIS, re­placing Dionysinn e~stn,ic~; and, it may he added" tho\l~h!s and afft"ch copicd very realistlcntly aud in no ~em,' dtpped tlltO the

elh~r of nrt. So wc SC~ thnl Euripidc;; did not suecetd in ha,ing 1he drama

e,{clu,ively on the Apollini:ITl, and hi;; un-Dionysian lendency netu­ally wcm astrJY nnd becamc u~lurali~lic and inartistic, Now we ,hould be able to come clos~r to the character of QI'Ilhnic SocrG­lism, whose supreme law reads rout!hly as follows, "To be beauti·

nCTIDN I ~ " rut everything must be intelligible," as the counterpart to the So­cratic dictum, "Knowledge is virtue:' Wilh this canon in his hands. Euripides measured all the separate elements of lhe drama-lan­guage, characters, dramaturgic struclure, and choric music-and corrected them according to this principle.

The poetic deficiency and dcgeneration, which are so often imputed to Euripides in comparison wilh Sophocles, are for the most part products of this penctrating critical proceSs, this auda­cious reasonableness.

The Euripidean prologue may scrve as an example of the pro­ductivity of this rationalistic method. Nothing could be more un­congenial to the technique of our own stage than lhe prologue in the drama of Euripid~s. For a single person to appcar at lhe oulset of the play, telling us who he i~, what prccedes the action, whal has happened so far, even what will happen in the course of the play, would be condemned by a modern playwright a;; a willful, inexcus­able abandonment of lhe effect of suspense. We know everything that is going to happen; who would want 10 wait till it actually doe. happen? After all, we do nOl even have the cxciting relation of a prophetic dream to a reality that comes 10 be latec on. But Euripi­des did not lhink like that at all. The effecl of tragedy never de­pended on .:pk suspense. on a fascinating uncertainty as to what is 10- happen now and afterward. bUl ralh.:r on the greal rhctorical­lyrical scenes in which the passion and dialeclic of the prow~onist

swellcd to- a broad and powerful eurreJll. Everything laid the ground {or pathos, not Ior action: and whatever was no! directed toward pathos was c('Insidned objcclionable. But what interferes most with the hearer's pleasurable absorption in such scenes is any mis~ing link, any g~p in thc tcxture of the background story, So long as the .~peetator has 1" t1f.:ure Qut lhc meaning or this or that person, or the presuppositions of this or ,hat conllkt of indinations and purposes, he eflnnOl becLJme compktcly absorbed in ,he activi­ties and sufferings of the chief characle[~ or feel brea,hless pity and fear.

Aesch}·lean.SnphocIcJn tr~gedy employed the mo~t ingenious aevices in the initinl scenes to pl...icetn the spectator's hands, as if by chance, all the thr~.lJ,; n~cc,;,;ary for a compkle understanding -a trait proving thJt lJo1JI~ artt,try whkh. as it were. ma~ks the necessary formJI d~m~nt JnJ mJkc, it app~ar accidemaJ. Yct Eu­

ripide~ thought he oQsen'ed that durin~ these first sceno:s tho: spec­tator was $0 ani\ious to solve the problem of the background his­tory that the poetic beauties and the palho~ of the .:~rl)~itil'n wer<: lost on him. So he put the prologue even Qefore the e"po;;ilion, and placed it in the muuth of a person who could be trusted: (lrtell some deity had to guaranlee the plot of lhe lTag~dy w ,he public. to remove every doubt a~ to the ro:alily of tho: myth-somewhat as Descarle~ could prove the realily (If the empiriciil ",,,rld onty by appealing to- the truthfulness of God and his inabili,y to utter false­hood. Euripides makes u~e of this same divine truthfulness (lnCe more at the close of his drama, in order 10 reassure the public as 10

the future of hi~ herues; this is the ta~k ('If the notorious deflJ a machirla. Between Ihis epic pre~'ie", and ep',c prospeci lies ,he dramatic-lyric present, the "drama" proper.

Thus Euripides as a poet is e~,emi;llly an echo of his own conscious knowledge; Jnd il is preciscly on this JCCDunt that he occupies such a remarbble po,ilion in the hislOr)' of Greek art. With reference to his criticat-pwdnClivc aCli~ity, he mU~1 of,~n

have felt as if he had to bring to life for drama the beginning or ,he essay of Annagoras: "In the beginning all thing~ were mi"ed l\l ­

gether; then came the understanding and created order." Annago­rElS with his "noJ,4S" 1 is ~<lid to have appeared among phijo~opher,

as the first sober person~ amid a crowd of dmnkcn ones. Euripides may have conceived his relation to lhe other tragic poets in tcrm~

of a similar image. As long as the sole ruler and disposcr of the universe, the now-, remained excludcd from arli~tic aClivity, things were all mixed together in a primeval chuos: lhis was wha, EIJripi­des must have thought; and so, as the fir~l "sober" one among them, he had to condemn the "drunken" poets. Sophoclcs said of Aeschylus that he did what was right, though he did it uncon­sciously. This was surely not how Euripidcs snw il. He might hnve said lhat Aeschylus, because he creat~d nnconsciously, dill what was wrong. The divine Plato. too. almost always speaks only ironi­cally of the creative faculty of the poet, in~orar as it is nOI con-

I The Greek word j, translaled a, undersl:,nding (Yersrand) in :he preced,ng sentence, The qumalion is nOI to be found in preCISely ttm form ill the e~lant

fragments. ~ ArIstotle, Metaplry,'ics 9Mb (A, end of Chapler ~)_

8FCTIO~ tl" "r scious insight, and places it on a p3f v.ith the gift of the soothsayer and dream-interpreter: the poet is incapable of compo~ing until he has become unconscious and bereft of understanding. Like Plato, Euripides undertook 10 show to the world the reverse of the "unin­telligent" poet; his aesthetic principle that "to be beautiful every­thing must be conscious" is, as I have said, the parallel 10 the Socratic, "to be good everything must be conscious." So we may consider Euripides as the poet of aesthetic Socralism.

Socrales, however, was that second spectator who did nol comprehend and therefore did not esteem the Old Tragedy; in alli­ance with him Euripides dared 10 be the herald of a new art. If it was this of which the older tragedy perished, then aesthetic Socra­lism was the murderous principle; but insofar as the struggle was directed against the Dionysian element in the older tragedy, we may recognize in Socrates the opponent of Dionysus. He is the new Orpheus who rose against Dionysus, and although he is destined to be torn to pieces by the Maenads of the Athenian couri, he still put to flight the powerful god himself-who, as on his flight from Ly. curgus the King of Edoni, sought refuge in the depths of the ~ea,

namely the mystical flood of a secret cult which gradually covered the earth.

13

That Socrates was closely related 10 the tendeney of Euripides did not escape the notice of contemporaneous antiquity. The most eloquent expression of this felicitous insight was the story current in Athens that Socrates used to help EUripides write his plays. "'henever an occasion aTPse to enumerate (he demagogues of the day, the adherenls of thc "good old times" would mention both na"me~ in the same brealh. To the influence of Socrates and Euripi­des they attributed the fact thaI the old Marathonian stalwart fit­DeSS or" body and soul Wll\ hcing sacrificed more and more to a dubious enlichtcnmcnl that involved Ihe progressive degeneration of the powe;'s of body and soul. 11 i~ in this tone, half indignant, half contemptuous, that Ari~lophanic comedy used to speak of both of them-to the consternation of modern men, who are quite willing {o give up Euripide~, but who cannot give sufficient expres­sion to their astonishment that in Ari~tophanes Socrates should ap­

pear a~ the first and supreme Sophisl, liS the mirror and epitome of all sophistical tendencies. Their only consolation is to pillory Aris· tophanes him~cl[ as a di~soIule, mendaciou~ Alcibi~dc.s of poetry Without here defemling the profound inslinct of Arislilphanes against such attacks, I shall continue to ,how, by means ,)f the seutiments of the time, thc close connection between Socratcs and Euripides. With this in view, we must rememher pallicu).uly how Socrate~, as an opponent of tragic art, refrained from auendll1!! lragedies and appeared among the spectators only when a new pl~y

or Enripides Wll~ to be per[olmrd. Most famous of all, however, is the ju~tapn,>ition nf tht two nam.:' h)l Ine Delphic oracle, which designated Socrate~ a, the wi~eq of men and at the same time de­tided that the secnnd pTile in lhe cunlest o[ wisdom helonged to Euripides.

Sophoclts was namcd third in order of rank-he who could boaslthat. a~ cllmpared with Aeschylus, he did what w~s right he­tame he kllt'w whal was right. Evidently il is precisely the degree or the brj!,hlne;;~ or thi~ k,wwledg" which dislingnishes thcse three meu in common as the three "knowing ones" of their time.

The mo~t acule word, hO""cver, about this ncw and unprece­dented ~a!ue set on kncowledge and insight was spoken by Socrates when he found that he was thc only one who acknDwlcdgcd to him­self that he knew nothing. whereas in his critical peregrinations throuch Athens he had c;Jllcd on thc grcalcst statc,mcn, orators, poets: and artists, and hJd everywhere di~covered the conceit o[ knowledge. To his nSLolli'ihmcnt he perceived that all these eelebri· ties were without 3 proper and ~ure insight, evcn with regard to their own professions, llnd lhat they practiced them only hy in­stinct. "Only by instinct": with this phr;Jse wc touch upon the hcart and corc of the Socratic tenden"y. Wilh it Socralism condemns ex­isting art as wcll as e~isling ethics. Whcrever Socrati,m turns its searching eyes it sees lack of insight and the power of illusion; alld from this lack it infcrs thc csscnlial pervcrsity and reprehensibility of what exists. Basing himself on lhis point, Socrates conceives it to be his duty 10 correct cxistcncc: all alouc, with an cxpression of irreverence and superiority, as the precursor of all allpgclher diffcr­ent culture, art, and morality, he eaters a world, tn touch whnse very hem would givc U> the greatcst happincss.

This is what Slrikes us as so tremend,)usly problematic when­

" THE BIRTH OF TRAGFDY SECTlOI'< 14 " ever we consider Socrates, and again and again we are tempted to

fathom the meaning and pmposc of this most questionable phe­nomenon of antiquity. Who is it that may dare single-handed 10 negale the Greek geniu~ lhat, as Homer, Pindar, and Aeschylus, as Phidias, as Pericles, as Pythia and Dionysus, as the deepest abyss and the highest height, is snre of our astonisheu veneration? What demonic power is Ihis that dares Lo spill this magic potion into dust'! What demigod is this to whom the chorus of lhe noblest spir­its of mankind must caIl out:

A/us.! You hal'/' ,hal/ered The beautiflll world With oraZt'n fist; II falls, it i.T scat/cred.'

We are oITereu a key In the character of Socrates hy the won­derful phenomenon knowu as "the duimoni()n of Socrates:' In ex­ceptioual cin;um~lauc~;;, whcu his trcmcndOIlS intellect wavered, he found seC\lfe support in the utterances of a divine voice thaI spoke up at such momcnts. This voice, whenever it comes, alwnys di.l­,flla,k". In this Ulterly abnormal nalure, instinctive wisdom appears only in ordn to hinder conscious knowledge occasionally. While in all productive men it is instinct Ihat is lhe ncative'-aninnalive force. and consl'i,~u~nrss acts critically anJ dis,ua~ively. in Soc­ra'e~ it is instinct Ihal become~ the crilie, and cousciousncss that bccome.~ the nealOr-truly a monslrosily pa ,id.·rwm! Specifi­cally. ~'c olw:rvc here a mC'nslrons ddt"cluJ o[ any rny~ti<.;al dis­position. so SDnaks mi!o'hl Pe' called 'he Iypical non-mplie, in whom. through n hypnlrC'phy. lhe logical natnre is developcd as excessivdy a~ instincliH· .... isJ"m is in lhl' rnplic. But the logical urge Ihat bec;\me manife,t in Socrate~ was ab~olutcly prevenled from turning again't itsclf; in its unbriuled n{1(1U if di~plays a natu­ral power such as we encounter to our awed amazenlent only in lhe very grcalest inSlincti;'c forccs. An)'(lne who, through the Platonic writings. ha, e~perienced even a breath or the divine nai'vet,; nnd sureness Df Ihe S'lcralic w:Jy (If Iilc. will <I1~o feel h(Jw lhe enormous

'Goell{~·5 Fdl/JI, lines J601-11.

driving-wheel of logical Socrali~m is in motion, as it were, Ol.'liind Socrales. and Ihat il must be viewed Ihrough S()enHeS as through a shadow.

His own ,ense of this rdalil"'nship fonnd expr~s~i()n in the dignifieJ sni{lusnn, with which he I."wr}where. tI'cn before hi5 jutlge~, insi~ted on his tlivine calliug. At boltC'm. il wa. as impos­sible to rdule him here as 10 approve o[ his in~tinl"l,disimegraling

influence. In view of 'his intli~;oluble l·C'nflid. when he had at 13st been broughl hcfofe lhe fC'rum of ,hc Greek sIJ:e. only one kind of punishment wa~ indicateJ: exile. Being lhoro\lghly enigmatical, unelas<'itiah1c, and ine~plil"abk he mi&ht have peen a,ked lo leave thl." City, and posterity would never have been justified in charg­ing the Alhenians with [Ln ignl1mini(lu~ deeu. But thai he was sen­tenced to death, nor exile. S<icrales hlm:5e\f ,eems to have brought about with per reel awnren,'ss and WithO\lt any natur:ll awe of death. He went to his dC:lth wilh the calm with whil·h. according \() Plato's descriptiou, he le;wes the SympO~itlm al dawn, the laS! of the reveler5. h) hegin a new J.l~, while (m th\~ benches and on lhe eaNh hi_~ drowsy t;lble coml':"Inions rcmain behind to dr<::lm of Soc­rales. the true erlllicist. Th~ dyill8 S(}Uill<'~ hecarne the new idenl, never seen before, of noble Gred: YOllths: above all. Ihc typical Hcllcnic ~otllh. Plato. prllStf'llcJ him-,l"lf hdore fhis image wilh all the lIrJent Jevotion oj his enthu,ia~lic soul.

14

Let us now imagine the one great Cyclops eye of S()Wltcs fixed on tragedy, an eye in which lhe fair frenzy of artistic enlhusi­a~m had never glowed. To this eye was denicd lhe pleasure of gaz­ing into lhe Dionysian abyS5es, What, lhen, did it have to sec in Ihe "sublime and greatly lauded" tragic art, as PlaW called il? Some­lhing HIther unreason~ble, full of causes apparently without effects, and effects apparently wilhout causes; lhe whole, rn()reover, so motley and manifold that il could not but he repugnant [0 a sober mind, and a dangerous tinder for sensitive and suseeplihle souls. We know the only kind of poetry h~ comprehended: lhe AesopiGlt faMe; and this he favored no doubl with lhe smiling accommoda­tion with which the good honest Geliert sings lhe praise of poetry in the [able of the bee and the hen:

.. UCTltlW 14 ,\THE BIRTH OF TRAGfDY

Porms ar" IJsdul: thev Cutl It'll Till! lrulh by mrum of parub/'" To InOJ/' ,..,hoare nOI I'e,y hflght.

BUI to Socrates it seemed th~t tragic nrt did not even "tell the truth"; moreover, it addressed it~lf 10 "those who are not very b~jghl:' not to the philosopher: 1I twofold reason for shunning it. Like Plalo, he reckoned it among lhe f1allcring arts which portn!y O?l~ the agre:able, not the useful; and therdore he required of his discIples abstmence and slricl separatilJn from such unrhil~orhi­cal atlractions-wi(~ slIch success lhal lhl." youthful tragic poet Plato IIrs! burned hIS poems Ihill he mighl become II student o[ Socrates. BlIt where ullconquerable propt'n~jljt"S struggled against the Socratic maxims, their power, together wjlh lhe impact of his ~remendolls character, was still grcat enough to forcc poetry itself 1010 new and hitherto llnknowll channds.

An instanee of this is Plato, who in coudemning tragedy and art in general certainly did llO( lag behiud the naive cynicism of hii master; he was nevenhele~s constrained by ~heer artistic necessity to create an art form that wa, related to those forms of art which he replldiated. Plato's maill ohjectiou to the older an-that it is the imiration of a phanrom and hellee belongs to a sphen: even lower than the empirical worl~ould certainly nOI be directed against the new an; and so we find Plato endeavoring (0 transcend reality Ind 10 represent the idea which underlies Ihis p,eudo-reality. Thus Plato. the lhinker, arrived by .a detour where he had always been at home as a poet-at the point from which Sophocles and the older an protested solemnly against that objection. If tragedy had ab­sorbed inlo itself .all the earlier types of art, the same might also be said in an eccentric sense of the Platonic dialogue which. a mi:nure of all extant styles aud (orms, hovers midway between nartative lyric, and drama, between prose aud poetry, and so has also broke~ the ~trict old law of the uuity of liugui,tic form. This tendency was tamed slJll furthcr by the CWlic writcrs, who in the greateSI stylis­tic medley, oscillating between prose and metrical forms, realized also the literary image of the "raving Socrates" whom they repre­sented in real life.

The Platonic dialogue was, as it were, the barge on which the shipwrecked ancient poetry ~aved herself with all her children:

crowded into a narrow spa~e .arid timidly <uhmhting to the sin~le

pilot, Sacra In, lhey now ~aikJ into a new world, which never !ired of looking at lh~ f~nta~lic specLlde o( lhi~ procc"ion Im.!ecd, Plato h~s given to all pO~lcrilY Ih,' mod<'l o[ a new art [arm, the model pf Ihe mwrI-which mav he d~,;cribcd a, an inAnilciv en­hanced Aewpian rahle, in whi~h pLletr,. h'lIJ~ the ~ame r;l~k in relaljpn to dialecliclol philo;,ophy as thiS' !'ame philosophy held for many cenmrics ill relation to theology, namely. thc rank of on­eilla.! This was the new position imo which Plato. unJer the pres­~ure of the dcmollic Socrates, forced poetry.

