An Attempt at Self-Criticism, Section 1
Original German
Was auch diesem fragwürdigen Buche zu Grunde liegen mag: es muss eine Frage ersten Ranges und Reizes gewesen sein, noch dazu eine tief persönliche Frage,—Zeugniss dafür ist die Zeit, in der es entstand, trotz der es entstand, die aufregende Zeit des deutsch-französischen Krieges von 1870/71. Während die Donner der Schlacht von Wörth über Europa weggiengen, sass der Grübler und Räthselfreund, dem die Vaterschaft dieses Buches zu Theil ward, irgendwo in einem Winkel der Alpen, sehr vergrübelt und verräthselt, folglich sehr bekümmert und unbekümmert zugleich, und schrieb seine Gedanken über die Griechen nieder,—den Kern des wunderlichen und schlecht zugänglichen Buches, dem diese späte Vorrede (oder Nachrede) gewidmet sein soll. Einige Wochen darauf: und er befand sich selbst unter den Mauern von Metz, immer noch nicht losgekommen von den Fragezeichen, die er zur vorgeblichen „Heiterkeit“ der Griechen und der griechischen Kunst gesetzt hatte; bis er endlich, in jenem Monat tiefster Spannung, als man in Versailles über den Frieden berieth, auch mit sich zum Frieden kam und, langsam von einer aus dem Felde heimgebrachten Krankheit genesend, die „Geburt der Tragödie aus dem Geiste der Musik“ letztgültig bei sich feststellte.—Aus der Musik? Musik und Tragödie? Griechen und Tragödien-Musik? Griechen und das Kunstwerk des Pessimismus? Die wohlgerathenste, schönste, bestbeneidete, zum Leben verführendste Art der bisherigen Menschen, die Griechen—wie? gerade sie hatten die Tragödie nöthig? Mehr noch—die Kunst? Wozu—griechische Kunst?…
Man erräth, an welche Stelle hiermit das grosse Fragezeichen vom Werth des Daseins gesetzt war. Ist Pessimismus nothwendig das Zeichen des Niedergangs, Verfalls, des Missrathenseins, der ermüdeten und geschwächten Instinkte?—wie er es bei den Indern war, wie er es, allem Anschein nach, bei uns, den „modernen“ Menschen und Europäern ist? Giebt es einen Pessimismus der Stärke? Eine intellektuelle Vorneigung für das Harte, Schauerliche, Böse, Problematische des Daseins aus Wohlsein, aus überströmender Gesundheit, aus Fülle des Daseins? Giebt es vielleicht ein Leiden an der Ueberfülle selbst? Eine versucherische Tapferkeit des schärfsten Blicks, die nach dem Furchtbaren verlangt, als nach dem Feinde, dem würdigen Feinde, an dem sie ihre Kraft erproben kann? an dem sie lernen will, was „das Fürchten“ ist? Was bedeutet, gerade bei den Griechen der besten, stärksten, tapfersten Zeit, der tragische Mythus? Und das ungeheure Phänomen des Dionysischen? Was, aus ihm geboren, die Tragödie?—Und wiederum: das, woran die Tragödie starb, der Sokratismus der Moral, die Dialektik, Genügsamkeit und Heiterkeit des theoretischen Menschen—wie? könnte nicht gerade dieser Sokratismus ein Zeichen des Niedergangs, der Ermüdung, Erkrankung, der anarchisch sich lösenden Instinkte sein? Und die „griechische Heiterkeit“ des späteren Griechenthums nur eine Abendröthe? Der epikurische Wille gegen den Pessimismus nur eine Vorsicht des Leidenden? Und die Wissenschaft selbst, unsere Wissenschaft—ja, was bedeutet überhaupt, als Symptom des Lebens angesehen, alle Wissenschaft? Wozu, schlimmer noch, woher—alle Wissenschaft? Wie? Ist Wissenschaftlichkeit vielleicht nur eine Furcht und Ausflucht vor dem Pessimismus? Eine feine Nothwehr gegen—die Wahrheit? Und, moralisch geredet, etwas wie Feig- und Falschheit? Unmoralisch geredet, eine Schlauheit? Oh Sokrates, Sokrates, war das vielleicht dein Geheimniss? Oh geheimnissvoller Ironiker, war dies vielleicht deine—Ironie?— —
Musean translation
Complete machine-assisted Musean translation of the 1886 issue, with the Attempt at Self-Criticism and the Preface to Richard Wagner, made directly from the German of the Fritzsch Neue Ausgabe and read against its page images; reviewed against the German before publication.