Here philo,wrnir thought overgrows arl and compel~ it to cling close to the trunk of dialcctic. The Aeollinil1r" lendency has withdrawn inlo the cocoon of logIcal ~{"hcm:lli,m: jU;;1 a, in the case of Euripide~ we noticcJ somelhing analogou~. a~ well a, a transformation of the Dion...·sian into natllfuli,tic alfi."cls. SO~r~le\,

the dialectical hero of the Platonic drama, remind, ll' of lhe kin­dreJ llature of the Euripidean hero who must defend hi;; aclions with arguments and countcrargllments and in the pro~e,~ [1hen risks the loss of our tragic pity: for who cOllld mi'laXi." the "ffimis­lic element in the llatUre of dialectic. which celehr~k;; a trill mph with every concluSlion and can breathe only ill cool clJrit~' :lod ello­~ciou5ness-the optimistic clement which, having once 'penetrJled tragedy must gradually overgrow as Dionysiall regions and impd it nece~sarily to self-destruction-to the death-leap inlO the hour­geoi, drilma Consider the comequence, of the Socratic maxims: "Vinue is knowledge; man <im Duly from ignorance; he who is virtuous i~ happy" [n these thra ba~ic forms of oplimi~m lies the death of ',ragedy. For now Ihe "irlllou~ hero mu~t be a di~lecti­cian: now lhere must he a rle(e,~~ry, vi,ihle connection hetween virtue and knol<lrdge, faith ~nJ m,lra!ily: nnw the transceudental justicc of A~~ch~'llls is ,kgr;lded to [he supcrficial anJ insolent prin­ciple Dr "poeli~ jU'lice"' wilh it, cu,t,lmary defH ex mQ('hilla.~

1 Handmaid. ~ ,"'r;swlle h~d c"ll~d EuripiJ.. "Ih~ mL»r tragic or Ihe poet," (Poelic~

14.1,,,) .. Alth"u~h N,etl>che h;" m"r~ reeljn~ for p""lry-and rragedy_ lh.l~ ,:,,-mwlle J!d. lh" "l,male ..,,"m~ [;11'" lh,n N,etz,che\ ccmceplLon of EUllp,de,.", lhe m"'l c>pllnll."lc. $,Jttly. Furrp,de, ,I1d nOt helieve lhal "he who '.'. VlflLlom !\ happy"--em the c,)ntrf" -,md the ,uperabLLnU"nCe of ~laleclr.caj flr~worb in hi' tragedies, Ihough ,tQe, dissipate Llie lragic emo­lion, u,ually 1!lu,lralc.' the rulllJly of ","'on, I' mahilily to prevenl lragedy.

THE BlRT", Of TR~G£DV SECTION r~" " As it confronts this new SocratiC-(lrtimistic stage world, how

does th~ choms arre:lf now, and indeed the whole musical­Dionysian substratum of IT:lgedy? As something accidclllal. a djs~

pensahle vestige of the origin of (r'lg..dy~ while we have seen Ihat the chorus can be unJcrSlOod only as the cause of tragedy, and of the lrugic in general. This rcrp1c~ily in reg;nd (0 the chorus already manifests itself in Sophocles-an important indication that even with him the Dionysian basis of tragedy is beginning [0 break down. He no longer dares to enlmsl to the ehorll> the main ~hJre of the efreet, but limits its sphere to such an ex lent that it npw aprears almost co-ordinate with the actors, just as if j[ wne elevated from the on;he~tra into the scene; and thus its character i~, of COllr~e. complctely de~troyed, even if AriSlotle favors precisely thi~ IheN,' of the chorus. This alteration in lhe position of Ihe chorus, whith Sophocles at any rale recommended by his practice and. accord­ing to tradilion, even by a treatise, is the first st~p 10ward the de"lrucrion of the chorus, whose phases follow one ~nolh~r with alarming rapidity in Euripides, Agalhon, and th~ New Comedy. Optimistic dialeelic drives music out of [r~gedy with the sCDurgc of its syllogism,; that is, il destroys the essence of tragedy. which can be inlerpreled only as a manife,lation and projection into im~gcs of Dionysian Slates, as the v),ihle ~ymbolizing of music, a, the dream­world of a Dionysian inloxication.

If we must thns a~~ume an anti-Dionysian tendency [)p~rating

even prior to Socrntcs, which merely received in him an nnprece­dentedly magnificent expression. we mu~[ nnt draw back hefMe the qneslion of what ~uch a phenomenon as that of Sex:rates indic~te~;

for in view of the Platonic dialogues we are certainly not entitled to

regard it a, a merely disintegrating, ncga!ive for~e_ And though there can be no doubt that the most immediate eflect of !he So­cratic impulse tended to the di"oJulion of Dionysian tfilgedy. yet a profound cxpericnce in Sonalc~' own life impels us to ask whelher there i, n/'['enaril.v only an antipodiJ! relation hetwe~n Soeratism aud an. ~m1 whether the birth of an "arti~tic Socrates" is altogether a contradiction in terms.

For wilh respect to art that despotic logician occasionally had the feeling of a gar. a void, half a rerroaeh, a po,sibly neglecled dutj'. As he tclls his friends in prison, Lhcre often came to him one and the same dreilm apparition, which always said the same thing

to him: "Socrates, practice mu,ic." Up to hi~ very Inst day~ he comforts him,elf with the view lhat his philosophi,iog i, the hi~hest

of the mu,es, and he finds it hard 1o believe thaI a deity ,h"\lld remind him of lhe "common, popular music," fin;Jllv. in priwn. in order thaI he may thoroughly unburden hi~ con-cienee, h~ docs consenl to practice this mmic for which he has btlt little resreet. And in this mood he writes a prelude 10 Arnlln amI LUrn~ a few Ae,opian fable~ into verse, It was ~omething akin to the demonic warning voice that nrged him 10 these praclices; it was his Arol­linian imight that. like a harharie king. he did not under~tand lhe nobk image of? g(ld and was in dan~er of sinning againsl a deity­thn·.ugh his lack of unda~t3nding. The voice of the Socratic dream v'ision is the onl." si£-n of anr misgil·ing' about lhe limits of logic: Perhaps-thus ho: mu,t have asked himself-what is not intelligihle to me is not necessarily unintelligent'! Perhaps there is a realm of wisdom from which the logician is exiled? Perhap, art i, even a neCe%31)' correlalil'e of, and .,urplemem for science'!

15

In the spirit of the.'e last suggestive qlleslions it must now be said how rhe inlluence of Socrates, down to the pre~ent momenl and even into all future lime, has spread over posterity like a shadow thilt keeps growing in lhe evening sun. and how il again and again prompl~ a regeneration of urf-of art in the metaphy,i­cal, broadest and profounde,t sense-and how its own infinily abo guarantees the innnit} of art.

Before this could be recogni1.ed, hdore lhe innermost depend­enee of every an on the Greeb. from Homer to Socrales. wa, dem· onstrated conclusivcly, wc had to Feel about the,e Greeks a~ the Athenians felt Clbllll( Socrales, Nearly every age and slage of cul­(Ure has at some time or other sough I with profound irritalion to free itself from the Grceb, beeau~e in their pre~ence everylhing one has achieved one,elf, though appilrcntly quite original and ,in­cercly admired. ~uddcnly ~eemed 10 los~ life and color and shriv­eled into a poor copy. even a e~riealure, And ,0 time afler lime cordial Hnger erupt~ again~t this pre~umptUOlIs lillIe people thaI made hold for all time 10 de,ign~tle everything nOl nillive a, -'bar· baric." Who arc lhey, onc a,b, who, thou~h they di'play only an

.. TilE BIRTH OF Tll.~GEDT SECTION 15

ephemeral historical splendor, ridiculously restricted imlitlJlio~s, a dubious e"cellence in their mores, and are marked by ugly VIces, yet lay claim 10 that dignity and pre_eminence among peoples which characterize genius among the rna~ses? Unfortunately, one was not lucky enough to find the cup of hemlock wilh which one could ,imply dispose of such a character; for all the poison that envy, calumny, and rancor crealcu did nO! suffice Lo deslro~ thaI self-sufficient splendor. And so one feels ashamed and afra~d In the presence of the Greeks. unles~ Due prize~ truth above all thmgs and dares acknowledge even this mJlh: thaI the Greeks, as charloteer~,

hold in their hands the rcin~ of our own and every other cuilure. but thaI almost always chariot and horscs are of inferior quality and not up to the glory of their leaders, who consider il s.pon 10 mn such a team into an abyss which they themselves dear with the leap

of Achille~. In order to vindicate the dignity of such a leader's position for

Socrates, too, it is enough to recognize in him a Iype of cxislen.ce unheard of herore him: the type of lhc theoretical man whose sig­nificance and aim it i~ our nc;.;:t task to try to underSllInd. Like the artist, the theoretical mau find~ an infinile delight in whatever ex­ists, and this ~atisfaction prolects him against the practical ethics of pessimism with its Lynceus eyes' lhal shine. only in I~C da:k. Whenever the truth is uncovered, the. anist WIll always elmg wllh rapt gaze to what still remains covcring2 even afte: suc~ un~over­ing; but the theoretical man enjoys and fi~ds sa\l5f.actlon m t~e discarded covering and finds the highest oblect of hiS plellsure J.n the process of an ever happy uncovering that succeed~ through hIS

own efforts.

'Lyncen., one of the Argonaut~. wa, .0 sharp:,ighled he could ,ee through the' earth and di,linglll,h objccl, alnl<lSI ten mllcs away. Although the Ger­man word for "lynx" is Lr,eils and Nictz,che wnte, Ly"keusaugen.. previous lran,laliom say "Lynx eye,,". . " . ~ Previom' translations havc m"sed 'Nlelzsche, porn!. The be.>t e~mmentary on his contrast is fOllnd in ,;ection 4 of !he Preface to Th~, (,a., ,'C/en.ce, re­primed at the end or ,';';rl:.<dre <,"l1Ira WaJ;ner (~()rlahle. ,';Ie1l.sch" pp.}81~ 683) In lhl' heautlful pa~,age Niell.\che 'ake' "'lie wIlh tho'e who w~n by all mCam to unveil, uncover We 00 longer belleve" thaI trulh re­mains Iruth when lhe veil> u'c withdrawn." We have learned 10 'lOp cour~· geously aI lh.e surface. the [old, lhe .1<in, 10 adore appearance. to believe ,n form" lone., word., in the whole Olympus of appearance: Tho.se Greelt., were superflci:1l--om 01 prn;undit" .. Are We nol, precl""l)' III lhl,S r~,~ .pecl, Greds? Adorer. ~f forms, of lones, of word."! And Iherefore---{1f!lsts.

There would be no science if it were concerned only with that one nude goddess and with nothiug el~e. For in that case her devo­tees would have to feel like men who wanted to dig a hole straight through the earth, as,uming that each of them rcahzcd thai even if he tried his utmost, his whole. life long, he would only be able to dig a very small portion of this enormous depth, and even that would be filled in again before hi~ own eyes by the labors of the next in line, so a third person would seem to do well if he picked a new spot for hi~ drilling efforts. 1\011.' suppose someone proved con­vincingly lhat the goal of the antipodes cannot be reached in this direct manner: who would still wish to go on working in these old depths, unless he had learned meanwhile to he satisfied with finding precious smnes or discovering law~ of n,lIUre?

Therefore Les,ing. the mO,1 honest theorelical man, dared to

announce that he carcd more for the search after trUlh than for truth it~eIP-and thu~ revealed Ihe fund~mcl]lal secret of science, to the astonishment, and indced the anger, of the scientific commu­nity. Beside thi~ i~olated imight, horn of an exce,~ of honesty if not of exuberance, thcre is, to be sure, a profound illtHjort that first saw the light of the world in the per,on of Socrates: the umhakable faith that thought, using the thrcad of causality, can penetrate the deepest ahysses of being, and thai thought i, capable nO! only of knowing bcing but eyen of correcli'lIfi it. This sublime mctaphysical illusion accompanies science a~ an in~tincl and leads science again

8 "Not 'he trulh. in whose po"e,,;on any man is, or thinb he is, but the honell effort he has m:.de to flnd OUI lhe trulh, i9 wh~t conslilule. the worth or a man, For il is nol lhrough 'he po"e,,;on bt'l througb !he inquiry «fler trulh th~l hiS p"wen!"expand. and m thi. alnne consist! hi.1 ever growing per­fection. Posle,slOn mahs C~llll, I,ory, pfOlld_

"If God had lo~ked llP all lnllh in his righl hand, and in his lerl 'he uniqn., ever-I,,'. slriving for trulh. albei! with the addition T.hal ! shouid ai_ ways and etcrnally err, and he laid 10 mc, 'ChOQse"-! should hnmhly clasp his lefl haod, saying: 'Falher, gh'c! I'me trllth is afler all [or thee alone!'"

This celebrated pas'age i. found al th,' end of the first seclion of Eme D~plik (a reply of the accused 10 the rejoinder of hi, ~ccn!er), 177R. Kierke­gaard alw admired lhis possage ",ilhoul reeling thai he could foliow Le!.ing'. example: see Conc!u,!lnli {/nsdpnii/,c Pml"'"pl, the flnal ",clion of lloolt. Two, Pari One, aod, for some c"tical di.'C""ion, Kallfmann, From ShQke_ spMre to Existentialism, rev. ed. (New York, Anchor Books, 1%0), pp, 19M,), Nietzsche'" treatment of Lessing in hi' ,econd boolt., the "Medilation" on Dadd Friedrich Strauss, th, Con/enar ",,,I Writer (i&73), i. discmsed at length in Kallfmann, N'elc"'-"e, Chapter 4, section 2.

and again to its limits at which il must turn into art-wllich is really the aim of this mechani.rm.

With the torch of this thoughl in our hands, Ict us now look at Socrates. he appears to us as the first who could not only live, guided by this in~tinet of science, but alw--and this i~ far more­die that way. Hence the image of the dying Socrol('s, as the human being whom knowledge and reasons have liberated [mm the fear of death, is the emblem that, above the entrance gale of science, re­minds all of its mission-namely, to make existence appear com­prehensible and thus jnstified; and if reasons do not wlTIce, my/Ir has to come to their aid in the end-myth which I have jnst called the necessary consequence, indeed the purpose, of scknce.

Once we see clearly how after Socrates, the mystagogue of science, one philosophlcal school s\lceeeds another, wave npon wave; how the hnnger for knowledge reached a never-suspected universality in the widest domain o[ the educated world. became the real task for every person of higher gifts, and led ~cience onto the high seas from which it has never again been driven alto­gether; how this universality first spread a common net of thought over the whole globe, aemally holding out the prospect of the law· fulness of an entire solar system; once we see all this clearly, along with the amazingly high pyramid of knowledge in our own lime­we cannot fail to sec in Socrates the one turning pOint and vortex of so-called world hbtory. For if we imagine that the whole incalcu­lable sum of energy used np for this world tendency had been used nor in the service of knowledge bnt for the practical, i.e., egoistic aims of individuals and peoples, then we realize that in that case universal wars of annihilation and continnal migrations of peoplcs would probably have weakened the instinctive lust for life to ~llch

an extent that ~uicide would have become a general cn,tom and individuals might have experienced the final remnant of a sense of duty when, like the inhabitants of the Fiji Islands, they had strangled their parents and frieuds-a practical pessimism that might even have generated a gruesome ethic of genocide' moti­vated by pity, and which incidentally is, and was, preoent in the world wherever an did not appear in some form-----espeeially as

• YiJ/termord.

religion and science-as a remedy and a preventive for this breath of pestilence.

By contrast with thi~ practical pessimism. Socrntes i~ the pro­tolype of the thcoretical optimist who, with his bith that the nature of things can be fathomed, ascribes to knowledgt: and in;;ight the power of il panacea, while underslanding error as the evil pilr exce/­fence. To fathom the depths and to separate true knOWledge from appearance lind error, seemed to Socratic man the noblest. even the only trnly hnman vocation. And ~incc Socrate~, this mechani,m of concepts, judgments, and inferences has been e~leemed as the high­e~t occupation and the most admirable gift of nature, above all other eapacities. Even the most sublime ethical deeds, the stirrings of pity, self-sacrifice, heroism, and that calm sea of the soul, so diJIicull to attain, which thc Apolliniau Greek called s()phrosune,~

were derived from the dialectic of knDwledge by Socrates and his like-minded successors, down to the pre,ent, and accordingly des­ignated as teachable.

Anyone who has ever experienced the pleasure of Socratic in­sight and felt how, spreading in ever-widening eirclcs, it ~eeks to embrace the whole world of appearances, will never again find any stimnlus toward existence more violent lhau the craving to com­plete this conquest and to weave the net impenetrably tight. To one who feds that way. the Platonic Socrates will appear a, the teacher of an altogether new form of "Greek cheerfulness" and blissful affirmation of e:xistence thaI ~eeks to discharge it~df in actions­most often in maientie and edncational influences on noble youths, with a view to e"cntually producing a genius.

But science, spnrred by its powerful iIlnsion, speeds irresist· ibly toward its limits where its optimism, concealed in the essence of logic, sufTers shipwreck. For the periphery of thc circle of sci­ence has an infinIte number of points; and while there is no telling how this circle could ever be surveyed completely, noble and gifted men nevertheless reach, e'er half their timee and inevitably, such

~ Often rendered, no! 'luite adequately, aSlemperance. 6 "Before the middle of hi! e.,istenee'· I'resumahtJ, alludes to the he~inning of Dante', Inferno, nOl, like my Iran,latioll, to Millon's sonnet On hi, blind­ness.

" THE IHIlTH OP TltAGEDY

boundary ~inlsT on the periphery from which one !!aze~ into what defies illumination. When they see to their horror how logic coils lip at the,e boundaries anll finally biles its own tail-suddenly the new form of insight breaks through, rragic insight which. merely to be endured, needs an as a protection and remedy.

OUf eyes strengthened and refreshed hy OUT contrmplatinn (If the Greeks, let us look at (he highest spheres of the world around us; then we shall see how the hunger for insatiahle and oplilllistic kno .... kdge~ that ill Socrates appears exemplary ha, turned into tragic rcsignalion and destitute need for art-while, Ie' be sure, the same huuger on its lower levels can express itself in hostility to art and mil';! pllflicuJarly lIele~t Dionysian-tragic art. as was i\lustmted earlier Iliith the fight of Socratism against Aeschylean tragedy.

Here we knock, deeply moved, at the gales of present and fU[llre: will this "turning" ~ lead to ever-new confignratiolls of genius and e~peciJlJy of the S<xra/fS whQ frllt/ices music? In Will the net of art, even if il is called rcligiun <lr science, thaI is ~pread

over exi~tellce he IliPven even more tightly and delicately, or is it destined to be torn t{l shred~ in the re"lless. barbarous, chaotic whirllhat now calls itselF "Ihe rresent"')

Concerned bill nol di~eollsDlatc, we stand aside a little while, contemplative men to whom it has been granted /{) be witnesses of these tremendous struggk~ and Iran~itions. Alas, it is the magic of these struggles thaI those who behold them must also take part and fight.H

1 Grenzpunkle la'per<' celebrated Grenujtualiontn are elaboralion~ (Of the point, Ilore de'cri~ed. And Nielzsche', image of sllipwreck (Seh,ilu") ~l,(O

t.ecame one of /a'ru.,' key (erm,. Thi~ pas.sage is as do... 10 Jalipen' exiMen­(iali'm" a, .,ecl",n 7 "to Sonre's. ~ In Ni~lz'ch.', (exl, knowledge is insaliable, not merely the hunger for it. ~ Um.jdrlo!:?~n. Cf. "'ha' turned inlo lragic re5ignmion" in the preceding pan­grapll. '" Even mNe (Obvi(O"~ty lhan lhe "artis(ic SOCrale," near lhe end of (he r~­<:eding <eelj.:>n, Ihi~ j, ~\l,ely an idealized self-portrait: Niel1..lche rlayed lhe riano &nd ".:>mp(O,~d ,ong'. II The bDok miglll w.1I end al lhi, point-~, (he original ve",ion did: Fri.d. ri"h Ni.Tz,che. S,,,·MI~,. und die grie"his(.'he Tragodie: UrspriJngliehe Fassun/{ d'" Ge~~" der Tr"f;"di. aus de'" Gn't. der Musilc (Socra(es and Gleek Ir>gedv: origin"t ve"i"n of Thp Birrll of Tragedy (Jul of Ih. Spi"'{ or Mask), ed. Han~ Jo~chlm M(;1!c tMunich, Bed. 1933), The discuo\iofl of the birth

16

By this elaborate hi~toriCiJl exnmplc we ha~'~ ~{lught !(l m:l.k~

clear how just as lragedy peri she, with lhc cvane,cclwc of Ihe spirit of mU5ic, it is ollly from this spirit that it can h. reb"rn Lest lhis a~~ertion seem too strange, it mav he well 10 di,cJo'e th~ origin of this insight by cou~itJering 111e nlwlogO\\': pht'nrmena I\f our ollin lime; we must enler into the mid~t of Ihose slnl[:gks, which, as I have JUSI said, are heing wngcd ill tlte high"s! ,pheres of our enn· temp'lrary world b~tw~en imatiah1e 0rtillTi,;tic knowledge and the lragj~ need of arl. In my nal1\in~(ion I ,hall leave oul of ac­count alllhl',e utller ;ml,l,l"'llI:,Lic LClld,'nck, wllich al all time,; op" pose an, especi;,ll)" lr;,<,edy, "nJ \vlli~h nul' are again e:l:lending their triumphant S\'I"", to .'II,·h an c~tcnt Ih~,l or the theatrical art, only the farce and the hallel, f(l[ nample. rut forth their hlossom', which perhaps nOl C\t'ryon~ «,re,; (0) ,m~lI, in rath~r rich luxnri­ance. I will speak nnly {IF lh~ noh!c~t ();"f'(1Sili"'1 w the tragic world­coneeplion-and hy tJli,; J mCJn scicnct, whkh is at hottom opti­mistic, with its nnc",qor SDn<llt' nl il~ head A little later on I ~hall

:also name those f{lrlT$ \l,'11i"'h ,ec'm to me I:) gnarantee a rebirth of tragedy-and rerhap~ olhcr hkl,;ec1 h"pc's for the German

1genius! Before we plunge into lhe midsl of these qruggle<, )~, u;; array

ourselves in rhe armor of the insip.hls we have acquired. In wntra,t (0 alllhosc who are intcnl 011 deriving the arl, from Oll~ e~clnsive

principle, as (he nece,sary \'ilal source of ~very work of art. J ~hall

keep my ey<:s fixed on the lWO artistic deitie~ of lhe Greeks, Apollo and Dionysus, and recognize in lhem the living and consricuou> represeltlatives of /wo worlds of nrt differing in their inlrin,ic es­~ence !lnd in lheir lJighe,t aim~. I sec Apollu as lhe lrnnsfiguring genius of the princi{Jium indh'idl,wlionis through which ai<)ne the redemptiLln in illusion is tTllly to he obliJined; while by the mystical triumphant cry of Dionys\ls lhc ~pdl of individualion is broken, and the ""fly lie, open to the Mother, of Being,' to the innermost

and death of lragedy i, finj,n,<1 i~ 11l. m:';~, ~nd tile r"tlo.... ing "elebr~(ion of the rebirth of (ragcdy weak"n' tne book ~nd w~, \Il"rd, regrwed by Nieu:' ichr, himself. I An allu5ion lQ Goethe's F,'''.<I, line< r-.116ff

100 THE BIRTH OF tR~GEDY ECTION 16 10J

hean 0' things. This extraordinary contrast, which stretches like a yawning gulf between plastic art as the Apollinian, and music as the Dionysian urt,i bas revealed itself to only one f the great thinkers, to uch an extent that, even without this clue 10 Ihe sym­bolism of the Hell nic divinities. be conceded to music a character and an origin different from all the other arts, because, unlike them, it is not a copy of the phenomenon but an immediate copy of the wiU itself, and therefore complements everything physical in the world and every phenomenon by representing what Is meta­physical, the thing in itself. (Schopenhauer Welt als Wille und Vorstellung, l. p. 310.)

To this most important insight of aesthetics (with which, in the most serious sense, aesthetics properly begins), Richard Wag­ner, by way of confirmation of its eternal truth, affixed his seal, when he asserted in his Beethoven that music must be evaluated according to aesthetic principles quite different from those which apply to all plastic arts, and not, in general, according to the cate­gory of beauty; although an erroneous aesthetics, inspired by a mis­taken and degenerate art,'l has, by virtue of the concept of beauty obtaining in the plastic domain, accustomed itself to demand of music an effect similar to that produced by works of plastic art, namely, the arousing of delight in beautiful forms. Having recog­nized this extraordinary contrast. I felt a strong need to ap­proach the essence of Greek tragedy and, with it, the profoundest

a Nietz~he clearly did not mean to imply that all music is "Dionysian." Yet it did not occur to him at this time to consider MO:l:trt's music as an alterna­tive to Wagner's. Mozart is not mentioned in Tire Birlh of Tragedy. He is mentioned elsewhere by the young Nietzsche, and all reference~ express love II1ld admiration. But it was only in 1880, in The W'lIlderer aTld His Shadow (section 165). after his break with Wagner. that Niet he offered a contrast of Wagner and Mozart in one of hi books--without mentioning Wagner by name. Eventually. he included this pas age Hnd some compamblc one~ from B"yoTld Good (llId E vi{ (1886) in N lerzsche <,O/lIT(I Wag/ler. When it oc­curred to Nietzsche that Mozart's music Willi no! Dionysian. he also realized lhal Wagner's music Was not really "Dionysian" either, but rather "romantic" and "decadent." See Nielxxhe cOni", Wagner (in Th~ Por/ab!,' Nielz$che, especially pro 667ff.) and section 370 of The Gay Science (in Kaufmann, Niett,Sche, Chapter 12. section V). a Elllarrete Kunst: the term was made infamous by the Nazis when they sub­sumed under it a great deal of modern art which was officially proscribed. But tbe Nazi. wanted '"beautiful forms" and raged against an which did not aim at "beauty," while Nietzsche criticizes the assumption that all arl must aim at "beautiful forms."

revelation of the Hellenic genius; for I at last thought that I pos­sessed a charm to enable me-far beyond the phraseology of our usual aesthetics-to represent vividly to my mind the fundamental problem of tragedy; whereby I was granted such a surprising and unusual insight into the Hellenic character that it necessarily seemed to me as if our classical-Hellenic science that be·ars itself so proudly had thus far contriveU to subsist mainly on shadow plays and externals,

Perhaps we may touch 00 this fundamental problem by ask­ing: what aesthetic effect results when the essentially separate art· forces, the Apollinian and the Dionysian, enter into simultaneous activity? Or more briefly: how is music related to image and coo­cept? Schopenhauer, whom Richard Wagner, with special reference to this point, praises for an unsurpassable clearness and clarity of exposition, expresses himself most thoroughly on tbe subject in the following passage whjch I shall cite here at fulllength (Welt al3 Wille und Vorstellung, I, p. 309 I): "According to all this, we may regard the phenomenal world, or nature, and music as two different expressions of the same Lhing,~ which is therefore itself the only medium of their analogy, so that a knowledge of it is demanded in order to understand that analogy. Music, therefore, if regarded as an expression of the world, is in the highest degree a universal lan­guage, whieh is related indeed to the universality of concepts, much as they are related to the particular things. Its universality, how­ever, is by no means that empty universality of abstraction, but of quite a different kind, and is united with thorough and diStinct definiteness. In this respect it resembles geometrical figures and numbers, which are the universal forms of all possible Objects of experience and applicable to them all a priori, and yet are not ab­stract but perceptible and thoroughly determinate. All p sible efforts, excitements, and manifestations of will. aU that goes on in the heart of man and that reason includ s in the wide, negative concept of feeling, may be expressed by the infinite number of po ­sible melodies, but always in the universal, in the mere form, with­

4 The reference is Nietzsche's own: see footnote 7, section I. J hllve u~ed Ihe R. B. Haldane and J. Kemp 1ranslalion of this long pa sage (World as Will and Idea, LondOD, Kegan Paul, 1907, I, p. 239) but reVIsed a number of in­accuracies. I The will.

102 THB BIRTH OF TRAGEDY

~BCTTO'" II> 101

out the material, always according to the thing-in-itself, not the phenomenon, the inmost soul, as it were, of the phenomenon with­out the body. This deep relation which music has to the true nature of all thin~s also explains the fact that suiwble music played to any scene, actIon, event, or surrounding seems to disclose to us its most secret meaning. and appears as the most accurate and distinct com­mentary upon it. This is so truly the case that whoever gives him­self up entirely to the impression of a symphony, seems to see al: the possible events of life Qnd the world take place in himself; yet il he rellects, he can find no likeness between the music and the thing~

that passed before hi~ mind. For, as we have said, music is distin­guished from all the other arts by the fact that it is not a copy of the phen0.menon, or, more accurately, of the adequate objectivity of the WIll, but :In immediate copy of the will itself, and therefore complements everything phy~ical in the world and every phenome~

non by representing what is metaphysical, the thing in itself. We might, therefore, just as well callthc world embodicd music as em­bOdi~d wlJl; and this is the reason why music makes every painting, a~d llI?eed every scene of Ieal life and of the world, at once appear WIth hlg~er significance, certainly all the more, in proportion as its melody IS analogous to the inner spirit of the given phenomenon. Therefore we arc able to set a poem to music as a song, or a visible repre.senlation as a pantomime, or bOlh as an opera. Such panicu­lar pIctures of human life, set to the universal language of music, are never bonnd to il or cunespolld to it with stringent necessity; but ~hey stand 10 it only in the relation of an example chosen at Will [0 a general concept. In the detenninateness of the real, they represen; that which music expresses in the universality of mere fonn. For melodies are 'a a certain eXtelIl, like general con­Cl':pts. an abstraction from the actual. This actnal world, then. the ",,:orld of particula, lhings, affords the oblect of perception, the spe­Cial and mdividual. [he particular case, both to the universality of the concepts and [0 the univeriality of the melodie~. But these two universalitie5 are in a certain respect "pp05ed to each other; for the concept~ contain parlicula~ only as the fir~l fDrms abstracted from p:rception. a$ it wne. th~ ~eparated shell of things; thus they are, ~trictly 5p:aking. ubJlracra: music, on the other hand, ghes the IlIm~st knnel which precedes all fClrms, or the heart of things. This relauon m;;y be very wdl expres~cd in th~ language of the school-

men, by saying, the concepts are the unj~'l'fJalia PO!/ fe17l, but music gives the univefmlia antI' fern. and the real world the Il'lil'er­Jalia in fe. But that in general a relation is po_sible between a com­position and a visible representation rest~. a5 \I,'e h~ve 5aid. upon the fact that both are simply dilJerelil e;>;pressions d the s~me inner being of the world. When now. in the p?rticular ca~c. ~uch a rela­tion is actually given, that is to say. when the composer has been able to express in the univer~al language or mu~ic the 5tir,ing5 or will which constitute the heart of an event. then the melody of the song, the music of the opera, is I."xpre~sive. But the analog}' discov­ered by the composer between the two must have proceeded from the direct knowledge of the nature of the world unknown to his re!tson, and must nOl be an imitntion produced with conseions iN­tention by means of concepts. othcrv.'i.<e the lIlnS)C lloes not expreH the inner nature, the will itself. but merely gives an inadequate imi­tation of its phenomenon. Alilruly imilalive mU~i~ doe~ !his."

According to thl." d",trinc or Schopl."l1haller, therefore. we un­ders!and music as lhe imm~dia!e language of the will, and we fecI our fancy <timulatl."d 10 give [ann \0 thi~ invi,ihle and ye! so ac­tively stirred spirit-w"rld whieh ,penh to us, and we feel prompled to embody it in an analogous el~mple On the Ilthe, hand, image and concept, und~r the infiuence of a Irllly corresponding mll,ie, aeqnire a hi~her signitlcance. Dionysiao an therefoIe is wont to exercise two kinds of iufiuences on the ApoJ1inian an faculty: music incites to the symbolic in/Iii/ion of DIOnysian univers~liJy,

and music allows the symholic image to emerge in il.r higlte.\1 sig­I1lfkance. From these facts, intelligible in themselves and not inac­cessible to a more peuetrating examioation, I infer the capacity of music to give birth to m)'lh (the most significant example), and pamcularly the tragic myth: the myth which expresses Dionysian knowledge in symbols. In the phenomenon of the Iyrist, I have shown how music strives to express its nature in ApoJlinian im­ages, If now we refiect that music at its highest stage must seek to attain also to its highest objectification in images, we must deem it possible that it also knows how to find the symbolic expression for its unique Dionysian wisdom; anu where shall we seek for this ex­pression if not in tragedy and, in general, in the conception of the tragic?

From the nature of an as it is usually conceived according to

fH~ BllT" OF TIlHJEOV"" the single cnlegory of appenrance and beauty, [he tragie cannot hon­estly be deduced at all; it is only thr<1ugh the spirit of mu~ic that we can understand the joy involvtd in the annihilation of the individ­uaL For it is only in particular examples of such annihilation that we sec clearly the eternal phenomenon of Dionysian art, which gives expression to the will in its omnipotence, as il \liere. behind the priflcipium individuationis, the ckrnallifc beyond all phenom­ena, anu despite all annihilation. The metaphy_'>icaJ jo;, in lhe tragic is a translation of the instinctive unconscious Diony,ian wisdom into the language of images: the hero, the highest m~nifeq;l1i'Jn of the will, is negated for our pleasure, hecause he is only phen\lme­non. and because the eternal life of the will is nm afteetcd by his annihilation. "We believe in eteTllal life," e:o;elaim, lr,H:edy: ';"'hile music is the immediate idea of thi, life. Plastic art has a~ al'logether different aim: here Apollo overcomes the suffering of the individual by the radiant glorification of the I'xerT/if}' of Inl' phellt'IIIff1(>fI: here beanty triumphs over the snftering inherent in life; pain is obliler­ated by lies from the featnres of nature. In Dionysian art and its Iragic symbolism the same nature cries to us wilh its true. undis­sembled voice: "Be as I am! Amid the cea"eJess ftn.>: of phenomena I am the eternally creative primordial molher, etcrnally impelllllg to existence, eternally finding satisfaction in this change of phe­nomena!"

17

_ Dionysian art. too. wishes to convince ns of the cternal joy of e:o;istenee: only we are lO seck this joy not in phenomena, bnt be­hind them. We arc to recognize that all that comes into being mnst be ready for a sorrowfnl end; we are forced t\1 1\lok into the terrors of the individual e:o;istenee-y~l we arc not to bec<lme rigid with fear: a m~taphpieal comfort lems liS moment:lrily from the bu~tle

of the ch;mging figure~. We are really for a brid momenl primor­diat being ibelL feding it.s raging desire f<lr e.lish:nce aud joy in existence; the ~lrugglc, the p<lin, the destruction of phenomena, now appear necessary to ns, in view of the e.lce~s of countless forms of exi~lcnce which [orcc and push one another imo life, in view of the exuberant ferlility of rhe univer~al Yr~11. We arc pierced by the maddening sting of lhesc pains jusl when we have become,

,0>

lIS it were, one with the infinite primordial joy in existence, and when we anticipate, in Dionysian ee,tasy, the indestruetibility and eternity of this joy. In spile of fear and pity, we arc the happy living beings, not as individual~, bnt as the Olll! living being, with whose creative joy we are unitcd.

The history of the rise of Greek tragedy now teUs us with luminous precision how the tragic art of the Greeks wa~ really born of the spiril of music. With this conception we believe we have dune juslice for the firsl time to the primitive and astonishing significance of the choru~. At the same time, however, we musl admit that the me~rring of tragic myth set forth above never be­came clear in tranSp2lrenl concepts to the Greek poets, nor to ,peak of the Greek phil<l~,lphers: their heroes speak, as it were, more su­perficially than they act; the myth does not at all obtain adequate objeelillcatlvm in the ,p<l~en word. The ,trueture of the scenes and Ihe visunl images reve:tl a deeper wisdom than the poet himself can pul inlo Warth anJ c<lneepts: the slime is also observable in Shake­speare, whose Hamlel, for instance, similarly, talks more ,uperfi­dally than he acts, so that the previomly mwtioned lesson of Hamlet is to be deduced, not from his word" but from a profound eonlemplation and survey of lhe wh{)le.

Wilh respect 10 Greek tragedy, which of course presents itself to us only as word-drama, I have even intimated that the lack of congruity between myth and e:o;pression might easily lead us to re­gard it as shallower and less significant than it realiy is, anJ accord­ingly to attribute to it a more superficial effect than it must have had according to the testimony of the ancients; for how eMily one [orgets that what the word-poet did not succeed in doing. namely, attain the highest spiritualization and ideality or the myth, he might very well succeed in doing every moment as creative musician! To be sure, we are almost forced to construct for our,c1ves by s<:-holarly research the superior power of the musical effect in order to e;o;peri­ence something of the incomparable comfort which mnst have been characteristic of true tragedy. Even this musical superiority. how­ever, would only have heen felt by us had we been Greeks; fllr in the entire development of Greek music-as compared with the in­finitely richer music known and familiar (0 ns-we imapne we hear only the youthful ,ong of the musical genius modestly intlJlled. The Greeks, as the Eb'Yplian priests say, are eternal children. and

BECTlON 17 101106 THE BIRTH OF TRAGEDY

in tragic art 100 they arc only children who do nol know what a sublime plaything originated in their hands and-was quickly de­molished.

1l1al striving of the spirit of music IOward visual and mythical objectification, which incrCilSCS from the beginnings of lyric poetry up to Allie tragedy, suddenly breah off after attaining a luxuriant development, nod disappears, as it were, from the sorfaee of Hel­lenic art; while the Diony,ian world view born of this striving lives on in the mysteries and, in ils strangest metamorphoses and de­basements, docs nol cease to attract serious natures. Will it not some day rise once again oul of ils m'j~lic depths as art?

Here we are detained by the question, whether the power, by virtue of who~e opposing influence tragedy perished, has for all time sufficicnt strength to prevent the artistic reawakelling of trag­edy and the !fi\gic world view, If ancient tragedy was diverted from its COnT5C by the dialectical desire for knowledge and the opti­mism of scieuce, lhis lact might lead us 10 believe that there is an eternal conflict bclwcen the Iheorcric and rhe tragic world view; and only after the spirit of science has been pursued to its limits, and its claim to univen;al validay de~lroyed by the evidence of these limits may we hope for a rebirth of tragcdy-a fonn of cul­ture for which we should have to me the symbol of rhe music­practicing Sncra£e.1 in the sense spoken of above. l In this contrast, I understand by the spirit of science the faith that first came to light in the person of Socrates-the faith in the explicability of nature and in knowledge as a pauacca.