Whatever may underlie this questionable book, it must have been a question of the first importance and fascination, and a deeply personal question at that—the time in which it arose, despite which it arose, bears witness to this: the turbulent time of the Franco-Prussian War of 1870/71. While the thunder of the battle of Wörth rolled across Europe, the brooder and lover of riddles to whom this book owes its paternity sat somewhere in a corner of the Alps, deep in brooding and riddles, and consequently deeply troubled and untroubled at once, setting down his thoughts about the Greeks—the core of the strange, hard-to-get-at book to which this late foreword (or afterword) is meant to be devoted. A few weeks later, he himself was beneath the walls of Metz, still unable to shake off the question marks he had placed beside the supposed “cheerfulness” of the Greeks and Greek art; until at last, in that month of utmost tension when peace was being negotiated at Versailles, he too made peace with himself and, slowly recovering from an illness brought home from the battlefield, definitively settled within himself “The Birth of Tragedy out of the Spirit of Music.”—Out of music? Music and tragedy? Greeks and the music of tragedy? Greeks and the artwork of pessimism? The best-turned-out, most beautiful, most envied kind of human being so far, the kind that most seduces one into living, the Greeks—what? Did they, of all people, need tragedy? More than that—art? What for—Greek art?…
One can guess where the great question mark over the value of existence had thus been placed. Is pessimism necessarily a sign of decline, of decay, of having turned out badly, of weary and weakened instincts?—as it was among the Indians, as it is, to all appearances, among us “modern” human beings and Europeans? Is there a pessimism of strength? An intellectual inclination toward the harsh, horrifying, evil, problematic aspects of existence, born of well-being, of overflowing health, of the fullness of existence? Is there perhaps a suffering from overfullness itself? A courage of the keenest vision that tempts and tests, that craves the terrible as its enemy, the worthy enemy against which it can prove its strength? From which it wants to learn what “being afraid” means? What does the tragic myth mean, precisely among the Greeks in their best, strongest, bravest age? And the tremendous phenomenon of the Dionysian? What of tragedy, born from it?—And again: what killed tragedy—the Socratism of morality, the dialectic, contentedness, and cheerfulness of the theoretical human being—what? Might not this very Socratism be a sign of decline, of weariness, sickness, of instincts dissolving into anarchy? And the “Greek cheerfulness” of the later Greek world merely an evening glow? The Epicurean will against pessimism merely a sufferer’s precaution? And science itself, our science—indeed, what does all science mean when viewed as a symptom of life? To what end, worse still, from where—all science? What? Is the scientific spirit perhaps only a fear of pessimism and a flight from it? A subtle act of self-defense against—the truth? And, morally speaking, something like cowardice and dishonesty? Immorally speaking, a piece of cunning? Oh Socrates, Socrates, was this perhaps your secret? Oh mysterious ironist, was this perhaps your—irony?— —
Plain English translation
Complete machine-assisted Plain English edition, made independently and directly from the same German text, without reference to the Musean edition or to any English translation.
Whatever lies behind this questionable book, it must have been a question of the first importance and fascination. It must also have been a deeply personal question. The time when the book came into being is evidence of that: the turbulent time of the Franco-Prussian War of 1870/71, despite which it came into being. As the thunder of the battle of Wörth rolled across Europe, the brooding lover of riddles who fathered this book sat somewhere in a corner of the Alps. Deep in his brooding and riddles, he was therefore both deeply troubled and untroubled. He wrote down his thoughts about the Greeks. These formed the core of the strange, hard-to-enter book to which this late preface, or afterword, is to be devoted. A few weeks later he himself was outside the walls of Metz. He still had not escaped the question marks he had placed against the supposed “cheerfulness” of the Greeks and Greek art. At last, in that month of extreme tension when peace was being discussed at Versailles, he also made peace with himself. Slowly recovering from an illness he had brought home from the battlefield, he settled “The Birth of Tragedy out of the Spirit of Music” for himself, once and for all.—Out of music? Music and tragedy? Greeks and the music of tragedy? Greeks and the artwork of pessimism? The Greeks, the best-turned-out, most beautiful, most envied kind of people so far, the people who most tempt us to live—what? They, of all people, needed tragedy? More than that—art? What was Greek art for?…
You can guess where the great question mark over the value of existence had now been placed. Is pessimism necessarily a sign of decline, of decay, of having turned out badly, of tired and weakened instincts? It was that among the Indians, and apparently it is that among us “modern” people and Europeans. Is there a pessimism of strength? An intellectual preference for what is hard, horrifying, evil, and problematic in existence, arising from well-being, overflowing health, a fullness of existence? Could there even be suffering from overfullness itself? A tempting courage of the sharpest eye that wants what is terrible, as it wants an enemy, a worthy enemy against whom to test its strength? From whom it wants to learn what “being afraid” means? What does tragic myth mean among the Greeks, precisely in their best, strongest, bravest age? And the tremendous phenomenon of the Dionysian? What of tragedy, born from it?—Then again: what killed tragedy was the Socratic approach to morality, the dialectic, contentment, and cheerfulness of the theoretical person. What? Could this very Socratic approach be a sign of decline, exhaustion, sickness, of instincts falling apart in anarchy? And could the “Greek cheerfulness” of the later Greeks be only a sunset glow? Could the Epicurean will against pessimism be merely a sufferer’s precaution? And science itself, our science—yes, what does all science mean at all, seen as a symptom of life? What is all science for? Worse still, where does it come from? What? Is a scientific outlook perhaps only fear of pessimism and an escape from it? A subtle act of self-defense against—the truth? And, in moral terms, something like cowardice and dishonesty? In nonmoral terms, a piece of cunning? Oh Socrates, Socrates, was that perhaps your secret? Oh mysterious ironist, was this perhaps your—irony?— —
About this section
An Attempt at Self-Criticism, Section 1 is part of The Birth of Tragedy by Friedrich Nietzsche. This page sets the German original beside 2 direct-source translations, so any line can be checked against the source. It is section 1 of 33 in the work, which is kept in the European tradition.
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