]\" He who recalls the immediate consequences of this restlessly progressing ~pirit of scieuce will realize at once lhat myrh was aoni· hilated by it, and that, because of this annihilation, poetry was driven like II homeless being from her nalurul ideal soil. If we have been right in assigning to music the power of again giving birth to mYlh, we may similarly expect to find the spirit of science on the path where it inimically opposes lhis mythopocie power of music. This takes plaee in lbe development of the New Attie Dithyramb, the music of which no longer expressed the inuer essence, the will it~elf, but only rendered the phenomenou inadequately, in an imita­tion by means of concepts. From thi~ intrinsically degeuerate music

SectIon J.~, lext for note 10.

the genuinely musical nature~ turned away Wilh the same repug­nance that they felt for the art-destroying tendency of Socrates. The unerring instinct of Ari.ltophanes was surely right when it induded Socrates him~elf, the tragedy of Euripides, and the mUlic of the New Dithyrambic poets in the same feding of hatred, recognizing in all three phenomena the signs of a degenerate culture,

III this New Dithyramh, music is olllrageously manipulated w a~ to be the imitative counterfeit of a phenomenon, for imlance, of a baltic or a ~torm at sea; and thus, of course, it has been ullerly robbed of its mythopoeic power. For if it seeks to arou,e pleasure only by impelling us to seek e:l.[ernal analogic'> between a vital or natural procc;;s and certaiu rhylhmical ngure~ and characterislic sounds of music; if our under~tanding i;; to c('ment itself with lhe perception of thesc analogies; we are reduced to a frame of mind which makes impo>sible any reception of the mylhical; for the myth wanls to be experienced vividly as a unique example of a universality aud trllth that gale into the inlinite, The tnlly Diony­sian mu~ic present5 it;;clf as such a general mirror of the unil'ersal will: the vivid event refrucled in thi, mirror expand, at once for our con~ciomness to the copy of an external lruth, Conversely, ~uch a vivid event is at once dive,ted of evay mYlhical characler by the tone-painting of lhc New Dithyramb; mnsie now hecomes a wretched copy of the phenomcnon, and therefore infinitely poorer than the phenomenon iBelf. And lhrough this poverty it slill further reduces the phenomenou for ollr cc1Jlsciousness, so that now, for example, a musically imitated battle of this SOT! exhaust, Itself in marches, signal sounds, ele" and our imilgination is arreslCd pre­cisely by these superficialities. Tone-paillliug is thus in every re­spect the opposite of true music with its mylhop(leic power: through it the phenomenon, poor in itself, i, made sull poorer, while through Diouysian music the individual phenomenou is enriched and expanded into an image of the world, It was a great lriumph for the uu-Dionysian Ipidt when, by the development of the New Dithyramb, it had eSlranged ll\u~ic from hlelf and reduced it to be the slave of phenomena. Euripide>, who, though in a higher sense, must be considered a lhoroughly unmllsieal nature, is for thi, very reason a passionate adherent of the New DithyrambIC MUSIC, und with the liberality of a robber makes use of all its effeclive Irick, and manneri,ms.

I

\0, THf. IlaTH 01' TIlAGEDV SECTION 18

In another direction aho we see at work the power of this un­Dion)'sj~n myth-opposing spirit, when we tum our attention tn the prevalence of charae/a reprl'Ientatioll and psychological refine­ment in tragedy from Sophocles onward. The character must no longer be expanded into an elernal Iype, but, on the contrary, must develop individually through anislic subordinate traits and shad­ings, through the mcest preci,ion of iill lines, in such a manner that the spectator is in general no longer conscious of the myth, [lui or the vigorous truth to nature and the artist's imitative power. Here also we nbsero'c the victory of the phenomenon over the univerSal. and the delight in a uniqne, almost anatomical preparation: we are already in lhe atmosphere of a theorelical world, where scientific knowledge is valued more highly than the artislic reflection of II univer\al law,

The movement in the directiou of character delineation pro­ceeds rapidly; while Sophocles ;;till portrays complete characters and employs myth for lheir rellued development, Euripides already draws only prominent individual lraits of character, which can ex­press lhemselves in violent bursts of passion. In the New Auk Comedy, however, there are only masks with one expression: frivo­lous old men, duped panders, lind cunning slaves, recurring ince,. san Ill', Where now is the mylhopoeic spirit of music? What still remains of music is either excilalory or reminiscent music, that is, either a stimulant for dull and faded nerves, or lone-painting. As regard~ lhe former, it hardly mailers about the text set to it: as soon as his heroes and choruscs begin to sing, everylhing hecomes prellI' slovenly in Euripides; to what pass must things have corne with his impeninent successors?

The new lin-Dionysian ~pirit, however, reveals itself most plainly in the dilloueml'rl/s of Ihe new dramas, In the Old Tragedy one conld seme al the end that metaphysical comfurt wilhom which the delight in lragedy cannol be explained at all. The recon­ciling tones from another world sound pure~[, perhJps, in the OedipiH ul COlli/IllS. Now lhat lhe O':enius of music has lled (rom tragedy, !ragedI" slriclly .'peaking. i; dead: for from whal ;lOurce shall we JJOW dr<lw lhi<; lIlel~phy,ical e(1m("rl? The neW spirit, therefore, sou!'t"ot for ~n earthly re~\llu(ion of lhe tra~ic di~sonauce.

The hero, afler t"ociJJ!, sntficielltlv lonured hy fate, ~arned a well­deserved reward throug.h a splendid marri<1ge or 10keJJs (If Ji~'ine

favof, The hero had turned gladialor on whom, aner he had bcen nicely beaten and covcred wilh wounds, freedom was occasionally be~towed. The deus ex machina took the place of melaphy,ical comfort.

1 will not say that the tragic werld view was everywhere com­pletely de,lroyed by thi~ intruding un-Dionysian spiril: we only know thai it had 10 flee from art into the underworld a~ it were, in the degenerate form of a se(f~t cult, O"er the widest exlcnt of the Hellenic character, hewever, there L;\ged the consuming bla,t of this spirit, which manifem it~e1r in lhe form of "Greek cheerful­ne~s," which we have illreJdy spoken of as a senile, uuproduclive love of exislenee. Thi\ cheerlllln~~, stands opposed 10 lhe splendid "naivete" of lhe eMlier Greeks, which, accordiug 10 the eharacler­izatiClJJ given abeve, mu~t be concei.cd as lh~ h[os~om of lhe Apol­linian cuHure springiug fwm a d,uk ahy,;,;, as the viclory which Ihe Hellenic will. throut:h its mirroring of beauty, (lblains over sutTer­ing IIJJd the wisdom of suffering.

The JJobleq maJJife.'.Iation o( lhat other form of "Greek cheer­rulno:,s," lho: AIe~aJJdrian, is the chcerfliiness (If lhe theorelical man. 11 exhibits the same characterisli.: sympwm~ that I have jU,1 deduced from the spirit of the uu-Diony,ian it comb:lls Dionysian wisdom and art, it seeks to di,solve myth, it 5uhSliWles for II meta­physical eomforl an eanhly con,onance, in fflct, a de,,~ I'X mac!Iina of ilS OWJJ, the goJ of machine, ~nd l:fucihle', lh~t is, Ihe p,)wers of Ihe spirils of nallJre recognized aJJd employed iJJ Ihe ~en'ice of a higher egOism; it believes thai it caJJ correct lhe world by kmw,l­edge, guide life by science, and aelu<1lly eOJJnJJe the individual within a limited sphere of ,olvable problem" from which he caJJ cheerfully ~ay to life: "I desire you; you arc worth knowing."

18

Tt is aJJ eternal phcnomeJJon; the im,aliab1e will always fiJJds a way to detain its creatures iJJ life and compel them to live on, hI' means of aJJ illusion spread over things. One I" chained by the So­cratic love of kJJow!edge aJJd lhe delusion of being <1ble thereby to heal the eterual WOUJJd of exi,tcnce; anolher is ensJJared by arl's ~ednelive veil of beauty flutteriJJg heforc hi, eye,; ~till aJJOlher hI' the metaphysical comfort thai beueath Ihe whirl of phenomena

110 THF. BIRTH Of TRAGEDY SiCnOi'< U III

etefoillli!e flows on indestructibly-to ~ay nothing of the more vul­gar 210d almu~l more powerful illusions which the wi]] ajway~ has at hand. These three stages of illusion are actually designed only for the more nobly formed nalures, who actually feel profoundly the weighl and burden of existence, and must be deluded by exquisite stimulJnt~ into forgetfulness of their displeasure, All that we call culture is made op of these stimulants; and, according to the pro­portion of the ingredients, we have either a dominanlly Sacral;c or tJrti!lic or tragic culture; or. if historical exemplifications are per­mitted, {here is either an Alexandrian or a Hellenic or a Buddhistic culture. l

OUT whole modern world is entangled in the net of Alexan­drian~ culture. It propl1!;es as its ideallhe lheorelical man c'1uipped with the greatest force~ of knowh:dge, and laboring in lhe service of ~ciencl.', whose archelype and progenitor i~ Socrates, All our cduca­tional methods originally have this idcal in view: every Olher form of eli~!l.'nce must struggle on laboriously be~idl.' it, as somcthing tolerated, but not intended. In an almostlllarming manner the cul­lured man was for'a long lime found only in the form of the 5chola!: even our poetical arts have been forced to cvolve from 5cholarly imitalions, and in the nmin effect, that or rhyme. we still recognize the origin of our poelic form from artiRcial experiments with a noniudigenous. really schobrly language, How uniutelligible

1 All editiOn! puNj,lled by NiMzsche himself conlain Ihe,e word" and Wilamowilz ciled lhi, pa,.'"~e hUlh in 1~72 (p.~) ~nd in 18n (p, ~). The slandard editions of I"lemClle', c'Jllec1<d "'urh sub,tilut~ "an In<lian (Brah­manic) culture" for "J1udd!li'li, ,ulllLre."' Ae,o ..di,,\; (0 vohlmc I (p, 599) of the so--called Gro,,,.,ll~v ed>lion or N,ell"h~\ W"kf (f')(I<), (hl< ch"nge is hased on "a pen'il.d ~orren;,on in Niell'Chc'-' OWn h"nd in hi, cUPY,otlhe uwnd version," Il ""'uld ,e"m Illal hmh "f1\1ddh"uc" ~nJ 'R .. ~hm~no." de. pend on 'orne rni,wnccplil'n: ncilh, .. , ..m\ to m.ke m\l"h 'eme. ~ It is nOl un<:omm,'n Ie' J"lin~ui,h Ih, Af,,,n,l,,,,," pe'ioJ of Gr~,k fi(era lul'l' from 1he imm~d,~leh' pr.coJmg A("" p~""d. Th~ g'~"( (ra~i, pn~(>, III well as ThucvdiJe" Pblo, and Anq.'lle;of< "'Qc,alcd "'i'h A\h~ns and b~­long to the immem.h' ".a,,"- ~rlh .1nd [(.m,h c<nll"i.-, a1ung "'ith Phidi •• and Praxilele,. The ~Iori." ,,[ A[eulld"., l'r,c imdleelual e~pi1af of 1he H~f.

lenie world from al-'~"I ,'lil It' W ~,(.. ,nduJe nn remo(ely .qmp"'Jbl~ cre. live achievemenlS I-Ul ~re il~ imn,eme fjhar:•. "'hich f~r ,urpa"e<l any pre. viou! colfeclinn, and j" ofT~n e,,~~din~l,. nuJilC ,ch',lln., T~ be ;'''~', one 'lill wrole poelry and ".1>1 amOI1llls of pro'e. hut <)1\ (h~ "'l1ofe (he dchLO'e· menlS of lhe <cICn\j,l, and "chola,; ",". mN~ n',"'''kahle. 1"i~l"che 'I pfainly sugge,ling lh.1 njneT~.nlh,~enlu,y GermJn~' i, 'n impOrl"U1 relpec(i strikingly 'imilar 10 AJ",~ndnan ci\,jlll~lion

must Farm. th~, mooem cultured man, who is in himseH intelli­gible, have appeared to a true Greek-Faust, storming unsalisfied through all the facuhie~, devoted to magie and the devil from B de~ire for knowledge; Faust, whom we have but \0 pl~ce i:Ie~ide

Socrale~ for the purpose of comparison, in order to see that mod· em man is bcginning to divine the limits of this SO\:r"'tic love of knowledge and ycarns for a coast in the wide wa~t~ of the ocean of knowledge. When Gocthe on one occasion said to Ecknmann wilh reference III Napoleon: "Yes, my good friend, there i~ al~o a pro-­ductiveness of deeds," he reminded us in a charmingly na'ive man­ner that the nontheorist i~ ~omething incredible and asmundin.!' 10 modern man; so that we again have need of the wi~dom of Go~th~

to discover that ~uch a surpri~ing form of exi~tence is not only comprehensible. but evcn pardonable.

Now we mu~t nO! hide from ounelves what i~ CIlnce<lled in the womb of this Socralic culture: optimism, with its delu,;on of limit­less power. We mU~1 not be alarmed if the fruit, of thi~ Drtimi"m ripen-if sociely, leavened to the very lowe,t slr,lta hy this kind of culture, gradually begins to tremble with wanton agil3liou, and de­sires, if lhe belief iu the eanhly happiuess of <111. if the pelief in the possibility of such a general intellectual cullure chan!,es into the threatening demand for such an Alexandrian earthly happmess, into the co'"njuring up of a Euripidean rleu.1 r.~ l7'WchirUJ.

Let us mark this well: the Alexandrian cu]lure, [0 be able fa exist permanently, requires a ~lave c1a~" put with ils optimi<;[ic "iew of life it denies the ncccssit\' C'f such a c1a,s, and conse­quently. when its beautifully seduclive and tumguillizing ntlerances about rhe "dIgnity of man" and lhe "dignity of lahor" are no longer effective, it gradually drifts toward a dreadful destruction. There is nothing morc !crribk than a c1~ss of barbaric ~laves who have learned to regard their existence a~ an injuslice, and now pre­pare to avenge. nLlI dnly themselves, but all generalion>. In the face of such threatening ,;[orms, who dare~ to appeal with any conti· denl;e to our pale anJ nhausted religions, the very foundations of whi~h have degenerated into scholarly religions? Myth, lhe neces­sary prerequi,ite Llf every religion, is already paralyzed ~verywhere.

and even in this JomJin thc optimistic spirit. which we have just designated as the germ of destruction in our sociefy, has aftained the mastcry.

112 THE BIIlTH OF TIlAO£DY 'I!CTloN 18

While the di~aster slumbering in the womb of theoretical cul­ture gradually begins 10 frighten modern man, and he anxiou~ly

ransacks the stores of his experience for means to avert the danger, Ihongh he bas no great faith in these means; while he, therefore, begins to divine the consequences of his situation-great men, uni­versally gifted, have contrivcd, with an incredible amount of thonght, to make use of the paraphernalia of science itself, to point out the limits and the relativity of knowledge generally, and thus to deny decisivdy the claim of science to universal validity and uni­versal aims. And their demonstration diagnosed for the first time the illusory notion which pretends to be able 10 fathom the inner­most essence of things with lht uid of caJl~ality. The extmordjnary courage and wisdom of Kant and SchQpl'nhalJcr ha\'e ~ucc~edt:d in gaining the most difficult vicwry, thc vinory over Ihe optimism concealed in the es,ence of lo!!ie-an 0rtimi,m that is the hasis of our culture. While this optimism, rcstin!C on ;jpp~remly unobjec­tionable aelemae verilrues,J had believed th;\t all the riddles of the universe could be known and fathomed, aud had treated space, time, and causality as entirely ulleonditionallaws of the most uni­versal validity, Kant showed that these reJlly ~ened only to elevate the mere phenomenoll, the work of mii)'ii, to the pGsitkm of the sole and highest reality, as if il were the innermosl and true essence of things, thus making impossihle any lnowledge of this essence or, in Schopenhauer's words, lulling the dreamer still more soundly asleep.

With this in~jghl a en!tllre is inaugurated that I venture to call a Ira,l!ic cullure. Its most important characteristic is that wisdom tatts tht" plact" of ~,ienee as the highest end-wisdom that, nnin­Iluelleed by the seductive distractions of the scienees, tnrns whh unmovcd cyes to a eomprehensive view of the world, and seeh 10

grasp, with sympathetic feelings of love, the eternal sutTering as its OWIl.

L~t us imagine a coming generatiou with such intrepidity of vision, with such a heroic penchant for the tremendous; let us im;\g­ine the botJ ~tride of these dragon-slayers, the proud andaeity with which they turn their back on all the weaklings' doctrines of optim­

8 Eternal vuilies.

ism in order to "live re~olutely" in wholeness and fullness:' would it not be ncccssary for the tragic man of such a cnlture, in view ot his self-rdr.cation f()[ serionsne~s and terror, [(I desire a uew art, the an of metaphysical comfort, to desire tragedy as his own proper Helen, and to ~~claim with Faust:

Sh"uld nO! "I)' 1<JI1J:in!i ol'l'flcap The dis/rJnC('

And JrtJw Ih .. jtJirnljorlll inTo nislellce? ,1

Bnt now that lhe Socratic cnlture can only hold the scepter of its illfallibility with trembling hands; now thal it has becn shaken fmm tWO directions---{)nce by Ihe fear of its own COnSNjUenees whieh it at length begins to smOlise, and again because it no longer has its former nai've conlldence in lhe r!l.:rnal validity of ils found;\­\ion-it is a sad ~pectacle to see how lhe dance of its IhOlI,l!lll rushcs longingly loward ever-new form\., to cmhran' thl'm. and then, shuddering, let, them go sm.ldelily a, Merhi~h)rhele, doe, the seductive Lamiae." It i~ cntllinly the ~ign (jf the "hrcach" of which everyone speaks as the [undameut;.1 m:,bdy of modern c\lllurc. that the theoretical man, alarmed aud di,;sati,ned al his owu conse­qnences. no longer dares emrust hiUl,clf to the terrible ic)' currem of existence: he runs timidly up amt down the ban\.:. So lh(l[(lu~hly

has he bcen pampercd by his optimi,;tk view~ that he no louger wants to have anything whole, with all of nature', crudty attaching to it. Besides, hc feels that a CJlllure h:.L,ed on the prineiple, of selence must be destroyed when it begins to grow illogical, thal is, to retreat before ils own cOJiSequcnces. Our art reveals thi, aniver­~al di,lress: in vain doe~ one depend imimti~'cly on all lhe greal rroduclive perillds and natnres; in vain does one accumnlate the entire "vil)rJd-lileralute" ;\round modern man for his comfort; in vain dot"5 one place ollc~elf in the midst of lhe af! sty1e~ and arti,ts of ~1l agt"s. so lhat oue may give uames to them as Adam did to the

'Th~ qUG!]li"n ;,; fr<Jm G""lhe's pocm "G""'eralbfichre" (general confe.· ,i"n), wrilkn in tHOI-'1l e,uborant au!i-Phi]islinc maniFeslo. "Thi' ••,h"t~ p"ra~rarh;' ridiculed hy I'ietlsclJe hlmsdf in the linal seclion of hi, "Atlempt]1 .\ Seli.Crit,icl,m." prinle<l n,,' preface lQ 'he "ne"" edItion" oJf t~~o ,,,,,1 InduJ~d ~h,,·,~ 1!l1he pre,ent English "er.,iun. The yuotalion i. f'e11ll G')~lh~', (,,"", htl ll, lines 74J81f. ~ In (I&\he'\ Fo>,w, P~rl II, tines 7769jr. (in the c1as,ic"1 Walpurgi. Nigh!),

III THE BIRTH OF TU,OEDY

bea~t8: one still remains eternally hungry, the "critic" without joy and energy. the Alexandrian man. who is at bOllom a librarian ilnd corrector of proofs, and wrelchedly goes blind from the dusl of books aud from printers' ermrs.

19

We cannol indicale the innennu~t modern content of this So­cralic culture more di'linctly lhan by calling it the W/lure of /hl.' opera: for it is in this dcpartlOem that this culture has expre,~sed its aims and perceptions Wilh special nalvele, which is snrprising when we compare thc gcnesis of the opera and the facts nf operalic development with the elernal troths of thc Apollinian and Dinny­sian. I recall firsl of all the orib>1n of the S/I'/o rappreJelltal/V01 and the recitative. Is it crediblc lhal this lhoroughly eXlcrnalized oper­atic music, incapable nf devotion, could be received and cherished wilh cnthusiastic favor, as a rebirth, as il were, of all lrne mnsic, by the very age, in which had appcared the ineffably sublime and sa­cred music of Paleslrina? And who, on the other hanLl, would think of making only the diver,ion-craving luxuriousness of lhose Flor­enline circles and the vanity of their dramalic singers respnnsible [or the love nf the npera which sprcad with such rapidily? ThaI in the same age, even among lhe same people, this pa,sion for a half~

musical mode of speech should awaken alongside of the vaulted struclure of Palestrina harmonies which all medieval Christendom had been building up, I can explain lo myself only by a cooperating, eXlra-arlislk: tendency in the esscnce of the recitalive.

The listener who insim on distinctly hearing the words under the music has hi8 desire fulfilled by the singer in that Ihe laller speaks rather lhan Sings, intensifying the pathetic expre8sinn of [he wonk by means of lhis half-song. By this intensificalion of the pathos he facilitates the under~tanding of the words and overcnmes the remaining half of the music. The specific danger now threaten­ing him is lhat in some unguarded moment he may stress the musie unduly, which would immedialely entail the destruetion of lhe pathos of the spcech and the dislinetness of the words; while, on the other hand, he fcels himself continually impelled to musical

1 Representational .tyle.

SECTION 19

discharge and a virtunso exhibition of his vocal talent. Here the "poet" comes to hi8 nid, who knows how to provide him with abundant opportunities for lyrical interjcctions, repetitions of words and sentence8, etc.-at which places the, singer, now in the purely musical elemcnl, can rest himsc!f withoul paying any atten­tion to the word~. This aHernaliDn nf cmotionally impressive speech which, howevcr, is only hrtlf sung, wiLh iUlerjcetions which are wholly sung. an alternalion eharaCieriSlie of Ibe s/ilo rappresen­fa/iya, this rapidly changing endeavor to affect now the cOncept8 and imagination of thc hearer, now hi" musical sense, is something so utlerly unnatuwl and likewise so intrinsically contradictory both to the ApolIinian onLl DionysiHn ilrlistic impulses, that nne has 10 infer an origin of the reejlati\'~ lying olllslJe all artistic instincts. According to lhis description, thc reeilalivc mnst be Llefined as a mixture of epic anJ lyric ddl\·ery, not by any means as an inlrinsi­cally stable mixlurc, a ,late nol 10 bc attaineLl in th~ case of such totally disparate e1emcOls, bUl as an enlircly supcr~cial mosaic conglulination, such as is totally unprecedenleLl in the domain of nature and experience. nUl this was no/ [11,' opirlion of the in­venlOrs of the recitative: lhey lhem"ehes, lO!o'ether with their age, belie,ved rather lhat the mystcry of allliquc music has heen solved by this s/i/o rapprescliialivo, in which, so they lhought, was to be found the only explanalinn of the enormous infiucnee of an Or­pheus, an Amphion, and evcn of Greek tragedy. The new style was looked npon as the reawakening of the most effcclive music, an­cient Greek music: indecd, in accmLlance with the universal and popular conception of the Homeric as the primilive world, they could abanLlon themselves In the dream of having desccndcd once more into the paradisiacal bcginnings of mankind, where music also must have had that unsurpas,eLl purity, power, and innocence of which the poets. in their paslonl plays, could give such louching accounts. Here we can sec into lhc innermost development of this thoroughly modern ~'ariety of art, the opcra: art here responds \0 a powerful need, bUl it is a nDnae>lhetic need: lhe yearning for the idylliC, the failh in thc primordial exi,tencc of the arlislic and good man. The recitative was regarded as Ihe rediscovered language of this primilive man; opcra as lhe rediscovered country of this idylli­cally or heroically good creature, who simultancously wilh every action follows a natural artistic impulse, who aeeomplishes his

117 '" THE BIkTH OF TItAGEDY n;CTIOPi 19

speech with a little singing, in order that he may immediately break forth into full song at the slightest emotional excitement.

It is now a matter of indifference to us that the humanists of the time combated the old ecclesiastical con<:eptiou of man as in­herently corrupt and lost, with this newly created picture of the paradisiacal artist: so that opera is to be understood as the oppo.i­tiOD dogma of the good man, but may also, at the same time, pro­vide a consolation for that pessimism which, owing to the frightful uncertainty of all conditions of hfe, attracted precisely the serious· minded men of the time. For us, it is enough 10 have perceived that the essential chOlon, and therefore the geno:sis. of this new art form lies in the gratification of an allogether nonaesthetic need, jn the optimistic glorilicatiou of man as such. in the conception of the primitive man as the man naturally good and artj~lic-a principle of the opera that has gradually changed into a threalening and ler­rible demand which, in face of cpntemporary sp('j:,)istic move­ments, we can no longer ignore. The "good primitive man" wanlS his rights: what paradisiacal prospects!

Besides this I place nnothcr equally obvious confirmation of my view that opera is ba~ed on the same prinCiples as our Alexan­drian culturc. Opera is the birth of the lheoretical man, Ihe eritical layman, not of the arti~t: one of the most surpri~ing facts in the history of all the arts. It was the dem~nd of thoroughly unmusical hearers that before evcrything else the words must be understood, so thatllccording to them a rebirth of music is to be expectcd only whcn some mode of singing has bccn discovered in which lext­word lords it over counterpoiul like masler over servant; For the words, it is argued, arc as much nobler than the accompanying harmonic systcm as the soul is nobler than the body.

It WIIS in aCCl;lrdancc with thc laically unmusical crudeness of these vicws that the cOlllbina!ion of mu~ic, image, and words was effectcd in the beginnings of the opcra. In the spirit of thi1 aesthetic the fits! experiments were made in the leading amateur circles of Florence by the poets and sin?cr<; patronizcd th~e. The man inca­pable of art crcales for himsclf a kind of art precisely because he is the inani5tic man :is such. lkc,iUSC he does not sense the Dionysian depth of music, he changcs his musical taste into an appreciation of the understandable word-and-lOnc-rheloric of thc passions in the .nila ruppr£semuth'o, and into the voJuptuousne~s of the arts of

long. Because he is unable to behold a vl~ion, he forces the ma­chini~t and the decorative artist into his service. Because he cannot comprehend the true nature of the artist, he conjnres up the "artis­tic primitive man" to suit his taste, that is, lhe man who sings and recites verses under the influence of pas~ion. He dreams himself back into a time when pa~sion sufficed to generate songs and poems; a5 if emotion had ever been able to creale anYlhing artistic,

The premise of the opera is a false belief concerning lhe artis­ric process: the idyllic belief that every semient man is an artist. This belief would make opera the e"pression of the taste of lhe laity in an, dictating their laws with the cheerful optimism of lhe theoretical man,

Should we de~ire to eombine the two conceptiom that have just been shown to have influenced the origin of opera, it would merely remain for us to speak of an idyllic tendency of rhe opera. In this connection we need only avail ourselves of the expressions and explanation of Schiller. Nature and the ideal, he says, are either objects of grief, when the former is represented as lost, the latter unattained; or both are Objects of joy, in that they are repre­sented as real. The lirst case furnishes the elegy in its narrower signification, the second the idyll in its widest sense.

Here we must at once call attention to the common character­istic of these twO conceptions in the gene~is of opera, namely, that in them the ideal is not fell as unattained or nature a~ Jo~{. This sen­timent supposes thatlhere was a primitive age of man when he lay dose to the heart of nature, and, owing to this naturalnes~, had at once attained the ideal of mankind in a paradisiacal goodness and artistry. From Ihis perfect primitive man all of us weTe supposed to be descended. We were even supposed to b~ faithful copies of him; only we had to cast off a few things in order to recognile ourselves once more as this primitive man, on the strenglh of a volunl:iry renuneiation of superfluous learnedness. of superabundant cuhure. It was to such a concord of nature and the ideal, to an idyllic real­ity, that the cultured Renaissance man leI him~eJf be led bad: by his operatic imitation of Greek tragedy. He made use of lhis trag­edy &.s Dante made use of Vergil, in order 10 be conducted to the gates of paradise; while from this point he continued unassisted and passed over from an imitation of the hlghesl Greek an-form to a "restoration of all thing>," to an imit.ation of man's original arl­

118 THE BIRTH OP TRAGEDY SECTION 19 119

world. What a cheerful confidence there is about these daring en~

deavors, in the very h~art of lheoretical cullure!-solely to be ex­plained by the comforting belief, that "man-in-hilTlsdr' is the eternally virtuous hero of the opera, the eternally piping or singing shepherd, who must alw~y~ in the end rediscova himsdf as such, should he ever at any time ha\c really klSt himself; 10 be consid­ered solely as the fruil of lhal 0FlimL~m, which here riscs like a sweetishly seduclj~'c cr>lumn of ~'apor from lhe depth of the So­cralic world view.

Therdore, the rcalun:~ of [he opna dc> not by any means ex­hibit lhe elegiac .IQrrQW of an cleru;,1 los~, but ratha the cheerful­ness of e(erna] rt'U1IL",wcry, Ihe cDmfoflable ddight in an idyllic realily which one C~1l ;,t Ic~<;t ;,jl'iny~ imagine ~s re:lL Btl! in lhis

proce~s one m~} <,Ilme u",y grasp the fact thnl this S'Jrposed reality is nothinf! but n fnnlastically silly dnwdling. at which evnyone who conld jLlJge it hy the terrible seriou,ness of lrue nature, and com­pare it with actual primitive scenes of the beginnings of mankind, wonld be impelkd to call out, nau~ealed: Away with the ph,mtom!

Nevertheless, it would be a mistake 10 imagine lhal il is pos­sihle merely by a vigorons sholll to frighlen away such a playful thing a~ thc opera, a~ if it wcre a spectcr. Hc who would destwy the cpera musl lnke up the struggle against Alexandrian cheerfuluess, which exprc~~e;; itself so nai'vc1y in opera concerning its favorite idea. Indccd, opera is ils specific form of art. BUI what may art itself expect from the operation of an art fonn whose beginninp lie entirely onlside of lhe aeslhelic province and which has stolen over from a half-moral ~phere into the arti,lic domain, deceiving us only ot:ca~ionally ahout its hybrid origin? By what sap is thi~ parasitic oper'l nourished. if not by that of true art? Musl we not suppose thnt the highest and, inueed. lhc truly seriou~ lask of arl-to ~~\le

lhe eye from gazing into the horrors of nighr and to deliver the subject b): the healini' balm of illusion from rhe spa_ms of lhe agita­tions of th~ will-nlu~t dc",cnn~te \lud{'[ lhe iufiuenee of its idyllic Seduclion.~ and Ak;l;~ndri<.Jn n<.Jtkrie~ t\1 hccome an empty and merely di~lr~~Iing diver_ion? Wl'at will beeolnc of the elcrnal truths of tb~ Dir>nysi.lil 'lml Apollini,ln when Ihc Slylcs arc mixed in this fa~hion. a~ l b~"t" _hown ro be the e~~~nce of the .\"Ii/o rappre­sen/afil'O,? A styk in wbj~1l music is reg;llded as thc servant, rhc text as the rna.,ler. where mu"ic is compared with thc body, the text

with the soul? where at best the highest aim will be directed toward a paraphrastic tone-painting, just as formerly in the New Altie Dithyramb? wherc music is c\lmpktdy alienated from its true dig­nily as the Dionysian mirror of lhe worlu, ~o thar the only rhing left to it, as the slavc of phenomena, is to imitnte lhe Cormal charaner of phenomena, and to arouse a superficial rlca~lIre in the play of Hnes and proportions, Clo~ely obscrved, this fatal iutillencc of the opera on mw;ie is scen to coinC"ide exaelly with lhe universal devel­opment of modern mmic; the r>plimism lurking in the genc~i~ of the opera and in the character of the cuJrure Iherchy represemed. has, with alarming rapidity. succeeucd in djve~ling mu~ic of its Dicny­sian-cosmic mi,~ion and ilnpre~,ing on it ~ playfully formal alld pleasurable character: a change comrar;,bJe to Ihe metamC>fphosis of the Ae5chylean man into tbe cbcnful Alexandri~n.

If, however, in the exemrlific;,tion here indicated, wc have righuy associated the disappe~nnce of the Dionysian ~pirit with a most striking, bllt hitherto unexplained, tramform"lion and degen. eration of lhe He\lcni~ man-what hopes must rcvive in tiS when the mo~t certain allspices guaranlee fhe reverse process. l/ie gratluu/

awakening of flu f)ivnysian spirit in onr modern world! It is im­pos~ible thaI the divine strength of HerakJe.. should languish for ever in ample bondage to Omphale. 2 Oul of the Dionysian root of the German spiril a power has arisen which, having nothing in common with the primitive conditions of Socralic culture, can nei­ther be eltplain~d nor excused by it, but which is rather fell by this culture as something terribly incxplicahle and overwhelmingly hos­lile-GamlJlJ music as we must unden;tand it, particularly in its vast solar orbit from Bach w Beelhoven, from Beethoven to Wag­ner.

E"cn under rhe mo~t favorable circumstances what can the tnowleuge-craving Socratism of our days dn with this demon risiug from unfathomable depth,,? ~cither by means of lhe Jlourishes anu arabesques of opcratic melody, nor wilh the aid of the arithmctical counting board or fU~llC and cOnlraptlJltal dialectic i~ the formula to bc fouud by whose Ihrice.power[ul light one mighl subdue this

~ A queen of Lydia by "..h,>m tlrr"klCI ,Iaim~d 10 have l'>ecn \kl,\in~d tor a year of bond~ge, acconJing 10 S~phl'dc,. lrQ<:lriMiu~, Ill\c~ l~~rf. In a,id'i H.,oMes, 9,53ff., th. ,tor)' j, ebh'r~I"d

"" TH.E IlIIlTH OP TRAGEDY 9£CTIOl'l 20

demon and compel it to speak. What a spectacle, when our latter­day aesthcliciallS, wilh a net of "be~u'.y" peculiar to themselves, pursue and clutch at the genius of Ill1lsk whirlillg before display activities which are not to be judged Dy the ~landard of elernal beauty any more than by the standard of the sublime. Let uS but observe these patrons of music at close range. as lhey really are, indefatigably crying: "Beauty! beauty!" Do they really bear the stamp of nature's darliug children who are foslaed and nourished at the breast of lhe heautirul, or arc lhey not ralher seekiug a men­dacious clouk for their own coarseness. an ae~lhctical pretext for their own insensitive sobriety; here I am thinking of Dtto hhn, for eXflmpJe. J But let thc liar and thc hypocrite beware of German music: for amid all our cu][ure it is re~lJy lhe only genuine, pure, and pUrifying firc-spirit from which and loward Which, as iu the teaching of thc great Heraclilu~ of Ephcsus, all things move in a double orhit: all lhrlt we now call .;ulture, educatiou, civilization, must somc day appear hefore the unerring judgc, Dionysus,

Let us rec"lkcl funher that Kant and Schopenhauer made it possible for the ~pirit of G'anJlln philosophy, slrc~ming from simi­lar sources, to dcstroy SCiClllific Socratism's complacent delight in existence by eSlab\bhing its b<lundarics; how through this delimita­tion was introduced an intinitely profounder and more serious view

A0110 Jnhn waS b,nn in 1~13, like NirllSche's falher, Richard Wagner, and Kierh~,wrJ, and died in I k69. He wa, a profe%or ot' c!as,;cal philology al Bonn, fi"l " frIend and l~[c, " loc of NicI15che', leacher R'l'chl. Hi, many puhli,"II"j" ,neluded arri"lcs on Greek tragedies and on anciem sculpture! and vaSe pa'm",!;" a life of Mozart, end .,say.' on mnsic. To explain lhe alcove ,emar., it may be relevanl 10 recall a passage in one of Nielzsche's leller, 10 Rohde, October 8, 1868: "Recemly I h••e al.., 'ead Iahn', e!,ays on music, oncluding th~e on W~gner. It req'Jiru 'Orne enlhujia~m 10 do jn'l;ce 10 il,ch a m~n, while Jahn has an in'\lf1Clive ~ver;ion ~nJ l,slens on!y with eJ-r~ Ihal.are half ['lngged. ,,:!ev.rlheles, lagro:-< wllh him on many pOlnlS: es!'"clally msofar as he com,deu Wagner lh~ rep"""nlmive of &

modem d,leltanli,m lhat absorbs and dlg<:'15 all atli'li, ;rTl.,.M'. Bm pre­cisely from lhis palm of View one can hardly be a,lonl,heu eno·'gh al hoW imposing every .,ingle ,orlistic tatenl i, in lhis man. and ",'hal jn.,l!aU'lihie energy is here cOllpled wilh such many-\ldcd arli,li. lul.nls, whil. '~,jnca_

lion,' lhe more mOlley and comprehensive il i', usuall~' "pre""' wilh wealr. eye" fc-chlc legs, and unnerved loins. Moreover, Wa~n.r h,h J dill\tns;c>n of feeling, Ihal remain, a!log.ther hidden from O. hIm': lJhn ~ill\ply ,"main< a , ' , heailhy man for whom lhe mylh of Tannhausn and lh. "Im"<ph.~ f>f Lohengrin remain a c1o;;ed world. Whar I like ahoul \l,,'0&l1er is what 1 ille ahoul SChOpellhauer: the eLhical air, Ihe Fau.lian frapallce, cross, dealh, and tomb, elc."

of ethical problems and of art, which we may de~ignale as Diony­sian wisdom comprised in coucepls, To whJt lhen doe5 lhe my,tery of this oneness of German music and philosophy poinl if not to a new form of existence, concerning whose ehM~~lo:r we ean only inform ourselves by surmi5e from Hellenic analogie,? For to us who stand on the boundary line belwee'n (wo djllerenl forms of existenee, the Hellenic prototype retains This immeasurable value, thal all these transilions and struggles are imprinlCd upon il in III

classically instructive form; except that we, as il we're', pass lhrough the chief epochs of lhe Hellenic genius, anOl.logic~lly in rflJtrSl'

order, and seem now, for instance, to be p~s~ing backward from the Alexandrian age to the period of tragedy. At the same time we have the feeling that the binh of a tragic age simply means a return to itself of the German spirit, a blcssed self-rediscovery after pow­erful intrusive influences had for a long time compelled it, living as it did in a helpless and unchaste barbarism, to servitude under their form. Now III last, upon returning to lhe primitive source of its bl:'ing, it may veuturc to stride along holdly and freely before the eyes of all nations wilh.JUt being attached to the lead strings of a Romanic civililatipn; if only it can learn constantly from one pe0­

ple-the' Gre'eks, from whom 10 be able to lcarn at all is itself II.

high honor and a rare distinction, And when were we in greater need of thne highesl of all teacher5 than at pre~ent, when we are experiencing a rrbirth oj IrlJg"dy ~nd are in danger alike of nOI knowing whence it comes and of being unable [0 make clear to ourselves whither it tends?

20

Some day, before an impanial judge, if may be decided in what time and in what men the German spirit has so faT striven mosf resolutely to learn from the Greeks; and jf we contide'nuy as­sume that this unique praise must be accorded to the' nobleST intel· lectual efforts of Goethe, Schiller, and Winckelmann, we should cenainly have to add that sinee their time and the' more immediate consequences of thcir efforts, the endeavor to allain 10 culture and to the Greeks on the same path has grown incomprehensibly fee­bler and feebler. Thaf we milY not despnir ullerly of the German Jpirit, must we not conclude that, in some essential m~tler, even

BECTlON 20 m THE BIRTH OF TR~GEI>~

these champions did not penetrate into the Cl're of the Hellenie nature, to establish a permJ.ncnt nlliauce between Go:rm~n and Gr"ek culture? So an unconscious recognition of thi~ shorlcoming m'!y /lave prompted the di<;hcartcning donbt, even in "en serio'Js p"0ple, whether after such pred~ee>sors they could p{)s~ibly ad­"ance further on thi~ path of cui lure or could re~ch the goal at all. "'ccordingly, we see that opini()n~ concerninf:. the value of the Greeks fo.r educatio~ have been degenerating i~ the mo~r alarming manner smee that hme. Expre~~iom of eompa"ionatc conde~cen­~jon may be heard in the mo,t varied camps of the spirit-and of ~;ck of ;;pirit. El~ewhere. ineffectual rhelnric plays with the phrases

Greek harmony," "Greek beallty," "Greek eheerfulne~s." And those very circle, wh(lst dignified ta~k il mi~hl be to draw indefat­igably from the Greek rcwrv(lir rN the good of Gemlan cul­ture, the teachcn of the higher educalional in~titU[ions, have I~arned best to com~ to ,erms with the Greeks easily and in good lIme, often by skcptlcally abandonln.-.: the Hellenic ideal and com­pletely pervertin,l!. the tru', purpmc 0(- antiquarian studies. Whoever in these circles has nl't completdy e.\h<lu,;ted himself in his en­d~avor to. be a depenuable CllTrccto[ of old te~ts or a linguistic mlcroscoplsl who ape!' naturul hi,tory i~ prebably trying to assimi­late Greek antiquilY "hi~torically," along with oJlher antiquities, at any ratc llccording to lhe method and wah the snpercilious airs of our present cnltnred historiography.

The cultural power of onr higher educational institutions has ~r,~aps n~ver been lower or rcebl~r than at present. The "journal­t~t, the papcr .~lave of the day, triumphs over the professor in all matters pertllining to culture; and nothing remains (0 the Jailer but che metamorphosis, often experienced by now, of fluttering also M:e ~ cheerful culture? hutterfly, with Ihe "light elegance" pecnJiar co '.hlS sphere, employmg the journalist's style. In what painful con­fUSion mUM the cultured cia» of such a period gulC at the phenom­enon which perhaps is to be comprehended analogically only by means. of the profounde,t principle of the hitherlo unintelligible HelleniC genius-the phenomenon of the reawakening of the Dio­nysian spirit and the rebirth of tragedy?

There has nevrr heen an(llher pniod in the hislory of art in which so-called cullure and true an have been 50 estranged and opposed as we may observe them (0 be at pre,;ent. We can under­

stand why so feeble a culture hate~ tnll' arl; it kMS de ..!ruction from its hands. But has not an entire cultural fl'rm, nallldy. lhe Socratic-Alexandrian, exhausled itself afta I;"ulminatin~ in "·Lleh a daintily tapering point as our present culture? If heroes lih Goethe and Schiller conld nOI suecced in hre<lking open the ench1ntcd gate which leads into the Hellenic m<lgic mount!,in, il with their most dauntless striving they eOllld not go hcyond the longing gaze which Goethe'. Iphigenia casts from harbaric Tauris to her home acros;; the ocean, what could lhe epigone~ of such heroes hope for-un­less, amid (he mptic wne, of reawakened tragic music, lhe gate ~hould open for them 'lIddcnly (If irs l1wn accord, from an entirely different side. quite (lverlnoked in ,111 previous cliltural endeavor~.

Let no oue try to bli~h( ollr f~ith in a yel-impending rebirth of Hellenic antiquity. for lhi~ "lone gi~'e~ us hope for a re~(lvati()n and purification 01 the Germ;ln spirit through the fire magic of mu;;ic.' Wh;lt el~~ clluld W~ r,:Ime lhJl mighl awaken anv comfort­ing expectations for lhe fUlure in (he miJ;;t of the de~oli\lion and e~haustion of cOnlempDTJry culmre! In vain we look for a ;;ingle vigorously developed roo!. for a "poL "I fertile :lnd healthy soil: everywhere there is dust and ,and: everything has become rigid and lllngllishe~, One who is di~consoiJ.te and lond~' ('"uld nOI choose a beller symbol than the knight with dei\lh and devil, as Durn has drawn him for u~, the armored knight with the iron. hall] look, who knows how to pur;;ue his tcrrible path, undeterred b\' hi, gruesome companions, and yet without hope, alone with hi~ h,)r~e and dog Our Schopenhaucr was such a Diirer knight; he lacked all h"pe. but he desired truth. He has no peer~.

But how suddenly the desert of our exhausted ;::uJtur~, juM described in such gloomy tcrms, is changed when it is tllllchcd hy the Dionysilln magic! A tempest seizes everylhiug that hJS oUllived itself, everything that is dccaycd. broken, and withered, and, whirl­ing, ~hroud5 it in a cloud of red dust (0 carry it into the air like a \Illlture. Confused, our eyes look after what hJS di~:lppeared; for what thcy see has been rai,ed as from a depression iulo golden light, so full and green. so aml'l) alivc, it11rl1c~.,urable :lnd full of yearning. Tragedy i~ sealed amid thi, exee,s of life, ,uffcring, and

1 Thi! request thal nO t'ne ,h,'u1l1 (r(l\,~le c\ll' tlilh because it alone .giv.. UI hope, CO~lra"s vor} ~harrl)-' ",th I'lc1L>"h~" t~ler ~LILIuJ. 1O",~rd [~llh,

124 THE BlllTH OF TR~QED'I'

pleasure, in sublime ecstasy. listening to a dislant mcl~ncholy song thaI tells of the mothers of being whose names are: Delusion, Will, Woc. 2

Yes, my friends, belicyc with me in Dionysian life and the rebinh of tragedy. The age of the Socratic man is over; put on wreaths of ivy, put the thyrsus into your hand, and do uel be surprj~ed when tigers and panthers lie down, fawning, at your feet. Only dare to be tragic men; for you are to be redeemed. You shall accompany the Diony.\ian pageant from India 10 Greece. Prepare yourselves for hard slrife, but believe in the miracles of your god.

21

Returning from these hortatory tones to the mood befitting contemplation, I rcpeal thaI we can learn only from the Grech whal such an almo,t miraculously sudden awakening of tragedy means for lhe innennost life ground of a people. It is lhe people of the tragic mysteries that fights the hatl1es against the Persians; and the people tbal fought these wars in lurn needs lragedy as a necessary pOlion to recover. Who would have supposed that pre­cisely this people, after it had bcen decply llgilated through several generations hy the MrongeSt spasms of the Dionysian demon, should slill have been capable of such a uniformly vigorous effu­sion of the simple,t political feeling, the most natural patriotic in­stincts, and ori1!in.al manly desire to fight? After all, one fccls in every case in which Dionysian excilement gains any siguificant ex­tent how the Dionysian liberation from the fellers of Ihe iudividual find~ expression first of all in a diminillion of, in indiffereuce 10,

indeed, in hostility to, the political instincts. Just as certainly, Apollo who forms stales is also the genius of the principium indi­viduarionis, and slate and patriotism cannot live without an affir­mation of Ihe iudividual personality. But from orgies a people can take one palh only, the palh to Indian Buddhism, and in order that this may be endurable at all with its yearning for the nothing. it requires these rare ecstalic stales with their elevalion above space, time, and the individual. These states in turn demand a philosophy

~ Wa},n, Wille, We/Pe. This passage reads like a parody of Wagner, bill eer­uinly was not meant Lo be satirical.

HCT10N 21

that teaches men how to overcome by the force of an idea the inde­scribable displeasure of lhe sl<lles lhatlie between. Wherc llle polit­ical drives are taken to be absolulcly valid, it is JUSl as necessary that a people should go lhe path toward the most nlrcme ;;eculari­zation who,e most magnificclll bUI also mo,t lerrifying expression may be found in the Roman imperium.

Placed between India aud Rome, and pushed loward a seduc­tive choice, the Greeks succeeded in invenling a third form. in clas­sical purity-to be sure. one they did not long use them,dves, but one lhat precisely for thaI reawn gained immorlalily. For that the favorites of the gods die early, is true in all thiugs; but it is jusl as certain that they lhen live elernally wilh lhe gods. After all, one should not demand of what is noblcsl of allthal it should have lhe' durable toughness of leather. That staunch perseverance which charaClerized, for example, lhe national inslincts of lhe Romans. probably docs not belong among the necessary predicatcs of per­feclion. Bul let us ask by meaus of whal remedy it was possible ror the Greeks during their great period, in spite of lhe e:l:lrnordinary strength of their Dionysiau aud political instincts, not {O exhau~l

themselves cilher in ecstatic hrooding or iu a consuming cha,e afler worldly power and worldly honor, but rather to atlain that splendid mixture which resemblcs a nohle wine in making one feel fiery and contemplative at the same timc. Here we must clearly thiuk of the tremendous power thal Slimulated, purified, and discharge'd the whole life of the people: tragedy. We cannot begin to ,ense its highest value unli! it confronts us, as it did the Greeks, as lhe quin­tessence of all prophylactic powers of hcaling, as lhe mediator that worked among the slrongest and in Ihemselves most fatal qualities of thc people.

Tragedy absorbs the highest ecstasies of music, so lhat ltlruly brings music, both among the Greeks and among us, to its perfec­tion; but then it places the lragic myth and the tragic hero next to il, and he, like a powerful Titan, takes the wholc DionySIan world upon his back aud lhus relieves us of this burden. On the other hand, by means of l:,e same trat,>1c myth, in lhe person of lhe tragic hero, it knows how 10 redeem us from the greedy thirsl for this exislence, and Wilh an admouishing ge~ture il reminds us of anothcr existence aud a higher pleasure for which the struggliug hero pre­paWl himself by means of his destruclion. not by mean~ of his

9ECTIO~ Z I". ", triumphs. Between the universal ~~Jidil~' of it~ music and the listener, receptive in his Dionysian smle, traged), places a ~ublime par!lble, the myth, and deceives the listener inlo kciing that the music is merely the highest means to bring life into thl;." vivid world of myth Relying on this noble deception. it may' now move its limbs in dilhyrn.mbic dances and yield unhcsil!ltingJy 10 an ecstatic feeling of freedom in which it ecnld not dare to wallolli as pure music without this deception, The myth protects us against the music, while on the other hand it alone gives music the highest freedom. In return, music imparts to the tragic myth an imeme and convincing metaphysical signifkance that word and image without this singular help could ne\'~r havc attained, And above all, it is through music that {hc trllgic speclalOr is overcome by an assured prem0nition of a highest pleasure! attained through deslruction and negation, >Q he fecls as if the innermost abyss of things spoke f(> him p<:rceptibly.

If these !:lSl sentenc~s have perhaps managed to give only a preliminary c.lprc%ion to these difficult ideas and are immediately inlelligible only to fe ..... , I neverlheless may nol desist at this point from trying to ,Iimulale my [ricnds to further elforts and must ask them to use a single elampl~ of our common experi~nce in order to prepare themselves for:t gcneral insight. In giving lhis example, J mu~t not appeal to those who use lhe images of what happcns on the stage, the lli()Tds and emotions of the aCling persons, in order to approach with their help the musical feeling: for lhese people do nol speak music as their mOlher tengue and, in spile of this help, never get beyolld lhe entrance halls of musical perceplion, ..... ithout ever being able to as much as touch 1hc inner sanctum. Some of them, like Gcrvinus.~ do not even rCrlch the entrance halls. I must appeal only to those who. immediakly' rt"la1ciJ 10 mu;;ic, have in it as it were, their mOlherly womb. and are rela1t"d [0 lhings :tlmost exclusively through unconscious musical relo1ions. To these genu­ine musicians J direct lhe question whc1h~r th~y can imagine a hn­man b~ing who Iliould be able to perceive the third act of Tri.fIIln

and Isolde. Iliilhout any aid of word and image, purdy as a tremcn·

I An allusion to Fau't', laSI Iliord, in line' 11.!~31. of Goclhe', play, ~ G. G. Gervinu" aUlhor of Slrakelpe,,,e, 2 vol,., Leipzig, IB50, ~rd ed., I ~~? f:n~li,h If.. Shake"peQre COr>,mtn/Qrles. J863

dous symphonic movement, Iliithout ~;o;riring in 3 ~pa~modic un­harnessing of all the wings of the soul?

Suppose a human being ha~ thus put his ~ar, as it Iliere. 10 the heart chamber of the world will and fell 1h~ roaring desire for exi~t­enee pouring from there imo all lhc v~in~ of the world, as a thun­dering current or as the gCllllest brook, di~,olc'ing into a mist-h~w

could he fail to break suddenh'? How ('ould he endur~ to perceive the echo of innumerable shon;~ of ple:"nre and Ilioe in the "Iliide space of the world night," enclosed in Ihe wretched glass cap~u!e ~f

the human individual, Iliilhout inexorahly fleeing 10lliard hIS pn­mordial home, as he h~ar~ this shcpherd's dance of metaphy~ics?

But if such a work could nevertheless he p~rceivcd as a whole, without denial of individu;ll existence; if ~uch a creation could be created without smashing it~ cre:ttor-whenee do we take the solu­lion of such a contradiction?

Here the tragic mVlh and the tragic hero intervene heilliecn our highest music~:tl e~otion and Ihi~ mu,ic-at botlOn nnly as 5"mbols of the mlw univ'er<~1 facts, of Ilihich only music can speak ,~ dirnrly. But if our feeling~ were those of entirely Di(lny~ian t>eings, myth as a symbni would remain totally ineffecti,:e an,d un­nOlieed, and would never for a m'lmenl keep u;; from Ilstcfilng 10 the re-ech() of the Ilniversolio OMr<' rem.' Yet here the Apollinian

power erupts to restore the alm()~\ sh<lttered individual with the healing balm of blissful illusion: ~uddenly we imab>ine we see only Tristan, motionle,s, asking himsclf dull}: "Thc old (Unc, ..... hy dQes it Iliake meT' And what once seemed to u~ like a hollow 'ligh from the core of being now merely Iliants to lcll us h"w "desol<lte and empty the sca."· And where, brealhless, w~ onc~ lhought ..... ~ ..... ere being extinguished in a convulsive distcntion of all our feelings, and Iiule remained 10 tie us 10 our present exislence. Ilie now hear and see only the hero Iliounded to death, yel not dying. Wilh hi, de,p~ir­ing cry: "Longing l Longing! In dcath stililonging~ for very longing not dying!" And where. formerly after such an e;l;cess and ,uper­abundance of consuming agonies. Ihe jubilation of the horn cut through our hearts alUlost like lhe ullimale ag[')ny, the rej[')icing

ITh~ univer,al, before (anledatlng) the thi~g,

t Wie "od und lur da" Mar:' al",' 'lu~l<d irom TriJwn Wid l"old~ hy T, S. Eliol ill The Wa.I. Land (1921). tine 4~.

129 ". TilE I.IRTM Of TRAGEDY ~ECTION 21

Kurwenal now stands between us and this "jubilation in itself," his face turned toward the ship which carries Isolde. However power· fully pity ;1tfecls us, it nevertheless saves u, in a way from the pri­mordial sutTering of rhe world, just as lhe symbolic image (J[ the myth s:ncs w; from the immediate perception of lh~ highe.iL ..... <1r1d­idea, just as thought and word ~ave us from the uninhibited .:ffu­sion of the unconscious wilL The glorious Apollmion illusion makes it appear as if even the tone world confronted us as a sculpted world, as if the fate of Tristan and holdo; h~d heco fmmed and molded in it, too, as in an exceedingly tcnder and expressive material,

Thus lhe Apollinian tears us out of rhe Dionysian universality and lets us find delight in individuals; it atlaches our pity to !h~m,

and by means of them it satisfies our sense of bcauty which longs for great and sublime form,; il rrcsents images of life 10 ns, and incites us to comprehend in lhought the core of lifc they contain. With the immense impact of the image, the concept, the ethical teachinl/:, and the sympathetic emotion, the Apollinian tears man from his orgiastic self-anuihi1;:,.tion and blind~ him to the universality of the Dionysian proc~ss, deluding him into the belief that he is seeing II single image of the world (Tristan and Isolde, for instance), and thaI, througlr music, he is merely supposed to ,ref it ~till better and more profoundly_ What can the healing magic of Apollo nOt ac­complish when it can even create the j]jusion (hilt the Dionysian is really in the service of the Apollinian and capable of enhancing its elfects--as if music were essentially the an C'f presenting an Apol. linian content?

By meuns of the pre-established harmony between perfect drama and its mnslc, the drama allains a superlative vividness un­aUajn<ible in mere spoken drama. In the indepentlently moving lines of the melody all the living figures of the scene simplify them­selves before Wi to the distinctness of curved lines, and the harmo­nies of these lint.. , symfJnthize in a most delicate rnnnner with the eVents on the stage. The.,e harmonies make the relations of things immediately pnc,"ptible to us in a ~ensuous, by no means abstraet manner, and thu, we per~i:ive that it is only in these relations that the essence l.,r ~ eharacter and of a melodic line is revealed clearly. And while music thus cnmpds us to see more and more profoundly (h~n usual, and we see the action on the stage as a

delicate web, the world of the stagc is exp~nded infinitely and illll­min<ited for our spiritualizcd eye. How could a word-pocl I"urnl,h anything analogous, ""lten he 'triv~~ to :lllain this internal e'pall­sian <ind illumination or [hc \'i~iilk slage-wwld by means of <i much more imperfect meehJni,m. imJircdly. pr'lci:~Jing from word und concept? Although mu"il"JI trag~dy alSll ;J'ail, ilself of the word, it can <it the ~ame tim~ plJcl." b~,ide it thi: ha,i, and origin of thc word, making the development Df th..: w(lrd clear to us. [rom the inside.

Concerning the proc·e~, Ju,t de,cribed, hllWC"er, we may still .ay with equal <issuwnee thai it is mertly <i glorious <ippearanee, namely, the <iforernemioned ApolliniiJn illusion whose influence llim~ to deliver us from thc Dionysian flood <ind <':"ce.'s. File <it bottom, the rel<1lion of music (0 drama is precisely Ihe reverIe: music i<; the rCJI idea of the world, dmma is but lhe.- rdl~cti\1rl or thi, idea, a singli: silho\leLte of it. The identity betl'own thl' melody lind the liling ligure, between the harmony and the character rd;l­lion, of that figure, is true in <i ,en~e.- opposite (0 wh;ll c'ue would >Ilppose on the comemplatil1n of musicul tragedy. Even if WI'" ~~ilfile

and enliwn the ligure in the most vi,ibk mann~r. ~rHl illuminate il from within, it ,lill rem~ins mercly a phcllomeuon from which no bridge leads us to tme reality, into the hear! of thc world. Ont music speub out of thi, heart; and though countless phenomena of the kind were to accompany thi~ mu~ic. they could never exhaust it, essence, but would always he nothing mar.:: than its e;r.;(~malized

copies. As for the intric,lte n:lalion~hip of music and drama, nothing

can be explained, while everything may he confused, by the popul<ir and thoroughly false mntra,t Dr ,oul and body; but the nnphilo­sophical crudcness of this contra.It setm~ to have become-who knows for what ren,ons-a rcadily accepted article of faith among (Jur ae~theticians, while they have learned nOlhinl' u[ the contra~t

of the rhenomenon and the Ihing.in-itself--or. fl'! equ<llly un­known rt'ason~. have not eared to leurn nnything aboul il.

Should our analysis have establhhed that tht: ApolliniJn ek­ment in tragetly ha~ hI' means of its illusion gniued a complete viclory ova the primoridal Dionysian element of mu~ic, Illakin~

music suh,erviem to its aims, numely, to m~ke the dramfl ~~ vivid as possible-it would certainly be necessary (0 ~dJ a very impr>r­

130 1'KE BIl'l'H OF 'l'II.AGEOY

lant qualification: at tbe most e,~ential pain! thi~ Apo!linian illu­sion i~ brok~n and annihilated, The drama that. with the aid of music. unfolds il,elf before us with 5uch inwardly illumined dis­tjnct[)e~s in all its movements and figures, liS if we saw the texture coming inlo being on the loom as the shuule flies to and fro---at­tains as II whole an effect that lran~(ends all Apollinian arris/if ~Dt!cIS. In the total effect of trageuy, the Diony~ian predominates once again. Tragedy closes ..... ith II sound which could never come from the realm of Apollinian arl. And thllS lbe ApolJinian illusion fcc'cals itself as what it really i~~lhe veiling during lhe perform­alice of lbe tragedy of the real Dionysian dfeCl; bUl the lllller is so powerful lhat it end, by forcing lhe ApolJinian drama it,;elf inlo a sphere where it begins 10 speak with Dionysian wisdom and even denies it~ell and it, Ap()ll\nian visibility. Thus the intrkate rebtion of the Apollinian and the Dionysian in tragedy may reaiiy !'Ie ~ym­bolized t>}' a j'ralcrnal union of the two deities: Diony,u~~pea~s the languagr of ApDllo; and Apollo, finally the language of Diony'ius; and so the highe'l goal of tragedy and of all art is attained.

Let the (ulenlive friend imagine the effect of a lrue musical

tragedy purely and simply, as he knows it from experience. r think I have so portrayed the phenomcnon of this dIect in both its phases thfit he Cfin now interprel his own experiences. For he will recol­lect how with rcgard 10 the myth which passed in fronl of him, he felt him\elf cltalled 10 fi kind of omniscience, as if his visual faculty were no longer merely a surffice facnlty but capable of pene­trating into lhe interior, and as if he now saw t>efore him. with the aid of mu'ie, the waves of the will, the cc>nflict of motives, and the swelling flood of the pas~ions, sensul.1usly visible, fiS 'II

were, like a mulLitude of vividly moving lines and figures; and he fell hI;; could dip into lhe mosl ddicate secrets of unconscious emo­tions. While he Ihus becomes con,eious ot' tbe highest exaltation of his justinets for cbrity and lran,figuralion, he neverthcless feels just as definilely lhal lhi.' loug ~erk~ oj Apollinian artislic eflecls ~till does not gcnerate that bk~sed conlinu~[\ec in will-less contem­plation which lhe pla5lie artist and the epic pNI, that is to say, the striclly Apollinian artisls, e>'oke in him with their artistic produc-

SECTION 22

lions: to wit, the justification of Ihe world of the indMdumio at­tained b}' this contempLllion-which is the climn and cssenee of ApolIinian an. He heho!Js Ihe transfigured world of the stage find nevertheless denies it. He sees the tragic hcro before him in epic clearness and beauty, and nc\'\:rthclc5~ reloices in hi, annihilation. He comprehends the action (kep 00"n, (I[1d yd likes to flee into the incompreheTI5ible, He feels the nelion' of tbe hero 10 he ju.tified, and is neverlheless stIll more cl~tcd when lbese adions annihilate their agent. He shudders at the ,uffcring, which will befa1l1hc hero, and yel anticipate:; in them a hightr, much mOle overpowering joy, He sees more extensively anu profoundly than ever, and yel wishe~

he were blind, How must we deri.e this curious intcrnal I,jfurc:ition, this

blunting of the Apollinian poin!. if not from the D/"lIysian magic that, though apparently e.tciting the Apollinian emotions to their highest pilch, slill rttains 1he power lo force intI' it, service his excess of Apollinian force?

< The rragic myth is [0 be nnder~tood onlv as a s.'mbolinlion of Dion)~jan wi,dom through ApL11Jlnian (11 ti ~';'~i. The'm)'th leads the world of phenomena to its limils \\'h,>r~ It Jenie, ilself and seeks 10 flee baek again into the womb of 11K trllc ;\nJ Olll)' reality, where it then seems 10 commence ils melapllpit.Li ",,;cn,ong, like Isolde:

In Ille rapture ocean's billo....,ing rul/, in the fragrance wall,'."

ringing ;ouml, in the .... 'C'rIJ hrt'alh'J

wafling 1I'hult'­to drol<'n, /IJ ~ink­

uncon,rious-higheSljOY' I

In dt' Wonnemeere, wo~cndem Sch,,--all, In J., D,,[(·Wcllcn Ii:mendem Schall, in <1., Wdlalheffi, wehendem AIl­erl[in~en~ver,inken_

unbewus;l-hoch.IC LYI['

'" THE BIIlTIt Of TIlA(;fDY U:CTION 22

Thus we use the experiencn of the truly aesthetic listener to r thetie play in the case of musical tragedy. Therefore we are justified bring to mind the tragic artist him,elf ~~ he creales his ligures like a fecund divinity of individuation (~O hi~ work can hardly be under­stood as an "imitation of nature'") and a~ his vast Dionysian im­pulse then devours his entire world of phenomena, in onJer (0 lei us semc beyond it, and through its destruction, the highest arlistie primal joy, in the b<'som of lhe primorl.lially One. Of cour~e. our lIeslheticians have nothing to S<lY about this return to the primor­dial home. or lhe frJlem:l[ union of the two arl-deities, nor of llle excilemrnl of lhe hcara which is Apollinian as well as Dionysian; but they never tire of characterizing the slrngg1e of the hero with fate, the triumph of the moral world order, or the purgatiun of the emotions through tragedy, a, the essence of the tragic. And their indefatigability makes me think that perhaps they arc not aestheti· cally sensitive at all, but react merely as moral beings when listen­ing to a tragedy.

Never since Ariswtle has an e"pbnatilln of the tragic effect heen offered from which aesthetic stale, or an aesthetic activity of the listener could be inferred. Now rhe serious events are supposed to prompt pity and fear to dischar~e themselves in a way that relieves us; now we are supposed to feel e1~valcd and inspired hy the tri­umph of good and noble principles, at the sacrifice of the hero in the interest of a moral vi,ion of the universe. I am sure th<lt for countless men precisely lhis, and only this, is the effect of tragedy, but it plairJy follows that all these men, together with their inter­preting aestheticians, h:l.ve had no experience of tragedy as a su­preme art.

The pathological discharge, the catharsis of Aristotle, of which philologists are not sure. whether it should be included llmong medical or moral phenomena, recalls a remarkable nOlion of Goethe's. "Without a lively pathological interest," he says, "I, too, have never yct succeeded in elaboraling a tragic sitllatiun of any kind, and hence I have rather avoidcd than ;;ought it. Can it perhaps have been yet another merit of the ancients Ih<l{ the deep­est pathos was with them mcrely <lesrhetic pliiy, while with us the truth of nature must co-operale in ordcr 10 produce such a work?"

We can now answer this profound l\na\ question in the affirmative after our gJoriou~ expericnccs, having fUUlld to our astonishment that the dccpcst pnthos can indced be merely aes­

in believing that now for the nrst time the primal phenomenon of the tragic can be described with some degree of succe~s. Anyone who still persists in talking only of those ViCMious el1eels proceed­ing from eXlra-aesthetic spheres, and wha dries nut kcl lhHl he is above the pathological-moral proce". should despJir of his aes­thetic nature: should we recommend to him a~ an innaant equiva­lent the interpretation of Shakespeare after lhe manner of Gervinus and the diligent search for poetic ju,tice?;:

Thus the aesthetic listener is abo reborn Iliith thc rcbirth of tragedy. In his place in the thealer. a curious quid pro qU&~ used to sit with half moral and half scholarly prelensions--the "critic." Everything in his sphere so far hns been artificial and merely wh·jle­washed \I,ilh an appearance uf life. The performing artist was really at a loss ho\!,' to deal with a listener who eomported himself !;Q

critically; so he, as well as the dramatist or operalic composer \!"ho inspired him, searchcd anxiously for rhe last remains of life in a being so pretertliClusly barrcn and incapable of enjoyment. So far, however, such "crities" ha.'c constituted the audience: the srudent, the schoolboy, even the most innocuous female had been unwit­tingly prepared by education and newspapers for this kind of per· ception of works of art. Confronled with such a public, the nobler nattires among the artists counted upon eltciting their moral­religious emotions, and the appeal to the moral world-order inter­..ened Vicariously where some powerful artistic magic ought to en­rapture the genuine listener, Or some more impOSing, or 011 all events eXciting, Irend of the contemporary political and social world was so .. ividly presented by the dramatist thai the listener could forget his critical exhaustion and abandon himself 10 emo­lions similar to those felt in patriotie or warlike moments, or before the tribune of parliament, or at the condemnation of crime and vice-an aJienati0n from the troe aims of art that somelimes had to result in an outright cult of tendentiousness. But what happened next is what has always happencd to all artificial arts; a rapid de­generation of such tendentioll~ness. The attempt, for example, to use the theater as an inslitution for the moral educmion of the peo­

aSee aeeliO'll 21, note 2. • One IhiDg in plB~ of &.nother.

THII BIRrM 0' TlhG£OY'34 pie, still taken ~eriou~J)' in SchjJler'$ time, i~ alrcady reckoned among the incredible antjqlle~ of ~ Lla'.cd Iype of education. While the critic got the uppu h;md in the theater MId cnncen hall, the joumnlisl in the schOc'h. aml [he press in society, art degenerated into a panicularly lowly [opic of c:oIJverso[jon, and aesthetic criti­

cism wns used as a means of uniting a vain, diqraclcd, selfish, and moreover pileously unoriginal sucinbiJity whose chac1cter is sug­geslcd by Schopcnhilucr's parable of the porcnpines.- A~ a result, art has never been ,,) mnch talked about and so Iitlle esteemed. But is it still pos"ibk to have intercourse with a person capable of con­versing about l1eclhoven or Shakespeare? ~ Let each answer lhis

que\ti()n ;lCc()rding to his own feeling,: he will at any rate show !">j'

his answer his conceplion of "culture," provided he at least tries to answer the question, and has nol already become dnmfunnded with ast..:Jnishment.

On the other hand. many a being more nobly and delieatdj' endowed by n:ltnre, though he may have gradually become a criti­cal bHbarian in the manner described, might have something [0 say

about the unexpected as well as lotally nnintelligible effect that a

succescfnl performance o[ Lohl'llJ',rin, ror example, had on him­e,;cepl that perhaps [here wa~ no hdp[ul inttrpreting hand to guide

him; so the in.:omprchensibly dilfcrent and altogether incompa­rable sensation that thrWed him remained isolated and, like a mys­

4The paraole i, found ,U Ih. end of Schof"'nhuuer'. PQra~" und Pilralif'om­~i1a. VoL II (18~t), ,eeli"" .1Q~, "On ~ ,()l~ "'inler day," group of porcu­pine. huddled togelher cl,,'el1' 1(' \~Ve (hon,\el"c, hy (t,..ir mUlllal warmtb from freczing. Dlil ,,,on Ihn' fdl Ih~ mU1U~1 <judi, and J"w apar.L When_ eYer (he need for w"nmh h\'v~hl Inem cI'"er logeth" ~~<"n. [h" .."ond evil wa. repe"lod..\0 tnal [hn "·~Ie [,"<e~ h.,,~ MJ 10rlh Th:1Ween lnese lwo ~ind, of ,"lfcring lin Ii] the,· di<c"wrej ~ n-'OJcralt Ji,l,na th~l proved mOSt tolerabt~.- Thus lne need I", wmr.1nl'. ~l'm elf lne emplinc" and monot­ony imide Ihem. drive, men I"~"lbcr; bUI [hei, many re'olling gualilie, and inlolerahte faLlII, ropel Ih"m ,,:,'a,n. Tne medium d"lanC" lhJ[ (her finally discover and lhat ma~c, a',o,ial"'" p",,,ble " po],[,",,, "nd g""d mannerS. ',vhocver docs not ~cel' thi' di,l,n,e i,.'r,ld, "mong [he Bril;'h· keep your di'lance'- To hc 'ure. Ih" "nl:-· permi" Impe,lo"[ .. ",i:,,:,:,,'n ,,( lhe need for mUlual warm[n. hut il al'" ,cop' "ne f",m iec],ng Iho rUle'. <If ,h. qUIll,.­Dul whoever PO,,","c. muc·h inner ",,,,m[h 01 hi' "Wn "'1I1 p"ru 10 ~vo!J

company te<l hc t3U<~ '" ,u[Tcr :,nnu",n;:e" I h",," '1"o[e<1 lh" p.1rable In itl .nlirel1': kNp yo,,, I.'i,'"",,-" " cngllSh in lhc origlilal. ~ Cf. T. S. Eli"l';; "T 0'"" Song of J. Alfred PJUfroc~". "In th. room lhe women COlne am! gc' ..'Talking "i ),f,chelange]"."

HCTlO"- 13 '" terious star, became extincl after a ~h()rt pcri()d oC brilliJnce. But it was lhen that he had an inkling of what an aesthelic Ii~tener is.

Whoever wishes to te~t rigorou~ly to what extent he himself is related to the true aesthetic li,tener or belllng~ LU the community of

the Socratic-critical pcr~ons needs only to examine sincerely the feeling with which h. accepts miracles repre,emed on the stage: whether he feel~ his hislOrical sense, which insists on strict psycho­

logical callsnlity. insulted by them, whether he makes a benevolent

concession and admits the miracle as a phenomenon inlelligible to childhood bUI alien to him, or whether he experiences anything else. For in thi~ way he will be able to determine to what e,;tent he

i~ capable of understanding myth as a concentrated image of the world lhat, as a condensatiun of phenomena, cannot dispense with

miracles. It i~ probable, however, thaI almo~t everyone, npon close examination, (lnd~ that the critical-historical spirit of unr cnlture ha.~ w affected him that be can only make the former e,;istence of

myth credible hl him~elf by means of scholarship, throngh intenne~

diary ab~traction~, But without myth every cultnre loses the

healthy natural power of iL~ creativity: only a horizon defined by myths completes and u\1ifie~ a whole cultural movement. Myth alone saves all the powers of the imagination and ()f the Apollinian

dream from their aimless w;mdcrings. The image~ of the myth have fO be the unnOliced omnipresent liemonic guardians, under whose

care the young sonl grows to malllrity and who~e signs help the man to interpret his life and stnJ?gles. Even the state knows no

more powerfnl nnwritten laws lhan the mYlhi.:al foundali..:Jn thai guarantees it.> conneclion with religion and its growth from mythi­

cal notions. By way of comparison let ns now picture the abstract man,

untutored by myth; abstract c,Juplion; ahstract mmaJily; ab~traet

law; the abstract Slate; let us imagine the lawless roving o[ the anis­tic imagination, unchecked oy any native myth; let ns think DC a

culture that has no lhed and sacred primordial site bm is doomed to exhanst all possibilities and to nourish it.>elf wretchedly on all

other cultures---there we have the present age, tbe result of that

TH& RlRTH OF TRAO;;I!DY'" '" SocratisIT1 which is bent on the destruction of myth. And now th;; mythlcss man stands eternally hungry. surrounded by all past ages, and Jigs and grubs for roots, even if he h.:1' Lo dig for them among the remotest antiquities. The tremendous historical need of our un­sJtisfied modern culture, the asscmbl'ing around one of countleSs other cultures, the consuming desire for bowledgc-what docs all Ihis poinl 10, if nm to the loss of myth, the loss of the mythical horne, the myl1',lcill ITlil{cmal womb? Let us ask our;;dvt:s whether the feverish anu uncanny ([cilement of this cnllmc is anything but the greedy seizing and snatching at food of a hnngry man-and who woulJ cJrc 10 wnlribu/e anything to a cullure thaI cannot be satisfied no matler how much it devours, and at Whose comaet the most vigorons and whole.'wme nourishmenl is changed into "his­tory and critici,m"?

Wc ShllOld also have to reg~rd our Gcmlan character with sorrowful de~pair, if it had :llread}' heellme inextricably entangled In, or even idcmical wilh, its culture, as we may ob~erve to our horror in the case of civilized Francc. What for a long time was Ihe great advantage 01 France and the canse of her vast snperiority, namely, this ~'ery identity of people and culture, might compel us in vJcw of this sil:htto congratulate ourselvcs thnt lhi~ sO qnestionable culmre of our; has as yet nothing in common with the nohle eOTC of our pcoplc's character.' On the contrary. all onr hOpes stretch out longingly toward the pereeption that beneath this restlessly p~Ipi­tating cultural life and convulsion there is cllOcealed a glorious, intrinsically healthy, primordial powcr that, !<) be sure, stirs vigor­ousl.v only at intcrvuls in stupendous momcnts, and then continues to drcam of a future awakeuing. It is from this abyss that tbe Ger­man Reformation came fUrlh; and in ils chorales the future tune of German mll';ie resouncted for the first time. So deep. courageous, and spirimal, so exuberantly gU(ld and tender did this chorale of

1This pro.Oerman and "nli·Fn'llch pa.,age echoei Wagner and is ulterly al mtd, Wiih Nietzschc', bt~r worl;s, Inrleed. e"~n toi, "~Ond book, the essny On (),,, ..,l ~rrm<.<' (t~73), publishcd the year afl({ Ihe fir't edition of The Birrh. k!,-in, wilh "tlic had and dangefl'u~ ,~n;~'lH~nce,S of the war" of tH7ll-71. ~ml Lh~ r,,,t pllr;igr"ph end, ""'ih Ihe p""I"','1 ot "'Ill" Jl'f~al-ye",

the exli'p,"i,," ,I! I),,· GN"'~n ''1"ril in fao','" "'IIt~ '(;,"man Reid•.'" After his hre,' wllh Wa~ner, Ni.tZ"he expres-.J Ill, ~dmLr~lion for the French again "",I ',~'''': ~"(\ no m~J()r German wriler ha' ever c'lualed NiellIChc's ~trin~"nl crjli~i,ms of hi, u""'n pe()pl~.

Luther sound--as the first Dionysian luring call breaking forth from dense thickets at the approach of spri!1g. And in .:ompeting echoes the sokmnly elUb~rant procession of Dionysi~n revelers re­sponded, to whom \lie are indebted for German musie-and to whom we shnll be indebted for the rebirth of German myth.

I know that I must now lead the ~ympathizing and attentive friend to an clevated position or lonely contemplation, where he ....'ill have but few companions, and I Cll!l out encouragingly to him that wc must hold fa$t to onr luminou~ guides, thc Grccks. To purify our aesthetic insight, .....e have previously borrowed from them the tWO divine figures who rule over separate realms of art, and concerning who~c mutual contaet and cnhancement wt have acquired somc notion through Greek trngedy. It had to appe.ar to us that the demi~e of Greek tragedy was brought about through a remarkable and foreible diwlCialion of these twO primordial ar{]s. tic drives. To this process there cone$pondcd l\ degener:nion and tramformation of the character of the Greek people, which calls for !>eriou~ retleetion on how nece".lfY and close the f\JOdamental connectjon$ arc between an and the !'Cllple, myth and Custom. tragedy and the state, This demise of tragedy was at the same time rht" demise 01 myth. Until then the Greeks had felt involnntarily impelled to relate all their eJ\pcrienees imm~diately to their myths, indeed to understand them unly in this relation, Thu~ even the immcdiate present had 10 appear to them right awOlY sub specie iJererni 2 and in a entain scn,e as timdess.

But the state no less than art dipped into this current of the timeless to tind rest in it from the burden and the greed of the momenl. And any people-just as. incidentally, also any indi­vidnal-is worth only as much as it is able to press upon its experienen the stamp of the etcrna\; for thus it is, as it wcre, deseeul~rizcd and shows its nnconscious in .....ard convictions of the relativity of time and of the true, that is m~taphysical, sig­nificance of life. The opposite of this happens when a people begins to comprehend il~eI[ historically and to smash the mythic:J1 worb that surround it. At that point we gcncrally find a deCisive secularization, a break ..... ilh thc nneonscious metaphy~ics (If its pre­vious existence, together with all its ethical consequences. Greek

~ Under lbe IUped of lbe eternal.

SErTlOl'l 24 TilE aTRTll OF TRAGF.OY

art and pre-eminently Greek trilgcdy delayed above all the de~truc· r lion of myth. One had to destroy tLlgedy. teo, in order to be able to live away from the soil of home, uninhibitcd. in the wildernes~ of lhought, custom. and deed. Even now thi, metaphysical drive still trie~ to create for ;tsdf a certainly ~llcn\lated form of IrJ.nsfigura. lion, in the Socriltism of science thaI ~lrivc~ for life; but on the lower steps, this ~J.mt drive led oilly to a feverish <earch '.hat grad­ually 10Sl irself in ~ pandemonium of myth~ J.nd <;upcrstilions that were collected from all over and piled up in confusion: neverthe­less the Gr~d;: 'at a!nOIl)' them with an unstilled heart until he learned to mask thi.' [n'~r with Greek cheerfulness and Greek frio volity. becoming: a Gr'II'CI.II"s! or he numbed his mind completely in some dark Oriental _uperslilion,

Since the rellwakenin)' of Alexandrian-Roman antiquity in the fifteenth century we have arproximated this state in lhe most evi­dent manner, after II long intalude thJ.l is dillicult to describe. On the heights we encounter the S:lme overabundant lust for knowl­edge, the ~ame unsatisfied dclight in discovery, the same tremen­dous secula~ization, and beside it a h(lmelc~~ rOving, a greedy crowding around foreign tahles, a fril'olous deification at the pres­ent, or a dully dazed relreal--ever)thing sub sl'eci~ ,'ac<uU: of the "present age." And the~e same symplOm~ allow us to infer the same lack at the heart of this culture. the destruction of myth. It scarcely seems possible to be continually succe,-stul ,It transplant­ing a foreign myth without irreparably damaging the tree by this transplantation. In one case it may pnhdps be stron!! and healthy enough to eliminate this foreign clement in a terrible fight·, usually, however, il must consume itself, sick and withered or in disea.ed superfaetation.

We think 50 highly of the pure and vigorous core of the Ger­man eharaeler th:ll we Jare to expect of it above all others this elimination of the forcibly implanted foreign elements, and con­sider il po~,ible lh'll the German spirit will retllru to itself. Some mllY 5uppo,e that thi, ~piril must begin its fight with the elimination of everything Romanic. II" so the)' may recognize an external prepa­ration and encouragem(;nt in lhe victorious fortitude and bloody

SA contemptuous lerm for a Greek. ~e .,eClI0n It. "Under the a~peCl of the ljme~, or lh~ 'picil of (he age.

glory of the last war; hut one mu;;t still seek the inner necessity in the ambition to be always worthy Df the sublime champions on this way, Luther as well a<; cur great anists and poets. OUI let him never believe that he could Ilgill simil,u fight~ without the gods of his house, or his mylhical home, without "bringing back" all German things! And if the German ,hould he~ilantly look around for a leader who mi~ht bring him back apin into his long lost home whose ways Dnd path~ he ,carcely knows anymore, let him merely listen to the ecstatically luring call 01 the Dionysian bird that hovers ab(l~e him and wallis 10 point the way for him.

24

Among the peculiar art effects of musical tra~ed)' we had 1<1

emphasize an Apollinian i1/lJsiorl by means of ..... hi~h we wue ~up­posed to be saved from the immediate IInity with Dionysian music, while our musical excitement could di'clurge ibdf in an Apollininn field and in relation to a visible intermediary .....orld that had been interposed, At lhe same lime we lhought that we haJ obsen-ed how preci,ely lhrough this discharge lhe intermediary world ot the action on the scage, 'Hid the drama in general, had been made visit-Ie anti intelligible from the imide to a degree that in all other Apollinian arl remains lIn:!lwined. Where the Apollinian receives wings from the spiril (,f music and soars, we thus found the highest intensification at its powus, and in lhis fralernal union of Apollo and Diony'u~ we had II) reco~nlzc the apex of the Apolli­nian as well as the Dionysirlll aims of ;ut.

To be ~ure, the Apollinian pnlJt~li()n that is thus illuminated from inside by music docs not achieve the peculiar effeel of the weaker degrees of Apollinian an. Whal Ihe epic or the anim~ted

slone can do, compelling the contemplative eye to find calm delight in the world of individuation, that could nol Ix- ~llained here. in spite of a higher animation aud clarity. We looked at lh.. drama and with penelrating eye reached it, lnner ,,"'odd of m('ti~es-and

yel we telt as if only a parable passed liS t>y. whose man jlror'1und meaning we almo~l lhought we could gue'~ anJ Ihat we wi,hed to draw a..... ay Iikc a curtain in order to behold the primordial im;lge behind it. The brighte,t clarily of the image did nOI ,unite U~, I'm this seeme<J to wi~h jusl as much 10 revcal somelhing as to conceal

THI BIIlTH OF TIUGIf.DY'40 something, It5 revelation, being like a parable, ~eemed to summon us to tear the veil and to LlrlCQVa the mysterious ba>;kgrollnd; but at the same time this all-illuminated tot.lll vi,ibility cast a spell over the eyes and prevented them from penetr:l!ing deepa.

Tho~e who have ncycrhad the experienc<: of having to sec at the ~ame time thaI they also longed to transcend all seeing will scarcely be able to imagine how definitely and clearly these two processes coexist and are felt at the same time, as one contemplates the tragic myth. But all truly aesthetic spectators will confirm that among the pecnliar effects of tragedy this coexistence is the most remarkable Now tramfer this phenomenon of the aesthetic specwtor inlo an analogous process in the tragic arti~t, and you will have understood the gcncsis of the tragic myth, With thc Apolliuian art sphcrc he shares the complete pleasnre in mere appearance and in seeing, yet at the same time hc negates this pleasure and find~ a still highcr satisfaction in thc destruction of the visible world of mere appear­ance.

The contcnt of the tragic myth is, first of all, an epic event and the glorification of the figlllillg hero, But what is the origin of this enigmatic trait that the suffcriug aud the fate of the hero, Ihe most painful triumphs, the most agonizing oppositions of motiVe>, in short. Ihc exemplification of this wisdom of Silcnus, or, to put it aesthetically, that which is ugly and disharmonic, is represented ever ancw in such countless fonm; and with such a distinct prefer­ence-and precisely in the most fruitful and youthful period of II people? Surely a higher pleasure must be perceived in all this.

That life is really so tragic would least of all eXflain the origin of an art form-assuming that art is not merely imitJtion of the reality of nalurc but rathcr a mctaphysical supplement of the real­ity of natuft". rlal:ed ht"sidt" it for its overcoming, The tragic myth. too, insofar as it belongs to art at aU, participates fully in this mttaphy~ical intention of <In ((l transfigure. But what does it trans­figure when it present._ the world cf appearance iu thc imagc of the sufkring hcw'? It";l,t of all tht: "rt:ality" of this world of appear­ance. for it sar~ tc us: "Lock there! Look elosely! This is your life. this is tht" Ii.md on tht: cl<1ck of your cxistence."

And the mYlh shculd show us this life in mdcr to thus trans­figure it fOr us? flut if n<1l, in what then lies thc aesthctic pleasure with which we let these image~, 100. pa'S before us? I a,k ahom the

8P.CTIOlf 24 '" aesthetic pleasure, though I know full well that many of these im­ages also produce at times a moral delight. for eumple. under the form of pity or moral triumph. llut those who would derive the effect of the trabtic solely from the~e moral sources-which, to be sure, has bcen thc cust<1m in aesthctics all too l<1ng-sh<1uld least of all believe that they have thus accomplished something for art, which above all must dcmand purity in its sphere. If you would explain the tragic myth, the first requirement is to seek the pleasnre that is peculiar to it in the purely aesthelic sphere. without Irins­gressing into the region of pilY, fear, or the morally snblime. How can the ugly and the disharmonic, the content of the tragic myth, slimulate aesthetic pleasure?

Herc it bccomes necessary to take a bold running start and leap into a mctaphysics of art. by repealing the sentence written above. l that e~istence and the world seem justified only as an aes­thetic phenomenon. In this ,en~e, it is precisely the tragic myth that has to convince us that evm the ugly and disharmonic arc pan of all artistic game thatlhe wilt in the eternal amplitude of its pleasure plays with it._elf BUI this primordial phenomenon of Dionysian art is difficnlt to grasp, and there is only one direct way to make it intel­ligible and grasp it immediately: through the wonderful significance of mli.u'cal diJS01Wr1C('. Quite gencrally, only music, placed beside the world, can give us an idea of what is meant by the justification of the world as an aesthetic phenomenon. The joy aroused by the tragic myth has tht: samt: <1figin as the joyous sensation of disso­nance in music. The Dicuysian, with its primordial joy experieueed even in pain, is tht: C<1mmon souree of music and tragic myth.

rs it not possible that by calling 10 our aid thc musical relation or dissonance we may me;:mwhilc have made the difficult problem of the tragic effect much easier? For we now undcrsland what it means to wish to see tragedy and at the same time to long to get beyond all seeing: referring to the artistically empl<1ycd disso­nances, we should have to t:haracterize the eorresponding state by saying that we desire to hear and at the same time long to get be­yond all hearing. That strivin!, for Ihe infinite, the wing-beat of longing that accompanies the hi~he,t delight in clearly percei~'ed

reality, reminds u~ that in both statt"s we must recognize a Diony-

I Seclion 5.

TilE BIRTTI OF TBAGfD~'" sian phenomenon: again and again it reveals \0 us the playful construction and deslruction of the individual world as the overnow of a primordial delight. Thus the dark Heraclitus compares the world-building force to a playing child Iha! places slones here and there and builds sand hills only 10 overthrow them again.

In order, then, to form a true estimate of the Dionysian capac­ity of a people, we muslthink not only of their music, but also just as necessarily of their tragic myth, as the second witness of this capacity. Considering this extremely close relationship between music and myth, onc must SUrp()~e thaI a degeneration and depra­vation of the one will invol~'e a deterioration of the olher, if Ihe weakening of the mylh really expre%e~ a weakening of the Diony­sian capacilY. Concerning both, however, a glance al the develop­ment of the German character should nO! leave TIS in any doubt. In the opera, iu,t as in the abstract character of our m)"thles, exist­ence, in an' an degencr,lled to men.' entn\ainment as well as in a life guided by ~oncrrl" lhe inanistie a, well as life-con,uming na­lure of Socratic optimism had reveakd it,elf to us. Yct wc were comforted by indicatiOn> that ne\'Crthcle;.~ in some inaccessible , abyss the German spirit still rem and dreams, undc~trcJyed, in glo­

F rious health, profundity, and Diony~jalJ strength, li"e a knight sunk , in slumber; and from thi~ abyss the Dionysian song rise~ to our , ears to let u. know that this German knight is still ureaming his , primordial Dionysian myth in l>li~sfully serious visions. Let no one , believe that the German spirit has forever 10Sl its mythical home

F when it can still understand so plainly the voices of the birds thai tell of that home. Some day il will find il:ielF awake in all the morn­, ing freshnes~ follolliing a tremendllus ~leep. then it will slay dra­, gons, destroy "icioJls dwarf,." wake BrLinnhiide-and even Wotan's

iI spear will nOI be able to stop its C(lur,e l ,. My friends, you who believe in Dionysian music, you also know what tragedy means to us. There we have tragic myth rebOrn" fi from mU.lic-and in this myth we can hope for everything and for­

g: get what is most painful, What is mo~t painful for all of us, how­, ,1 ; In hi, olherwi,e immenjely perceptive and interesling inlerpretation. in the

chapler un rile Binh of Tragedy In Ecce HOlllo, !\ietlsehe cl~ims al the end of ••,,·lion I Ihal lhe "vicious dwarfs" (,ee also lhe neXI paragraph) repre­fi senl "Chri'lian priests." The imagery. of course, i, laken from the Siegfried mYlh,

IHTlnN 25 143

e~er, i&-fhe prolonged degradation in which the German genius has lived estranged from h\Ju~e and home, in the ser~ice of vicious dwarfs. You understand my words-as you will also, in conclu­sion, undersl:J.nd my hopes.

Music and tragic myth are equally expressions of the Djo~y­sian capacity of a people, and they are inseparable.1 Both denve from a sphere of art lhal li~~ beyond the Apollinian; both transfig­ure a region in whose joyous chords dissonance as well as the ter­rible image of thc world fade away charmingly: both play with the Sling of di~pleasure, trusting in their exccedingly powerful magic arts; and by mean~ of Ihis play both jU~lify the eXjqen~e of even the "worst world." Thus thc Diony~ian is scen lo be. compared 10 lhe Apollinian, the eternal and original artistic power. Ihal fir;1 1;'~lb

the whole world of phenomena into oistence-and II J~ only In lhe midst of this worlu that a ncw IramfigLlring illusion: becomes nec­essary in order to keep Ihe animated world of individualion ;,Ii\le.

If we conld imagine dis~onance become man-and what else is man?-this dissona-nce, to be able to live, would need a ,pltnuiu illusion:· that would co~'er ui"onance with a vcil of beanty. Thi~ is the true anistic aim of Apollo in who,e name we comprehend all those countless i11usions of the beauty of mere appearan~e' Ihat at every momem make life worth living at all and prompi Ihe dcsire to Jive on in order to experiencc thc next moment

Of this foundation of ali existcnce-the Dior'!j'Sian ba,ic ground of the world-not one whit more may ent~r {he con'iek\u~­ness of the human indiviuual than can be overcome again by thls Apollinian pOllier of transfiguration. Thns these twO art drives must unfold their powers in a strict proportion, according to the law of elernal ju~tice, Where the Dionj'sian powers risc up as impetnously as we experience Ihem now, Apollo, 100, must already havc de­

• The fh~p,('dy on W~~ner 'i>ntinu(\. he(dle~~ of :'¥1Qzarl and B(ethoven. H~nd.1 and H~,·dn. Bnd '00'" e>f Oilier'. ~ Vtrl:liinmgsJ,hcin wuld al,o me~n a tran,figuring halo. 1/IIlIt;UII.

'lII~Ji(}Mn deJ Jrhii"e" SChfi1l3.

144 THE BIRTH OP TIUOED'I'

scended among us, wrapped in a cloud; and the next generation will probably behold his most ample beautiful effects.

That [his effect should be UCCCSSBr'j, everybody should be able to feel most assuredly by meaus of intuition, provided hI: h~s ever felt, if only in a dre~m, lhat he was carried back into an ancient Greek existence. Walking under lofty Ionic cojonnnde~, looking up toward a horizon that was cut off by pure and noble lines, finding refln:l!ons of his transfigured shape in the shining marble at his side, and all around him solemnly striding or delicately moving hu­man beings, speaking with harmonious voices and in a rhythmic language o[ gestures-in view of this continual influx of beauty, would he not have to exclaim, railing hi~ hand to Apollo: "Bles.ed people of Hellas! How great must Dionysus be among you if the god of Delos cOnside~ such magic neces;;ary to heal your dithy­rambic madness!"

To a man in such a mood, however, an old Athenilln, looking up at him with the suhlime eyes of Aeschylus. migh( reply: "But say this, too. cunous stranger: how much did [his people have to suffer to be able to be.come 50 beautiful! But now follow me to witncss a tragedy, and sa,;;rifice with me in the temple of toolh cleitkBI"

THE CASE OF WAGNER

A Mllsicians' Prohlem